FIND YE THE JACK OF DANIELS THAT YE MAY BE SHIT-FACED- THE FISHER KING

Just a little red

2010-11-21T03:39:00.000-08:00

Thinking. It's good for the organism but it does things to the soul. Mincing and churning and I never thought ideas could bite. Or have teeth. Or a soul. But then again I never thought about thinking that and now that I am somehow in this position, of cognitivity or conectivity or whatever, I have to say it ain't half bad.

I gots me my see-through glasses on. Yet again. It's like I'm 15 all over again. And I'm having the blues all the fuck over again... Hey!

I even got a room with a view. So it ain't half bad.

Fandango

2010-11-20T02:02:00.000-08:00

So there it is. Bonkers bat-shit insane madness. Yet again. Phantasmagoria as I walk, delirium as I sleep, inherent abnormality of my waking life. Like... like what the fuck is going on man?!

Listen... I think I have again passed the point of no return. The world is burning and I have the best seat in the house. So let it burn. Let is burn fast, or let it burn slow, let it flicker and die, let it come back strong like lightning - there, here, now, gone... Just, just stopped caring I guess. And the road winds and turns and moans through the landscape and through the forests and the swamps, galloping in slow motion, like a snake slithering towards the mountains.

The natural ebbs and flows you'll never find any formula for, except if you know how to look. Do you know? Have you learned sight?! Have you opened your eyes? My eyes are open.

Just look at it burn! The flames are dancing. The flames are flickering like the supple legs of beautiful women. Flickering, flaming, burning...

Dastardly

2010-11-13T17:50:00.000-08:00

So it is like stupid, like when the winds will stop crying in the land where they let the ship sail cry like the sunset which is the sunrise of nothing... The wind grows and ebbs and will always flow.

There were Gog and Magog and then there was night and then there was day and then there was everything in between everything which is exactly what it is... and then there was Cupid which is so fuckin` stoooooooooopid it don`t even fuckin`matter in the sunrise that comes after the moon goes to sleep.

My oh my oh my, my skin which is the complexion of the sky. It teaches you shit. And then some!!!

Sweet as Night, Dark as Sin

2010-10-09T23:57:00.000-07:00

So I started to wake before the sunrise, and that can only be a good thing, meaning that I slept a sound sleep on a good night. Warmth is differrent here, and it takes a fresh palet of new and different aromas that I am somehow being enticed to experience, like the way I started taking my coffee. Dark and sweet, which is so totally unexpected that I suddenly started feeling faggotry looming on the horizon.

But that is not it. It's just that so sweet smell I am oh so familliar with, like the exotic cocktail of some quixotic and taunting pair of eyes. The taunt for the taunt and the stab for the stab, cut by the cut and seam by the seam... I can play it that way, I'm only cautious not to win by losing, nor to lose by winning; just to be lulled by the rhytm of the dance is enough for me.

I'm a cool cat, a smart dog and a pig of a man, but my eyes are green, my heart is raw and my skin is starting to take on the complexion of the sky.

Things are looking up old chap, they're looking up.

After the Flood Chapter 11 - Convolutions

2010-01-31T21:21:00.000-08:00

I exited stage left. I simply had to. There were no other alternatives. I was fed up, sleepy and late for something I could not remember. The East was calling me and I didn't even know. There are things there that are not of the seams that they seem to be. Like some kind of marmalade I always tasted without even knowing. Like the wind. Carresingly sharp, always willing to cut by the hug and weigh by the kiss; die by the caress and love by the sword. But don't mind me, I'm not who I am, but who I am going to be. Always nobody, thinking about nothing.

So there was this guy, who went on the water once, about a year ago, and that was me. Oddly enough, that was me, and then I had no idea, although tonight I know it to be so. These conVoluted incantations that come with the sun and are brushed away by the wind. Beautiful and kind, merciless and green, tough like the wood and bendable by the flame; water in the sky and stars on the ground like a pair of hanged children that are suddenly found, not too late but too early, with no mandragora growing underneath them, their toes too far or too close to the ground. The convolutions of the flowing curb, the dotted line where you sign...

So I have been called many a name, and many a thing. But cats will be black and women will be green and red and white and also purple or maybe magenta like the yellow polenta and the wine, when the dent in the trend is some kind of diamond tiara of some lady who doth by her grace declare she sees clearly in this land of the lala like some seamstress name Klara who beseeches and stands by the great maelstromed wallah who serves tchai and some coffee and some ciggarettes too, if that's not too taboo for that lady who's warm like the flu.

Convoluted and clear like sandpapered kashmirere, like some robe of the damned in this land of the Lala, with mounds and depressions and swollen confessions where no one has heard and\or dreamed of the land of the coffee-wallah, somewhere south of Valhalla.

P.S. NO COMMENT pana cand vinul face paine.

Dissent

2010-01-27T07:01:00.000-08:00

There is nothing like dissent to get your blood going. It's that rumbling feeling in your gut when you just feel the need to go against the grain.

Dissent is an acquired taste, then a drug, then a commonplace cliche, and then your neat little post-apocalyptic bunker where you keep your books, your canned goods, your weapons and ammo and your soul.

Dissent is meaning and the lack of one. It just keeps you going. It is not a reason, it is a goal in itself. And it never runs out of batteries. Because it runs on your desire not to desire what anyone else has to offer.

You mold it like clay and pour molten bits of yourself into it and than you hit it with a hammer until the mold breaks and the final object emerges. Dip it into water and you have a blade. Must keep it sharp. And you must always have it handy. All you need is dedication. Hard work is for people building an arsenal.

It's like the machete of the soul. You're gonna need it when you'll find yourself in the bush, with wild vegetation sprouting out from every place imaginable.

Dissent, it's like a haiku that can cut. And then you realize it doesn't need to be anything. You just need to make sure it can cut.

Dissent, my instrument. When you got dissent, you've got everything you need.

And no, this is not about survival, that in itself is too small a goal. This is about breaking through. Breaking through in style if possible.

Fuck it!

Post-traumatic recollections

2010-01-22T06:39:00.000-08:00

There is this need inside us, of inventing things or maybe a strong desire to relive something that happened a while back and didn't go exactly as it was planned out from the get-go.

It's like a recurrent theme, a circular map you always come back to, like some marker on the road, just to make sure you are going in the right direction or just for the sake of feeling that you are going in a direction, whichever that might be.

It spins and it spins and it spins, circularity without dimension and you always start over and then you stop and then you go again.

This is winter, everything is stale and stagnant. People stay out of the cold. Nobody walks the streets without having a reason to do so. There is no roaming around. You discuss destinations and points of interest, possible trajectories. Everything must become the sum of its parts and there is no room to maneuver. Everybody's too concerned with body-heat. You have it or you have it not.

The point of transition into something new. You had the first signs and now you wait, indomitably, for something that will surely happen, but you just lost patience.

I hate winter, I truly loathe it. I simply cannot adjust to its steadfastness. It bores me to death and it's simply stuck within itself. Waiting to get out but simply not capable of doing it. And what I despise most is the effect it has on others and myself.

Every fucking winter is the fucking same, and it always makes its presence felt just before it gets better. It spoils the feeling of expectation, it drags on and on.

Winter, the waiting game. Drives me nuts. Happens every year. Can't get over it. Wanting to move to sunnier places. Must remember to do that.

After the Flood - Chapter 10 Going Quantic

2010-01-21T04:41:00.000-08:00

Last night, or sometimes during the following morning, when I awoke from my dream, I remembered, in a daze, that I had somehow discovered the effects of quantum physics. Of course, it was a funny thing, because I never really wanted to discover or even experience the effects of quantum physics, but I inadvertently did.

So what now, I soliloquized as the sugar melted in my coffee and my brain was being sterilized by cigarette smoke.

I was fazed, with a sense of frenzy running up and down my spine. But I had the slight suspicion that I was dragging something along. Didn't know, didn't care, wanted. I was full of wantonness.

It unfolded before myself but the feeling could not be shaken. There was an unfortunate feeling running beside the whole thing, and I was really looking forward for the time when that feeling would have passed. It unfortunately did not pass and I was understandably ruffled by the sensation.

Nothing to be done, nothing to be done.

For a moment though, but maybe for more than I was aware of, I was there, in the place I had always wanted to be. In the centre of it all, just walking about, stretching my legs, feeling the feel of things and the fabric of circumstance just like some merchant in an ancient bazaar.

Haggling as I went there was the slight realization that I had done this before, but then again it could just as well have been a gust of wind or some fleeting moisture.

Caring was not important anymore, I suddenly decided, but it was a bit late, not that late, but late nonetheless. Out of rhythm, slightly askew from the grain, maybe going against it all.

Ah, the race for meaning I said to myself. Moving along the path, just riding the wave to somewhere. No destination, just some bleached out coordinates on a slab of rock you left behind 1000 miles ago and at least you keep what is to be kept.

We forget, that is our little short-coming. Always we forget. Memory forgotten is a sign of old age.

Even that faded and it was all electric. Light twitching on lamp posts and the wires were swinging calmly, loosely against the wind. I felt the damp taste of metal wire in my mouth and the saltiness of it all almost scared me. Could not close my eyes. And then there was the fear. Always the fear. The game stopper, the spoiling of the sport - the fear.

They all have the fear. Lodged deep inside of themselves. Acting out like some jack-in - the - box madness, the retractable disease of sanity... I had grown tired, of things I had seen before. Tired and bored and frantic.

But then for another brief moment, I felt the symmetry and meaning flowed like wine in the dark, the sweet perfume of flowers that bloom in the moon light. Incense burning slowly at dusk beneath a gray sky.

I was morose and greedy. Greedy for more, given too little, expecting too much, paying for nothing and wanting everything back the way it was. Childish dreams and selfish desires, the playthings of my soul. Perdition as a pacifier.

It was getting too complex and it started to lose meaning. And then all of a sudden, under the flash of the moment, it all became clear. I was there. I had arrived. It was beautiful...

Seldomly in slow-motion

2010-01-10T21:18:00.000-08:00

Life. The Movie. Or the Parody. Or is it an Allegory from long ago when time did not exist? I often stop and wonder what is the exact physiological reason for why someone invented the concept of time. And do we really need time is what I'm saying?

Do we need to "keep" it? And if yes, why is that? Is the keeping of time a measure of civilization, or of society or of culture? And in what way does Time affect my life?

Does time only exist on a planet? And I guess the answer would have to be yes. And is it dependent on the cycle a certain planet undergoes as it circles its dependent star? And again we have a yes.

So Einstein was right. Time is relative. And it's dependent on stars or on the light emitted by stars. So again Einstein notches one up for Humanity, light gives you time. As long as there is light there is time and there is life.

Oh wonderful metaphor the Ancients have been toying with that we may have things to fuck up now in the 21st century!

So what then is the constant? Light must be the constant and the stars that emit light are the things time starts and ends with.

So Western Religion has been shooting blanks for the past 2000 years.

Well that's reassuring! Comforting even!

So now I can make no sense whatsoever for the rest of my movie, I mean parody, I mean Allegory, I mean Life.

Just don't go into the Light is what I'm saying. Or something.

After the Flood - Chapter 9 Mirror Images

2010-01-04T21:57:00.000-08:00

So here we are again, just before sunset... It's this feeling I'm feeling, like expectation coated in cinnamon, smoking a cigarette by some big river, somewhere next to the Tropic of Cancer, waiting for something I know I saw in my dreams.

There are these moments, of which I am aware, when my syntax turns backwards, going within itself. And that's the time when my spine trickles expectation like the adrenalin gland pumps its juice right into my central nervous system, making my pupils dilate and my breath turn to razorblades.

It's staring too long into the looking glass Alice, it's just that and nothing more. We are expectant, the two of us, are we not? Madman and insanity, side by side, bumming a smoke by some huge mirror falling into the sky.

LET US THEN DISCUSS THE SOLITARY NATURE OF MAN, he said turning towards the sun; and for a moment I could discern the disk from the globe, but just for a moment, and then the whole thing turned back into a dying star.

LET US THEN DISCUSS THE SOLITARY NATURE OF MAN...

WELL I GOT NOTHING!

It's always the silence that gets you in the end Alice, it's always the silence. I just can't handle the silence, sometimes.

You take out the pack and deal the cards, you make your tricks; you don't really care. The Tarot allows for being lost, the Arcana shifts like the tide. A good day may be a bad day and a bad one turns to worse before getting better and everything goes from one thing to another, from feminine to masculine to the androgynous, to the ends of space and time or to the edges or the extremities but the answer always awaits for you in the middle of somewhere.

By some place the Arcana do not speak of, by some rock or by a sprig of holly or a brush of mulberries or by a geranium planted by the parking lot of a multinational corporation or by some temple, still waiting for you, although you missed your shot 2500 years ago without even knowing or caring or wanting.

But here, in the Timeless Place, in Serenity Base you do not discuss this. You lay back, you are not allowed to talk nor to think, nor share opinion, because you and them are not important.

You take a table or a smooth mirror and you go closer to the water. You splay the cards not caring and they arrange themselves in the order they should. It is the time to assimilate that divination is chaos and nothing holds sway over chance.

Once the pattern is there, you observe and make-shift some rules and you present the truth - there is no truth, just two sides of the same coin. And you go on. Until you stop.

That is knowledge. Because you accept. And you live with the consequences. You watch the sun set and the horizon blends with your imagination and then the twilight is over and darkness floats over everything.

LES US DISCUSS THE SOLITARY NATURE OF MAN!

I slap my insanity silly and it takes its place amongst the other demons that have to go back into the mirror. And then I take out the pipe and prepare for the journey that hopefully will take me places that are worth seeing.

After the Flood - Chapter 8 Hardworking Madmen and The Seeping Sand

2009-12-20T22:11:00.000-08:00

Rejoice! Rejoice because it's useless anyway. The is point is there is no point and it's not even that, it's something a million times more subtle than butterfly wings and Swiss pornography.

I'm mincing this thought in my head, grinding it between the two hemispheres of my brain, trying to predict the next thought process just to see if I can. Just working the mechanism, taking it apart, assembling it back together again, adding new parts on each run and timing the process.

I have become a hardworking madman! And being mad is hard work, truth be told! This shit ain't easy, this shit is hard! This shit ain't normal! But this shit is so... let it come!

I feel I have to recapitulate in order to provide myself, whomever that may be, with the whole botched up blueprint and mapping of my emotional brain fluctuations and my impending head on collision course with enlightenment, insanity, tranquility, knowledge and especially and most importantly - the pornography of the soul.

May it have been more than two months ago when I passed, unwittingly, through the door of my perception. Boy! I thought! This is funny and new! And it was, for the whole 5 seconds until I realized where I was!

I was through the looking glass, and believe me Alice, the pills that mother gives you sound like a pretty good deal when you feel you can't get out of the rabbit hole.

When through the Door, you find yourself in Lalaland, in the Scary Place, in the Mirror World - the Mundus Imaginarium of the Rosicrucians. It's like Hollywood for the insane, Bollywood for the oriental mysticism fellows, Hell for the Abrahamics, Chaos for the Greco-Romans and it was all of these things for moi!

Now, recapitulating and finding that I have actually said nothing, I feel that I can go on unattended by my Ego, who really needs to chill for a while.

It's complicated is what I'm sayin'! And possibly the most intricate and unique experience I ever underwent. It was truly mind-boggling and more than that, I really felt that once it was over, and it took a whole 48 hours, I was forever changed. Metapforically, a veil had been lifted from my eyes and for the first time I could see clearly outside myself.

Once you break through you can see through. And I have this to say: there is only one reality - the physical world which is this planet. We, as separate existences have, through evolution, surpassed some limitations of our world but we are unwittingly transforming it through the power of our imaginations. Imagination is a powerful tool. It is the most powerful asset we posess as a species. It is the thing that sets us apart from the other life-forms on this planet. That does not mean we are superior. That means we're different and more than that, we're not getting with the program anymore, we're hurting things all around us and we have come to disregard the thing we owe our evolution to - the will to life! It also means that for more than 500 years since the industrial evolution began, we are being charged with shit and our Evolution Bill is getting bigger and bigger. We're gonna have to pay sooner or later. Not 2012, not 2100. We could possibly stretch it to 2200, but something's gonna give.

This Planet plays by its own rules, so does the Solar System, so does the Galaxy, so does the Universe. We're just some assholes on a rock! And I sure hope that the Universe is not having second thoughts about us. Of course, IT does not think! It cannot. Why? Because thinking is not necessary in nature and in the cosmos. It's just not that important! Because the Universe is not a cognitive being, IT is! IT will always escape definition, because IT is definition itself. There's more out there is what I'm saying.

We've been rewording it for thousands of years because we're good like that with our imagination. But imagination is tricky. That's why it's beautiful. That's why we as a species will never ever reach perfection - because we evolved by some chance happening! Because we, for some unknown reason, have evolved our imagination and have always kept it intact! We took the high and dangerous road that will hopefully take us to the stars!

Let's keep going, shall we?!

After the Flood - Chapter 7 Resplendent Understanding

2009-11-30T10:05:00.000-08:00

When we have understood what is to be done, then there is no thing left but to do what is to be done, to the dereliction, mayhem, malice, folly and disgust of all. This is a position that allows one for no easy alternatives and it is in such a position that one can come to a true understanding of things.

The understanding that people, for whatever reason are weak and controlled by nothing else than the urge to rule over the precipitous and frail nature of others, is a bewildering and disconcerting one. Sadly, such a position on the basic scale of human existence subsists and I have to say I prefer the world-view of the madman in comparison to the semi-inept road to compromise preached by these, these... living dead.

I can understand evil as a will to power but I cannot and never will indulge in the semi-moist feeling that mediocre comfort is the thing governing the destinies of all. So if my only alternative is between pure darkness and pink faggotry, well then! The die has been cast a long time ago and the answer will not be a long time coming.

I feel a tranquil breeze all around me and I am now sure that all voices have stopped, even for a while. But then again that is the price one must deface the persona with, in order to keep the vessel and the soul intact.

And no, for all you would-be skeptics and laisse-faire kind of individuals with an artificial semi-digested response to anything that is not the skinny and indefatigable desire to achieve uniqueness through what you perceive as a path... I have this to say - YOU HAVE GOT IT ALL WRONG, YET AGAIN, BECAUSE IT ALWAYS TAKES WHAT YOU WILL PROBABLY NEVER TRULY POSSESS.

That being said, I believe that there is nothing more left to say.

Except for the very vital truth that is nothing more than a child and its basest emotionality coupled with the mind-set of a mercenary.

The games are over. We are playing for keeps from now on.

PS.

2009-11-08T06:06:00.000-08:00

PS. Women are not sad, they just have a totally different sense of humor!

After the Flood - Chapter 6 Desolation Flows

2009-11-07T23:41:00.000-08:00

It flows, our desolation. Life is just a SAD JOKE but it is beautiful!

OBLITEROL

2009-11-06T14:49:00.000-08:00

OBLITEROL

is a funny drug
it makes a puppy look like a thug
it gives you the feeling it is the dice that you roll
'cause you just fucking bought some Obliterol
and you want to feel like you fucking feel how to feel
the feel of the feeling and thing and the reason for why
your gold makes like a phone as it ring ring rings
SO WHY THE FUCK WHY? OBLITEROL?

Obliterole, like profiterole and a mole from Morocco
and the Prince of Monaco
and candy and cake
and the pussy of the Lady of the Lake
the celestial vaginas
and freaky shit from FREAKIN' China
like Obliterol will make like to feel
you SHOULD SORT of INCLINE YA!
TO BUY ONE OR TWO OR A PLASTIC VAGINA!

so take it AB LITERAL and make it AD LITER AD LITER
ADD PANCAKES AND JAM
and do fly Pan Am or Emirates like the CARPET ALLADIN AND I
and the zade from SheHere and the mystic thin air of an OPIUM BAKE
and some fucking wedding cake - YOU DEFINETLY GONNA NEED THAT

OBLITERATE NOT obliterol more
until you will get to the core
which is just some shit on the floor
of our big PLAY ROOM
where we learn how to play at REACHING THE MOON
and other shit too, like it says
when some bum plays the Kazoo
and Bob Dylan too
and all the great people from the past
from Mozart to Einstein to Bach
and Jack the Ripper and Hitler and The Count von Masoch
and Sade and his sad SheherezaDD
and Luther and Elvis and Louis the King
and Louie the IVth although maybe not
but definetly Jean Pabtiste THE MOLE Poqueilein
and Paul Verlaine and the other French fucks
and Daffy of Ducks and the Rabbit of Bugs
and Donald and Goering and Harold the PintER
and CRAP

OBLITEROL THAT YOU LAZY MOTHERFUCKERS!

Don't ruin my Circles!

2009-11-06T01:08:00.000-08:00

Sicily. The end of the second Punic war. Carthage is salt and earth and Hannibal has fled like a ghost in the night.

The Romans need to ensure superiority. Kill the enemy but defeat his allies and if they do not submit sprinkle the ground with their blood and guts so they must know not to mess with Marius and his new legionaries. BUT capture or lure their scientists to your side of the fence.

Archimedes was a Sicilian, a man born in one of the last Greek colonies of the Mediterranean. Arhcimedes was a genius born at a time of war.

Archimedes was cool. Everybody likes the Eureka line or the I made a mirror so big once the sun reflects on it it will destroy you like a beam of the sun a particle of ice in the laser sort of thing by splicing the spectrum, but then again, fuck that! Modernity invented that, who gives a fuck about some Greek guy who died in the Punic wars... Hm? It is like the Pubic Wars but it happened before Playboy and Penthouse for all you wannabe SMART HUMAN BEINGS OUT THERE...

So as I was saying. I like another of this particular genius' one liners- DON'T RUIN MY FUCKING CIRCLES MUTHERFUCKER!!!

So the Romans did what they had to. THEY TOOK HIM FOR A RIDE... TO THE SEASIDE...

CAPISICI?

After the Flood - Chapter 4 Discovery

2009-11-04T06:36:00.000-08:00

Eureka! I have found it! I always wondered why and now I know why. And now I know why I know because I have understood what I did Know naught a long time ago...

It had come to him, he had arrived to it, and when it all clicked like a Sephirote in the diamnond sky of His own perception, he did not care anymore.

It is all the same age-old story of Discovery. The hazardous journey, the unimmaginable and silly accident and the genius who already knows he just has to wait until everything clicks. And that the human he inhabits is FUCKING LISTENING!!!

Take Newton. I will reproduce his stream of thought:

NEWTON: Stupid stupid scientists! They not know nothing! Me try explain I know more but they not listen!!! FUCK!
NEWTON'S GENIUS: Shut the fuck up! Think goddamit! Remember to think!
NEWTON: Sink?
NEWTON'S GENIUS: Nevermind. Chill. Find a chilly place and think about how useless the other idiots are. Fuck that. Go take a nap!

Newton naps it out. And then naps in WHEN...

NEWTON: What fuck hit me in head? Stupid apple fall from tree and hit I in skull while sleeping. I hate these laws of this world. Why can't apple not fall from ground?

CELESTIAL TRUMPETS AND HEAVENLY TITS ENSUE ON THE MUSIC OF THE SPHERES...

NEWTON'S GENIUS: Because

In the absence of force, a body either is at rest or moves in a straight line with constant speed.
A body experiencing a force F experiences an acceleration a related to F by F = ma, where m is the mass of the body. Alternatively, force is proportional to the time derivative of momentum.
Whenever a first body exerts a force F on a second body, the second body exerts a force −F on the first body. F and −F are equal in magnitude and opposite in direction.[note 1]

and...

F = mg, where m is the mass of the body and g is a constant vector with an average magnitude of 9.81 m/s². The acceleration due to gravity is equal to this g. An initially-stationary object which is allowed to fall freely under gravity drops a distance which is proportional to the square of the elapsed time. The image on the right, spanning half a second, was captured with a stroboscopic flash at 20 flashes per second. During the first 1/20th of a second the ball drops one unit of distance (here, a unit is about 12 mm); by 2/20ths it has dropped at total of 4 units; by 3/20ths, 9 units and so on.

NEWTON: Me must invent images and electrics and...
NEWTON'S GENIUS: Chill. Just take it as it comes... You just discovered you're sitting on a big apple. They won't understand that, so talk about yourself more and make them work for it!

And so on and so forth...

But how cool was Archimedes. In a bath-tub, while probably jerking off! What? Bath-tubs?!!! How did that slip by our scientific perception for so much time!!!

So just chill. Discover. Don't watch Discovery Channel. Be the DISCOVERY CHANNEL of your own mind.

JUST PLAIN MEGALOMANIA...

2009-11-02T19:24:00.001-08:00

ART IS A DRUG. LIFE IS A PATH. USE THE DRUG TO TAKE THE PATH...

AND NEVER LOOK BACK!!!

ME

2009-11-02T19:16:00.000-08:00

I am a secret poet writing messages in books
I am a poet leaving messages to secret crooks
I am what I am because I've been in all the nooks
I am that which is, as a writer is
I am a crook and a poet who writes about secrets and vice
I have uninstalled the only device
It keeps all your heads in a vice
But that's not for me.
I watch the horizon for shit and surprise
I do not believe in demise
But I do believe in leisure activities...
Now excuse me, I'll go watch some striptease!

+

A RIDDLE

Smart but not even close to be true.
Close but not too close;
It's not even smart and quite very far from the true
Meaning close.
But not true...
Here! Have a cigar!

P.S. That's the clue!

Dead people, they're like the living... but dead!

2009-11-02T17:19:00.000-08:00

The dead people who are alive, or the living dead... as they are affectionately called. My god man! What interesting specimens I dare say. Nothing short of bewildering. An amalgam of balderdash, confusion, misshaped dreams and idealism.

They are perfect targets, these living dead, for honing one's skill in the Arts. What incredible prospects they present in all their vulnerable glory. My god man! They're like a rabble of Dodos asking for it. Nay! They are absolutely praying for it!

Delusion my friends, delusions of grandeur and a soft shell, like that of a sea turtle's hatch-ling and its moist carapace. Soft targets I would say... Soft and in great abundance.

Can you dissect the living dead? Most surely. I would say that they present themselves pro bono for a quick dissection of their innermost. Their so called suffering amuses me the most. That and their total lack of emotional intelligence coupled with the semi-illiterate notion that they know what the world is all about.

And what if it's made up of nothing they think they "feel inside" ? What if it would be made up of the exact opposite, and all in all it would not even be about that but it would be about a great puzzle they never thought of solving?

The living dead?! Bah! More like the living room dead, or the waiting room people waiting for the Death Train to ride by their lives so that they may declare they did not take it because they are too dead to move... Come on!

IS THAT THE BEST YOU'VE GOT YOU MORONS?!

I hear these word being flung around like: FEELINGS and EMOTIONS and shit. What the fuck is that? They are not those kind of words! Then again if you really come to an understanding of WORDS you soon discover that none of the WORDS one tosses around are words but WORDS. And one does not toss around words. It's like throwing live hand grenades into a trampoline wall and then playing squash with the eventual rebound, using your emotions as a racket.

That is not artistic, that is not profound, that is not enlightening nor is it liberating, it is simply MORONIC and stupid! And suicidal. Just putting the last one out there. Who knows... maybe someone decides to bite a bit off Reality in this night-morning-full moon sunset sunrise in the East... crap... thing...

Poetry ensues:

THE LIVING DEAD

the living dead hang by a thread
between this life, the next and a slight thickness of the head
their skulls resound and rebound from their hearts to their sex to their heads
they think and discuss of great wondrous expanses of ground
but it's just the echo of the empty i.e. A SOUND...

YES YOU ARE DEAD, the skull it did said
YES YOU ARE NUMB, the heart did resound
YES YOU ARE NOT BUT WHO KNOWS, MAYBE SOON YOU MIGHT WANT TO, but the sex falls asleep just ahead of the nerve
YES IT IS I THAT AM YOU, their heads talk to them about old things that can never be new
BUT ANYWAYS, BEWARE OF THE CURVE! AND BE MINDFUL OF VERBS... they hurt like a motherfucker!

the living dead remind me of things old and new
they are like a funny cue, just when you're about to feel a new plot will ensue
you cannot but rue the plot that ensues; it is all a ruse to amuse, for the dead
they think that if they play at being confused they can feign their living attendants
and hope not to catch you.

the muse that doth still peruse whilst skipping its cues...
but you, but you... meaning I who are intentionally missing the cue...

hilarity will most definitely ensue...

I AM QUITE SPECIAL YOU KNOW, the living who thinks it is dead moans like a crow
I DESIGN MY DISGUISE ON THE GO, ON THE PHILOSOPHY OF BRIGITTE BARDOT

DO YOU NOW, i resort to the retort, WHILE OBSERVING THE SNORT IN ITS WORT

I AM DIVINE, ON ME THEY RECLINE, FOR FEATHERS AND WINE AND MUCH COMPANY, THE SWINE

YOU DON'T SAY, i say without thinking or really caring, oh well...

I AM GOING TO HELL, it says

HELL? HELL? AH! hell! QUITE WELL! i heard it's lovely this time of year, but i do not say that
HELL IS SWELL! LET'S DINE IN HELL, i lie as the spider does lie to the fly...

WILL YOU COME WITH?

WHY THE HELL NOT! this place is boring i guess and i would like a caress but i do not say that...
EVER HEARD OF CHESS OR BACKGAMMON CARDS, THE FUNNY RETARDS, FRENCH PHILOSOPHERS LIKE LYOTARD AND MICHEL FOUCAULT AND BRIGITTE BARDOT?

BIRGITTE? BRIGITTE BADOT! THAT IS ME! C'EST MOIS!

QUOIS?

OUI OUI!
wee wee? YES! YOU MEAN YES!

YES AND NO, BECAUSE I READ JEAN JACQUES ANNAUD!

DIDN'T HE DIRECT MOVIES AND SUCH?

I DON'T IMDB MUCH...

WELL YOU SHOULD, IT'S LIKE... NEVERMIND. TELL ME ABOUT WHAT'S ON YOUR MIND.

ME MYSELF AND I IN A FUNNY DISGUISE AND MAYBE AN OGRE OR TWO, A FUNNY TATOO AND MY EGG YOLK SHAMPOO, A GOLDEN DOUBLOON, THE BLOSSOMING MOON, A BLACK-WHITE RACKOON AND THE TRAIN FROM MUMBAY TO RANGOON

YOU SOUND JUST LIKE A LOON...

DID I MEAN TO SAY THAT TOO SOON?

WHAT? YOU THINK I AM GOING TO SWOON?

WELL ONE OF US SIMPLY HAS TO DO THAT.

FINE. THE SWOONING IS DONE! NOW, LET ME TELL YOU THE PUN!

THE PUN?

IT IS ALL A JOKE YOU HALF-HUMAN YOLK! YOU BLUNDERING HALF-RETARDED EMOTIONAL BALOON! DO YOU SEE THIS SPOON? i take out the spoon... I CAN WRITE WITH THE SPOON ON YOUR HEAD AND ALL THE MEMORIES FROM YOU THEY WILL... NO. THEY HAVE JUST FLED. INTO MY WONDERFUL HEAD... LET ME SEE. AH! CHILDHOOD AND TRAUMA AND MUMMA. I SEE.
i kiss on the lips, i check all the organs and between the hips. again i find some lips... they are sticky and red and blood rushes all the way to my head... such a pornographic and lustful cad i am, but just for a tad and then back to work after the finishing bolt and the ensuing sexual revolt! so where were we?
ah, the breasts between which the vital organ it rests. YOUR SEX IT IS FINE, NOW PLEASE DO RECLINE AND DON'T TRY TO WHINE, IT IS I WHO AM TRYING TO DIVINE!

THE HEART
it is like a tart
it takes a bit of art
so try not to fart
i might damage some clockworks in there
and do not despair
i am doing my best
by helping you on the way to pro-gress
but i must digress
your heart she is ready to start...

that's quite a lot, i thought! i thought it is dead but it thinks, does it naught?!

THE HEAD
all but fled
in order to repair the head one must go back
to the place where it starts
to the heart but not the one in the breast but the one
from whence the brain starts to depart

THE SEX
strange concotion of vice
a dreamy device if one knows how to splice
pleasure and anguish and one does by-pass the price
methinks i will have it thrice
and i will visit again
and again and again
the sex needs lots of works
like a masterpiece, each has it quirks
but i am a master and i have my own perks
that come with their quirks...

TINKER TINKER TINKER

ET VOILA, MADEMOISELLE BARDOT! YOU HEART SHE IS FINE, YOUR HEAD, WELL.. NEVERMIND... AND YOUR SEX SHOULD BE BY NOW IN SOME STATE OF DIVINE REVELATION!

QOUIS?

NEVERMIND. CONGRATULATIONS. NOW YOU ARE ALIVE!

IS THAT SOME KIND OF JOKE?

YES! YES! NOW FUCK-OFF AND GO BE HAPPY!

MAN, I FEEL CRAPPY!

AHA! NOW YOU'RE STARTING TO GET?

WHAT?

WHAT THERE WAS TO GET - THAT NO ONE IS DEAD UNTIL THE TIME FROM THE BODY IS FLED. NOW GO BE ALIVE AND GO FIND A TRIBE OR SOME SHIT. YOUR TIME IS NOT YET. JUST ENJOY THE HIVE. AND REMEMBER: YOU ARE NOT DEAD, BUT ALIVE!

FUCK YOU!

YEAH YEAH! FUCK YOU TOO!
CALL ME?

Man! Dead people! They're like the living, but more, and they have unresolved issues no one can resolve, except themselves and me. But I don't come cheap!

After the Flood - Chapter 3

2009-11-02T04:26:00.000-08:00

Leviathan Lore

Being now as I am on the Earth and understanding the concept of its Movement sans or avec Pendulum: I do not need a point but the understanding that a point is the residual convergence of lines that cross the surface of things, I will discuss the Leviathan.

The Leviathan is a huge monster by which you are engulfed. It is not a white whale, it is not the Ark of Noah nor any other sort of object or being, it is the Earth and its gravity. Upon this Leviathan of illuminated consciousness, there lurk the beings we entrust our cerebral waves to and most all of the times we choose these waves to be the darkest our beings can produce. The Behemoths lurk upon the scaly skin of our Leviathans. Our Leviathans and not The Leviathan. We are not so smart as to surely say what The Leviathan is made up of. For we have but scarred its surface, we did not go into the depths, as Jules Verne once did with his imagination.

Anyway. Speaking of the Lore of the Leviathan. One must start from the sudden realization of wordage. HUGE, INCOMMENSURABLE, UNATTAINABLE, UNTOUCHABLE, INFINITE. Now, these words have been around for quite some time, between 5000 and 1000 odd years. They meant something and they still mean that same thing, whether we would like to admit it or naught, irregardless of what French constructivist stream of thought we adhered to before discovering that we are in the hypocritical process of self-destruction through the post-modern bullshit arts of de-constructivism.

WHETHER WE LIKE IT OR NOT, as I was saying, these words express the Leviathan. And they reffer to our physical limitations. OUR PHYSICAL LIMITATIONS that we need check from time to time, if we are to ever understand the lore of the Ancients.

So my little pastiche and literary essay on Leviathan Lore will resume to this - I HAVE NOT GOT A FUCKING CLUE, BUT I AM BEGINING TO UNDERSTAND THAT MUCH.

Until then, as always, I will thank and fuck you, in an alternative and hap-hazard 50/50 way!

After the Flood - Chapter 2

2009-10-28T02:16:00.000-07:00

After escaping the shipwreck and avoiding the monsters of illusion that swim with every mariner amidst the Sea of Perception, I have been on firm ground for the better part of three days.

I know the place. I have been here before. Actually, I think I never quite left, and everything is new and old to me at the same time as it splits in the most beautiful of harmonies, the 50/50 path of things.

The place is inhabited and it has certain rules, one such as I can now begin bending, but that one must not break under any circumstance. Such a thing would bring about folly and certain death, in one form or the other. The road is long, but not endless, but one will never get where one wants if one tries to by-pass the rules of this place.

It is beautiful here, a safe port away from the raging sea. Not that I don't like the sea. I do. Very much so. But it is very womanly, and one such as I must stick to firm ground because I could try swimming and diving forever, but that is not the point of my existence in this place. My escape, my desire and my destiny lie on the firmness of the ground.

I am not afraid of the water, I am not afraid of the imaginary things that lurk in the depths of my being and that sometimes reflect in the mirror images of the waves, but I know the rules of the sea. The Sea accepts its own and allows others to pass as long as do not overstay their welcome. I almost overstayed. That is why Ulysses leaves the goddesses he encounters throughout his travels. He makes all of them his, because they love him and cannot refuse him, but he is not for them. And he leaves.

In much the same way, I awake on this third day. Knowing my place of belonging, sensing my superiority but accepting my masculinity - responsibility, prowess, resolve, aggression, sexuality, malice, humor, instinct, lust, violence, the power to destroy and unmake things, the power to help things grow, the longing for the hunt.

But there is no fanfare to my affairs, for all my advantages I am still a man, a male. And a true man must know when to recoil, even as he passes the labyrinth. A true man must worship the feminine as it is all the things he is not, it is all the things he can conquer and enslave, but without It, a man's life would be devoid of meaning. It would be empty.

Rashness, arrogance, ambiguity, affection, visceral desire, malevolence, jocularity, wantonness, subterfuge, the power to give life and sustain it, the power of understanding how things grow, the longing for union are all the things I will never have, or that I do have but that are not mine to have and I should give back onto the sea. I will keep them as mere residual trinkets, because a hunter takes trophies, but always lets the strange creatures go free. This place needs its strange creatures.

I now have shops and hypermarkets so when I do hunt, I merely leave my mark, as a good hunter who understands the Way of Change in himself and the Others.

I am a hunter, I was a hunter. But now I just watch and track down. Because that is the hunt. The kill is for nourishment, and the rules of this place make it so that one does not have to kill anymore. I like this civilization. It has it advantages, if one knows of The Rules...

Let the women come to me!

2009-10-25T14:49:00.000-07:00

So. It is like Cupid, stupid. And very pleasant and nice... So let them come! There is one Man in the World that still draws breath!!!

STAY WITH ME!!!

After the Flood- Chapter 1, written by a sailor set free...

2009-10-25T09:58:00.000-07:00

Hermonas dear,

Man! So that is what dementia looks like? Or looked like? That was some scary schizophrenic shit I did experience. Good things my balls are bigger than my brains or who knows to what celestial crap I would be listening to now while listening to the clicky sounds of the keyboard.

The job is done and I almost ended up killing innocent people. I circled the core of the mirror Earth and, it might have been magical and shit a long time ago, but with science and all, I think I understand what it is all about. It is very methodical and clean, after the tests, when you can look back and admire that shell that was once you.

It is a mental illness of the sane and the Babel aspect of the thing is all very complicated and visceral but I know one thing... I understand that. I can kill that, but I don't need to do it now because it is only mental anyway and it is all about polarity and energy charges I did not know to tune, until I knew how to tune them.

The rest is true, but it is all in the concept of the pi i.e. muscle memory. So I must study. Nothing bad will happen from here on end. I am sure of my sanity now, after my return from the mirror world. Two volumes I need to study - Alice and The Looking Glass. It is all there. Put into word I mean, as an exercise of expression.

I am passed the second orbit, Hic anima est and the Shadow Earth of the Imaginary. The worm is now guiding me to the cognitive. The Super Ego is the next stop, probably in 365 days or less depending on sensorial experience and inter human relationships.

First there was Id, where all was well hid,
Then came the Ego and that was the catch
Now with a worm, I follow and learn how to squirm.
I felt like a child for a day
The brain in itself is a very good relay
It installs the delay
That is why children scream and cry as they lay
They are going quite mad while trying to listen in to mom and dad

I am going to hone my skills. Fancy the gym? I'm going from next week sometimes. It is quite cheap you know. And I really think you need the exercise.

Signed the Invisible Man.

The common loon

2009-10-24T08:58:00.000-07:00

Nah. Ce glumă cu tîțe de pescăruș=http://i.imgur.com/GQScX.jpg

The bad trip on the sunny ship

2009-10-23T02:41:00.000-07:00

It is all allegory and DVD's from here on out. No more fountain spout. Just the regular dribble.

I do not understand a scissor but I get the razor inasmuch that they both cut in different ways, in which way each is alternatively more than one.

My syntax has to droop to a minimum of basic words so that I may be quiet.

The best of regards. From now on, the writer writes.

And along came The Spider...

2009-10-19T06:05:00.000-07:00

I don't know what you're feeling cause I sure as hell don' know what I'm feelin' but in the end it's about the -ing suffixes in the continuous present of things.

This is a spiritual sort of pastiche an we're gonna give it the best we've got. Here we go!

So I got everything I want, and that is not the point. The point does not even exist anymore. It is no longer poignant for me to describe the feeling I'm feeling because it matters not in the humongous scale and feel and possibly, scheme, of things.

It is my humanity I am trying to deal with now, without turning into a proverbial monster, a man a woman eater, a Grendel who actually kicks Beowulf's ass because let's face it, B. was not a hero, but a fucking ass-hole!

There is more to that because it is not points that need be proven, but more or less the convergence of points, the connections, the routes, trajectories, the bullet time and the estimated time of arrival. Which is a picture of a picture of a picture anyway, as the gentlemens and scholars say... Tits!

So. I'm definetly a friend of mine and of ours who is them... So who is them? And do they have dental? Because if I'm going to invest myself into something they sure as hell better invest in me or I'm going to the fucking competition!

But, reclining to the lordliness that they are, it is better to remain a modest man and a promising specimen! I am broke! But rich in many ways...

So let's talk about gold-fish and Alladin's lamp, the flying carpet and Sheherezahd's boobies, the aftertaste of opium and hemp undergarments that get stuck between the butt-cheeks... My Christmas came early this life, 'cause I was a good little plant and appreciated the dirt I was born in.

So my question is not why me? Answer: because you EARNED IT!!! But, how am I supposed to grow it even further, being cool and talking about the Gizeh Plateau while serving a plateau of woman and her smiles?

Comicry is the answer. Nobody fucks with the Jester because somebody likes him. Fine! I'll be a jester for a while. It's winter anyway and I work on my day off so I must be a big fat joke to many people by now! Yes! I understand that! As a metaphor of the picture of the picture of man-breasts.

Whoever has a healthy sense of humor in the amoral sense, and by god man! that is the closest thing to a goddess' breasts any man-god has ever come before hearing the inevitable - What are you thinking right now!

Nothing my dear! And she smiles, blows smoke rings between her breasts and bakes him an eclaire. That's livin' the Life.

And as we seagull ourselves into a more joculant stance of affairs, I'm just wondering how much bush is bush to a goddess? Just putting that out there! That's a better question-answer than: do you have dental? on a Monday afternoon. Because she'll probably be all rhetorical about shit even when she'll let me find out, so YES!!!

It's enjoying the little things. They make up the big picture.

Peace!

I asked for The Golem and got what I needed: a Black Typewriter. This goes out to Whoever!

2009-10-17T07:31:00.001-07:00

BLACK GOLD

BLACK GOLD AND THE SUMMER COLD
JUNK AND MAYHEM IN THE WIND
AUTUMN IS A WUNDERKIND
JOLLY MEN: THE AUTUMN CROWS!
CREEPY WINDOES, HAPPY KNOWLES
OF THE SUNSHINE AND ITS DROLLS

SPEAK OF BRIDES THAT WAIT THE TIDES
WHITENESS IN THEIR BREAST IT DYES
THEY WANT CHILDREN AND THEIR CRIES
MEN WANT WOMEN, NOT THEIR SPIES
DRINKING RYES BETWIXT THEIR THIGHS
MEN LURK FROM THE BANKS AND SIGH
WITH THE SUNSHINE OF THEIR EYE

redemption GLIDES ON AUTUMN WINDS
LIKE THE SPECIAL WUNDERKINDS
LIKE THE CREEPY AUTUMN CROWS
HITTING LEAVES OF AUTUMN'S DYES
STRAIGHT LIKE aRROWS FROM THE SKYES

SHIPS AND MONSTERS PASS YOU BY
IN THE AUTUMN OF YoUR EYE
GO AND TELL THEM HOW TO LIE
CAUSE YOU'RE COMING ON THE FLY
WREAK THE HAVOCS OF YOUR EYE
ON THE CANVAS OF THE SKY
AND SAY: BYE, BYE, BYE

REARRANGE YOUR NEAT DISGUISE
RAPTURE TEACHES YOU TO DIE
LAUGHTER TEACHES YOU TO CRY
GRANT YOUR MEMORY A PI
SAY: BYE-BYE!

COALESCE YOUR WORRIES NOT
LIFE IS JUST ANOTHER KNOT
CUT IT THROUGH,
UNWRAP IT NAUGHT!

SWEET REVENGE LURKS IN Your EYE
SHAPING PICTURES OF THE SKY
GO AND TELL ME HOW LIE
SMELT SOME BLACK GOLD ON THE FLY.. .

Residual Silences

2009-10-11T08:38:00.000-07:00

So here we are again on the Post-Freudian Verge, you monks turned monkeys of pseudo-post-modernity. Still throwing your somatic shit at the walls of your neat little cage I see?! Good. Don't forget to stick one in the pooper just for my viewing pleasure, will you?

Tonight, ce soir, we will speak of residuality, a thing one gets so confused at when Essence is staring you in the face, slipping off the right lobe of your brain with an army knife betwixt its beautifully sharpened teeth.

You all think, and have good reason to, being trapped in the psychological prison crafted through the help of your own devices, deviances and deviations; that everything in life is so very important. My answer to your petty beliefs is: YES! Cleverly put, but wrong.

All in your charade of a life is but a residual emanation of what is really important. The thing you are to learn from experience is not how to refrain from repeating a nasty event you have gone through, but why you should. What is the reason for the cyclic and seemingly irreparable nature of certain past events that always come back to haunt you throughout your petty and cowardly existence?

Otherwise put, why do you have neurosis and depression? Why? I will tell you why. Because you don't fucking get it. You never listen, you always judge and you do not know how to have sexual intercourse with other people's souls. But foremost you don't know the first thing about pleasuring your own soul.

You are out of touch, out of reach and probably addicted to a certain kind of substance whilst being engaged in a delirious and damaging relationship.

SO PLEASE LISTEN, FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE:

Experience, in Essence, is residual. It's a test. The test itself is a technicality, the lesson learned a post-it on the fat butt of Revelation and the true answer to solving all your problems has by now passed you by once again since it was offering a blowjob and you said: No thank you! I have serious issues to take care of!

Well, when you will learn how to accept the metaphoric blowjob when all around you explodes to bits and starts dezintegrating into shrapnel full of meaning that pepper you while you cum on Epiphany's face, then my friends you will surely be onto something.

Until then, enjoy the residual silences after I orgasm... which I will... now!

PS. Thank you and fuck you too!

Fear and Loathing in Oltenia

2009-10-08T07:32:00.000-07:00

What is the meaning of this trip?!

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

So there we were, me and my favourite architect Rem Whiteyes Koolhaas, just about to experience epiphany. He looked at me in the way he looks at people and he said: You know, we should go on a trip of sorts...

I was this close to slapping him with my huge dictionary of post-modern architecture, a hardcover tome I just bought so I could draw mustaches on buildings and on the pseudo-artistic face shots of the architects that erected them, when a shiver came down my spine. Rem was right. A trip of sorts is what we needed.

Looking at him eating tulip buds and discussing fractal variations found in tree saplings, I just knew he needed it as badly as I did.

We began packing up in a frantic scurry for air and meaning and we were halfway done when one of us said: You know, I think we are just about to experience epiphany...

Plunging behind the couch, with a lit cigarette dangling dangerously from my lip, I put on my sunglasses and gave Rem his, just as the gush of air that shattered the glass in the windows was drawing spirals about our heads, whispering infamy.

Epiphany had come and left; it was gone, but Rem had caught up its scent. It took us exactly 3 seconds to unwind and finish our bags and we jumped the first taxi cab to the train station.

Now of course, seeing two guys dressed in black suits, sporting khaki rucksacks with wooden handles jutting out from every nook and cranny, smoking Lucky Strikes and huffing tulip buds, wearing gray army surplus boots, yelling about Borges and his Zephyr while trying to fit two wooden boxes with esoteric symbols on them in the boot of a taxi; would scare any Romanian cabby half out of his wits.

Which it did, but anyway, our driver did not need to know who and what he was ferrying to the train station.

We had accumulated, Rem and I, a good deal of stuff for our esoteric journey towards epiphany. Stuff we carefully put in our esoteric boxes.

There was a myriad of lore sprinkled with bits and pieces of humor and insanity. We had books, bullets and shotgun shells, candlesticks, a brick from an art nouveau building Rem lifted last year, a copy of Finnegans Wake, stakes for killing vampires, a Romanian travel guide, gallons of vodka, cartons of Lucky Strikes, crucifixes, a double edged battleaxe, four horseshoes, a Cyrillic for Dummies almanac and a book on the Life of Cyril, one gallon of red wine, two gallons of white wine, chisels, shovels and other such paraphernalia.
Also we had on our persons, our objects of power.

Rem had brought along his trusty rapier/t-ruler which was inconspicuously hanging on his back in its black leather scabbard, ready to unleash its troubled soul on Romania's buildings made up of post-communist kitsch and schizophrenic perversion. As Rem put it so gallantly: I will strike them down with the edge of my hand.

I had brought along my black magic Zippo, my traveler's notebook, my luck and charming persona as well as a double barreled shotgun, just in case...

So there we were, in the cab, cutting through traffic like a blunt razor blade through poorly set bitumen, heading into the concrete jungle.

As I looked at Rem riding shotgun, chewing tulip buds and talking trash to the cabby, his sudden gaunt countenance reminded me of the lawyer Kobayashi and I had the sudden feeling that I was Verbal Kint as he turned back and grinned, saying he was thinking the exact opposite.

We felt stranded for a moment in the post-communist waiting room, mingling amongst the peasantry, the gentiles and the emerging middle class, the students on summer vacation humping knapsacks full of misshaped dreams, clothing, bad music and shaky futures.

We faced the grins of vagabonds and refused to give cigarettes. Things almost got out of hand and I was reaching for my shotgun when Rem took down his shades and gave them the Koolhaas Look, and our would be adversaries understood the meaning of Whiteyes so they gently and honorably retracted without losing too much face.

Taking time to think things through, I began to shudder at our great endeavor but Rem said:
As your architect, I suggest you let everything to me and go buy us some train tickets.

I left him, heading for the ticket booth, not realizing he had reached for his rapier. As I returned with our tickets, he was hacking at a corner of the main building, taking out chunks at a time, as if he was chopping down the roots of a great concrete Leviathan. I joined in for a while, but to no avail. It could not be done by a two-man team, in the middle of the day.

We shooed the onlookers away, settled in on the platform, sipping coffee and smoking Lucky Strikes, waiting for the train to Craiova. Rem was frantically sniffing the air but he began napping and I for one knew that everything would turn out okay.

Awoken suddenly by the truculent train ride, I yawned and kicked the synthetic fabric of the chair I had been slipping off rather than sleeping on. Rem had scared everyone else out of our train compartment and was trying to open a window when the conductor walked in.

When he saw us, his brain started retracting in fear of the sight. I was greasing my shotgun, ready to blow up those useless train seats in order to rearrange the space for a little R&R and Rem had just unsheathed his rapier, ready to chop some holes in the ceiling, in order to supply decent ventilation to the place.

The conductor meekly asked for the tickets when speech returned to his numbed and terrified synapses. Rem was about to snap at him in Frisian dialect when I produced the tickets. The conductor asked about my companion and I suggested he is a crazy westerner come here to our wonderful country of plenty to steal our women and sell off the rest for scrap.

Missing altogether my double entendre full of nationalistic bigotry and ironic playfulness, the conductor smirked at Rem and winked at me, validated out tickets and disappeared as a papier mache figurine would if it had melted under hot air.

Rem was desperate for air, I myself was feeling the sting of nicotine addiction so we paced the train car for a while and we decided suddenly to jump out of the train, baggage, esoteric boxes and all.

Rolling through the dirt and the overgrown vegetation that jutted humongous beside the train tracks, we recovered our senses slowly, taking big gasps of air and tobacco smoke respectively.

The night was young and we were still alive. We had jumped train a little before midnight and we were fully in country now, the sound of hounds in the distance. Pacing the country side slowly, humping our rucksacks and dragging our boxes, we spoke and spoke, sometimes just hearing and the other times really listening to what the other had to say.

Rem was glancing at the night sky and we discussed constellations on the side of a country road, huddled together at a crossroads.

A large donkey – drawn cart materialized in front of us, a big black man holding the reins of the long eared animal that was baying into the night and the moon.

We shivered with expectation and when the dark tall man offered a ride we humped our luggage so fast into his cart, he did not even get the chance to say we shouldn't.

He said he was the devil and we believed him. He told me: Reach into that sack, there's a guitar there, hand it to me so that I may tune it for you.

Rem took off his glasses and the Devil knew we meant business.

The devil tuned the guitar and gave it to me saying: Now, play. The road is long and we might still be able to reach daylight before one of us tries to steal the others' soul.

I sang the tunes of devilry and respite, rattled by the cart while Rem and Satan discussed Gogol and Russian literature as a whole, enumerating its strong points and the big disappointment represented by Chekhov.

By morning we were all quiet and the guitar turned to wax and began melting in the middle of the song as the devil took his leave from us, just outside the train station in Filiași. He said that not even the Prince of Light would let himself get entangled with the horrors of the Filiași train station in the morning.

We scowled at his cowardice and made dirty jokes as he began sublimating between the first rays of light. As he came, he went, and there was nothing Rem or I could say more.

Dragging and stumbling, we followed the train tracks into the station and almost immediately turned away in horror. Such a sight we had never seen as even Rem's rapier recoiled in its scabbard out of sheer horror. It was an experiment gone horribly wrong. Everything was misshapen and chaotic. A surrealistic rendering of a mental asylum in Hell, but with all the wards fled into volcanic darkness.

We were left facing the deep stench filled magma of Hades, and the ferry man was nowhere in sight.

Settling in on the platform, watching the wrecked steam machinery that once powered the trains of the Belle Epoque, I was close to weeping when Rem patted my shoulder and said: It is alright, those days will come again.

The station seemed like the underside of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, its overstated homo-eroticism of Transsexual Transylvania, sans nudity and avec the dry feeling one gets when hitting the service end of a vodka induced coma.

Everything was dust and dust was dirt turned into sludge as even the vagabond dogs seemed more healthy than the humans inhabiting this Romanian ninth circle of Hell that is the station in Filiași.

We passed through the waiting room, bumping into some architecture students that seemed so out of place Rem almost tried slapping one into its senses when I dragged him off out into the sunlight. We saw the vampires feasting on the synthetic vodka of the poor man. Their faces had the color of soylent green and their souls had been all but sipped clean by the bottles that were drinking out of them and not the other way around.

Salvation seemed to have passed us by while we were journeying with the Devil, but Rem caught the scent of epiphany once more so we settled near the architecture students and started ranting at them, until we began talking to each other, more or less.

They were going on an educational trip of sorts. Rem retorted: Hm! So are we. Who is the one that leads?

One Born of Sky said the students. I know of that one, Rem said to me. He is also on the search for epiphany. We will go with and I will show him my rapier.

The students were scared, I could see, so I turned on my natural charm and quieted them down, telling them that Rem meant well, although he might seem a bit nutty.

Not believing a word we said, they took leave, heading for a train. We stayed behind and jumped in the train the moment it began to move.

The hunt is on, Rem said, the whiteness of his eyes shining behind the dark lenses of his shades.

We got off in Tîrgu Jiu and began following the students but they escaped us just out side the bus station.

No worries! They can run, but they cannot hide, said Rem. Their scent is fresh in my senses. Let us instead see the works of The Brîncuși and meditate on the true meaning of your country and its natural flow.

Heading through the town, a great feeling of apprehension passed between the two of us as we began steadily pacing towards art, Rem sniffing as we went, laughing as he sniffed.

He is an old devil, this one, Rem said. The Brîncuși is one who understands.

We entered the complex, treading holy ground, catching the scent of spring flowers in the wake of beauty, bobbing our heads under gates, stopping to gaze at trees and enunciating opinions of sculptures, of what we liked best or worst.

As we reached it on the bank of the river, we fell to our knees in awe, letting our glasses droop from our eyes, blinded by the sun. I reached for my pack of Luckies when I caught sight of Rem breaking into a run, hitting the Column at full speed, molding himself on the lines of the stone, clambering as he could, higher and higher until he reached the top.

There he was. Rem Whiteyes Koolhaas, on top of the Column of Infinity, the Star of post-modernity on top of the pillar of my ancestors, yelling with all his might into the sun: PANTA RHEI!!! Everything flows... It was beautiful.

He got down and after a while we slept on the grass. Awoken by the mid-noon heat, we gathered our stuff and continued to track epiphany.

The tracks of the child-students lead us out of the city towards the mountains. I recalled history and told Rem of everything I could remember. Without knowing it, we were soon upon Born of Sky's domain.

We entered this Romanian salle d'attente but the Magus was absent. Fearing for the mental health of the child-students, we became invisible and decided not to make our presence felt.

The place was magnificent. Old but still fresh, with horses grazing and the manor glittering white. I marveled at its defensive position, how well it had been crafted out of stone, its military effectiveness and its pleasant presence. Awe inspiring and comfy at the same time.

We bathed in the shade of trees and drank the acidic water of the well, we enjoyed the presence of the boyars of old and took a tour of the church, laid meadow flowers by the graves and played with the hounds.

Rem sketched and I wrote down gibberish poetry not even I could fully understand. We talked to the watchman, a certain Thomas the Turk, a rugged man with a childish face, a killer smile and a crazy glitter in his eye. A liar, as all great storytellers were, we bathed in the depths of the night fires and discussed fairies, treasures and legend.

The Milky Way shone bright in The Born of Sky's Little Court of Old, listening to old gypsies play their lutes under the thunderstorm that came right before the sunrise.

Nymphs were laughing behind the trees, right beyond the recesses of the fires, and Rem asked one if it would dance. It mumbled in its supernatural sounds but Rem was not a man to fear old superstition. I know a beautiful woman when I see one, he said.

They danced the dance of old under thunder and wind, horses neighing in the twilight of lightning whilst I and The Turk drank to olden times.

We talked of gold ferried by monks, stolen by Muslims, hoarded by outlaws, crafted by the Dacian tribes, payed in tribute, stolen in retribution, mixed with the blood of peoples and ages, lost to us and ours but come to life in the stories of the old Watchman of The Little Court.

Our entourage grew as Rem yelled at the moon and began drinking alongside us. We saw Polish nobles sporting Teutonic trinkets gained in battle against the Germans, merchants from Lithuania and Krakow, the moneylenders from Leipzig and the Jewish alchemists from Prague.

We were drinking ancient history like old wine, slowly and only slightly watered down. Thomas talked of invisibility, witchcraft, treasure hunts and old lies. All of a sudden he stopped, gazed at the moon in its zenith, howled and turned into a werewolf, the Sparkle-Hound of old. He vanished.

Rem smiled and said: You are all crazy in this country are you not?
Only the ones that are truly sane, I said.

Before falling asleep we decided we would go our own way and that if Born of Sky would meet us, we would meet him.

Surely he will come to us, Rem said, if he too seeks what we are hunting.

I fell asleep dreaming of epiphany.

Without knowing it, as soon as we left the Little Court of Old for the foothills of the ancient mountains, the hunt was on.

We trekked the vast expanses, we slept in the meadows and dreamed under the shade of apple orchards, Rem talked of Eden and I discussed Luther's Bible. It was most hilarious.

Jumping trains, feeling the heat, talking to the people, we went our way, going headstrong into the territory of my ancestors. Nothing could stop us. The hunt was developing before our eyes and we could not shirk from its gaze. It had mesmerized our senses and we weren't about to stop until we drew first blood.

The child-students had also started their trek, their noble endeavor to save what remained to be saved after 50 years of ruthless regimes and 20 years of cowardice and greed was doomed to fail, but I and Rem were rooting for them nonetheless. We were the ones who always sought the causes of the lost.
Needless to say our respect for the Born of Sky grew as we nervously awaited his appearance.

Rem and I visited the villages and listened to the lore of old women, the keepers of chickens and dark secrets the old men would never have the courage to part with.

They named for us the patches of valley and forest we were about to pass through. Walnut Valley, Highwayman's Creek, Up the Hills and Down from the Valley. The churches and the graveyards were silent and awe inspiring, overgrown with age, choked by the undergrowth and shaded by the fir trees.

Washing off the dirt by wells dug in the sides of hills, Rem and I watched the shadows that jumped at the forest's edge, protected by the fires. This was the kind of country even the Devil would have feared crossing without a bodyguard.

The women woke up in the mornings and gave us food as they passed us by, going to work and singing as long as the sun burnt the earth dry before setting behind the mountains.

Sunsets passed us by in the wilderness and Rem was quieted down by the wind as I told him stories laying near the fire.

Our senses were numbed. Epiphany seemed to be everywhere, but Rem said we should not be fooled by its many essences. She was one in its entirety and we were searching for her and her alone. Her emanations were for the lesser sires of her youth.

I fell asleep each night dreaming history, seeing Turkish marauders, legionaries of the Gemina crossing under strict marching orders in their blue tunics, carrying the Lion, their lost colors flying high in the noon sun. They chanted of death, happy their flanks were protected by olive skinned Syrians and the bearded Sarmatians. I listened into the hearth talk of the Mongolian tribes and watched the Ostrogoth play with gold. The Crusaders tried to sell me trinkets before heading for Albania. An imam told me about the Light under the Veil and the Valachian highwaymen almost took me off into night. Humming the songs of old, Rem looked at me and was scared but I told him all was good. I was finally tapping into the deepest soil of my soul and the womb of my country's history was calm as ever.

I dream-talked of revolutions, spinning from one dialect to another and Rem later told me it seemed as if I was exorcising myself and was laughing all the time, at the same instant understanding everything I and my country had went through.

It was morning when some German soldiers stole my horses and a few minutes later I was retreating with the last airlift out of Stalingrad, a Romanian woman pilot giving me a Griffa just before the morphine, the auburn haired doctor gave me, kicked in.

They took me to the camps in Siberia right after the war but I managed to learn Russian just outside Novosibirsk and they shipped me off, out of Vladivostok, reaching home just ahead of the Cultural Revolution.

I screamed with the first rays of the sun and Rem smiled.

You have passed it, he said. Now you are born anew.

Everything flows, I said. And fell back to sleep.

Rem was laughing as I woke. I had drank the essences. They did not side-track or kill me and I knew now that I was ready for the real thing.

A man stood by us after he took leave of the child-students. He stopped and stared. Rem was ready to head-butt the visitor. Instead, he only gently reached out his right hand clasping the man's and shaking it vigorously.

The Born of Sky met us under the hills of old. We feasted and wrestled until we grew accustomed to each other. Rem ceremoniously gave his rapier to Born and he accepted gratefully.

They jabbered of architecture, so I watched, barely listening, smoking my Luckies and thinking of epiphany. Born's endeavor was not going well but Rem trusted his campaign of awareness, as did I. He seemed a man with a mission. Rem and I only hoped he would not get side-tracked by the perils of our land and the petty thieves that jump at the throats of the innocent. But the Born of Sky had the sad smell of experience about him. It would be a matter of time before he would come out swinging. So I hoped at least.

For all the mercenaries I and Rem were, we could not but respect this valiant knight come back to rescue what he could. We pledged allegiance wholeheartedly.

We hoped the signs of duress would not turn Born into one with a sad countenance.

All was silent, night had come and the moon was still not shining. We drank heavily from our esoteric boxes but a foul air began looming.

Born of Sky knew of the hunt, it was obvious, but he did not seem to believe in it with all his being.

A poem came to mind:

A prince of the Levant, longing for to hunt
Paced through deep forest shadow.
Stopping and stumbling and hitting the bark,
Whispering through his flute into dark:
It is the Magic Silver Tusked Boar that I wish hunt...

but I did not utter the words. The poem for all its beauty, had a worthless and pathetic end that was Slavic and not Dacian in its core. And Moscow in the 50s, with too much vodka and nobody to shoot at anymore, is Moscow in the 50s and not this country throughout its 5000 years of history.

Looking at the Born of Sky, his countenance starting to droop under his thoughts, I knew the answer to the dark impish questions that ate at his heart. Child-students are too small a game and academia is like a garden of gardenias in comparison to The Hunt. But he did not think that.

He thought that by eradicating the emanations of dark soil from whence his heart bloomed under the moon that shone beneath the trees of this country's forests, would make the questions be muted by the light of reason. He thought that was the thing that ate at this country most. The lack of light in its folk. I knew that the dirt that was in our eyes was the reason for the irk. And you can only see darkness after 70 years of sitting in the cave-gulag. I assure you, it is not dark, it is light. They are not shadows, they are others stumbling in sunlight. Enough of excuses and intellectuality, lest I draw more mustaches in my wake!

This country has had enough of dirt turned into sludge. What it needs is an avalanche of dark soil trapping its senses so that things may begin to be planted anew. We need our forests of old, before we chop them down unwittingly, not knowing where our true problems really lie.

Rem understood perfectly what I was about to say. He muted me with a gesture of the wrist, slapped the Born of Sky so hard his glasses fell into the fire. His eye-glasses began melting.

You won't need those where we are going, Rem said. Now get on your feet. Take the rapier and follow us.

He turned and walked into the darkness of the forest as the moon began shining over the hills. I followed looking back. The Born of Sky was with us.

It was beautiful. The trees were silent under the leaves rustling in our wake. The light had diamond skin. I was seeing trapped photons exploding on the tree-bark.

We were surrounded by wisps. Tree nymphs were showing us their bosoms, offering comfort for our weariness, but neither of us was in the mood.

Enough of essences. We were hunting the real thing. The Born of Sky was shivering under the cool air of the silvan landscape but he was with us.

Everyone is afraid, you know, Rem whispered. I was about to light another cigarette, but Rem gave me the look, so I cursed him with a smirk and refrained my indulgences. This was serious business after all.

We caught scent of it first and our senses drew keener as we spotted the tracks. Passing a creek, the light grew as we saw it in a clearing.

It was humongous, it smelled eerie as it was grunting through the leaves, looking for walnuts.
Rem's eyes turned white and we were reeking of fear, but luckily we were down-wind from the beast.

Turning, its tusks shone of ivory in the smooth evanescent light.

We jumped it under an old chestnut by the creek. I stared into its eye and squealed, trying to laugh but actually keeping myself from crying out of fear. Rem yelped as it stepped on his sketching hand and the Born of Sky was trying to unsheathe the rapier while cursing vigorously.

It dragged us through the forest trying to shake us off but we were holding on for dear life, trying to tire it down.

Born of Sky grappled on the hairs of its back and was on the animal before it knew. The blade shone and made the moon go pale.

The scream made the forest freeze. The air fell on the ground, hitting the leaves like a grand piano falling from the top of Everest. It was the sound of a symphony exploding like a piece of glass heated white.

The moan went through the trees and whirlwinds spiraled, cutting down and shaping rock. Streams ejaculated white and water turned into clouds of steam.

For a brief moment I saw the woman I loved planting lavender in a window, keeping the dream scorpions away from our house on the hill. She was adorning desert figs to her long hair while singing the songs all women of my country sing when they become tree nymphs trying to get out of their shells.

Rem was cursing, I was dreaming and Born was stabbing the beast with all his might.

It was dead now. We had killed it. We had invented a new poem for ourselves. We were spent.

Rem cut out its liver and I and Born bit into it, feeling the iron in its blood, feasting on its soul. My totem animal appeared before me.

The old bear looked me in the eyes and growled. I knew it was time to leave. Rem understood why.

I shook Koolhass' hand and kissed him on the forehead, blocked him before he could head-butt me. I looked into Born of Sky's sad eyes. He knew we had not reached epiphany.

But I knew he knew he was on its tracks. His nostrils began sniffing the air before he realized.

Everything flows gentlemen, I said before turning my back on them, heading out of the forest into the sunrise.

Rem was beginning to teach Born how to wield the rapier right. All was good.

Weird memories travel my skull on this strange night when my journey begins in earnest. Weird dreams and strange faces come to me as I rest. I put on my sun-glasses and follow.

No more fear and loathing. It is time for dreams unfolding. For riding the Peking Wave.

It comes to me now, clear and longing.

All is good in the forest. Awaiting the next hunt.

Epiphany calls. I am on its tracks. Remember to bring Lucky Strikes.

Out.

P.S: This is bat country!

Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

All characters, locations, references, words, expressions, dreams and innuendos are fictitious and should be taken as such.

If you cannot take the hint than gently fuck off lest you will understand the meaning of Whiteyes before losing too much of your face.

Thank you and fuck you too!

Go back to the Jim

2009-09-30T04:36:00.000-07:00

It's time to go back to the Jim. It's time to wander off from the suburbs and go into the fucking desert like a tourist with a back pack full of sun screen and a hand-full of ham sandwiches.

To anything you would like to ask the answer is YES!!! as long as you go back into the desert dressed like a tourist from the suburbs.

Things are not tottering any more, they are clear like the sun going into the sand while you're smoking a cigarette on a dune, waiting for night and the stars. This is a free tour of the lion hunt of which you will understand exactly nothing. And that is a good thing.

You are in the desert now to understand the lion and not see it. You are not ready for that yet. All you have are ham sandwiches and sunscreen not a knife made out of bone and the cloth of knowledge.

Wait for the moon to rise in the west and undesrtand the sunset while you smoke your cigarette. The other traveler strums his guitar and writes songs while seeing beauty and you say YES!!! and not a word passes between you any more in the cool windy night.

There is dust everywhere and the coyote rises its head from underneath the veil, howling from a rocky outcrop into the night sky of dark blue. Your mind travels stopping now and then like a drunk man who has forgotten how is it exactly he ran.

You see the woman, smelling of lavander adorning desert figs to her hair. She smells as water from a deep and dark well under the light of stars. You are falling in love in the desert. The desert is not dead or deadly, it is the place where things have come to rest and where most people go to sleep.

Traveler!!! You are only visiting, but YES!!! You will sooon begin to understand how it is to rest in the desert.

Half-told revelations on a Thursday Night, with Nobody

2009-09-03T13:21:00.000-07:00

So here we are again on the aetherial edges of Something. Which is okay because it's better than Nothing and then again it doesn't really matter WHEN you're Nobody.

Now then again, being Nobody and not a nobody is good - it is Homeric because Homer invented the concept to begin with and you have to respect that, because he was blind and Greek in a time when being in Greece was something you just had to see. I know it's ironic, but great art always came from the Gods playing pranks with people's minds.

But that is simply beyond the point.

Between misspeling and misunderstanding you should always go for the mispell, it always works better in the end.

When you are on the Edge of Something it usually means that you are also ONTO Something and that can never be bad, although nobody said it wouldn't or shouldn't feel scary, 'cause it feels exactly like that and thensome. That's the point of the whole thing to begin with. It is a situation in which more blue is always welcome.

Beyond that there are only revelations half-told on a Thursday Night on the Edges of being onto SOMETHING...

PS. Try and get the big-lettered picture, it's all that matters in the end (of everything).

PPS. You can observe how I deviously removed the mispeslls. You are just pawns in my game.

Remembering Nihilism

2009-08-26T05:48:00.000-07:00

Picture this - it is fin de siecle, the end of the century, the end of the 19th century. You are coming home from your gentleman's club where you have sipped some cognac from the time Napoleon was scaring the European world with his diminutive posture like some little giant on steroids and everybody was shitting their pants from the Tzar to the Prussian chancellor and the Austrian Kaiser. You have revelled all night in pedantic talk about East Indian Company stocks and the investments one must make in Belgian rubber from the Congo, when all of a sudden all the ash from your smoked cigars comes surging up your lungs and jolts your sedated brain into a strange new posture also known as cognitive thought.

What do I care, you will say, one must expect these things. One will go home and take a sip of the coca wine you and your God loving, excess hating party have banned last week without understanding why. Of course, one such as you can partake because you are above everyone else, and then again, you do not rejoice in excess. You are a very good hypocrite.

Back in your drawing room, the servants, evansecent under the gas light, disappear in the domestic twilight whilst you sip your coca wine, open the Evening Standard and drowse heavily over the ink stained pages smelling of industiral lead.

You remember the thugee rebellion that happened such a long time ago, you remember the soma eaters that take you back to Homer and your ancient European world, your heavy browed school masters and you think to yourself, it is such a wonderful civilisation we live in.

But it is you now, and not Ulysses, that is in the Land of the Lotus Eaters. The time and continent of Stoker`s vampires, one step closer to the Frankenstein monster and an eternity away from the Parthenon in Athens.

And suddenly and out of nowhere you begin asking yourself why? and you find out that there is no answer in you semi-educated mind to tackle that question. You are very rich, probably a little ovewieght, unmarried and what your Eton pairs might tag as a bit of an eccentric. But what exactly you have become you exactly cannot even begin to say.

You start to feel that there is a bit more to life than the European way of living it, hiding behind your unjust and civilised society as if you were putting on a gas mask to steer clear of reality. You are quizzical about things, at 3 am, on a Monday night, somewhere around London's suburbs where Shaliapin is streaming from the gramaphones and underaged street urchins are shovelling horse manure for a shilling at 10 pounds; and for the first time in your well groomed existence you discover life is unjust.

With your mind plunged into the European night you feel it is the time of Walpurgis Nacht, when heirs to the throne are having anal intercourse with the chamber maid and bankers decide the going rate of life depending on the rubber that flows out of primeval forrests somewhere below the Equator. It is your awakening, your personal Apocalypse, your self-made revelation and you are lost in the dead of night, when all the servants are all asleep.

So what now, what now, in the dead of night? Ravaging through your superfluos library you do not turn to the Bible, the Bible did not speak of indusrty, just of big towers that were stabbing at the sky. So you turn to the philosophers but not the Greeks, they did not have pollution, not the Roman historians nor the agnostics from the Middle East. You select a volume with uncut pages of an in vogue German philosopher whose name everyone misspells. It is a copy of So spake Zarathustra, an allegory written by a man so wise he turned the world upside down and started rattling until change came streaming out of its pockets and insanity started seeping out of its head. It is Nietzsche, a man that roamed Karlsbaden naked and drunk screaming onto passers by - I am Dionyssos, bow to me! - a German of all things who found debauchery before any other European, and turned debauchery into consciousness.

What a dark new age you have just awoken to and you haven't even read all the book. At 10 am you remember to move slighlty to your left and get that numb feeling out of your body. It`s alrgiht. While your body went numb, your mind started to wander. You hear youself enunciate - nothing is worh anything anymore.

You start downing sheerys at 12 am and the servants are gasping for air not knowing what to do with master, who seems to have blown a gasket. You get undressed in a haze and in your intimates you pace the manor with the .12 gauge shotgun you used to down ducks with, massaging the cartridges with your moist hand, discovering the possibilities of suicide. And there seem to be many possibilities in suicide as time passes by. You black out.

You awake in a daze. You are at the opera, appreciating Wagner and you think it was only a dream. A smartly dressed gentleman gives a witty remark at the dinner party after the show and you slap him, get up, bid everyone a good night and go home, on foot, sit in your armchair with a loaded shotgun, reading Nietzsche while Shaliapin is roaring his Mephisto out of your exhausted gramaphone. You are naked and you start discovering you are a god.

Bored but born anew, because you have discovered the essence of life - happy insanity.

Aetherial Notions of Batshitterry

2009-08-25T03:54:00.000-07:00

This is the age of batshitterry, the age of Babylon fading into spleen filled oblivion. The overview of failed revolution, once the trumpet song hummed the death-rattle of misunderstood perception.

We are heading for the great Age of Unlearning and we do not even know it yet. It will be a very interresting trip.

Not a while ago I crossed paths with the criss-cross forrests we used to cut down before we realized we shouldn't but nonetheless did. Too late to be in the right place at the right time, too early to escape the wrong time and place, this is the epitaph of our generation but who knows anymore anyway. Maybe it truly does not matter anymore.

In the remnants of forrests long cut down and turned into timber, pacing the roads where logs spewed out of the earth, tree bark staining old ground, I had reached that point where you can see your insides clearly and from afar.

"My insides are clean", I could clearly see and in the derelict forrest only the neurotic feeling of enlightenment loomed - the dark beasts of our death we cross paths with in the daylight, like some highlighted passage in the Tibetan Book of the Dead. They await all over for our undead spirit, our unliving force. It is they we must conquer in order to conquer ourselves before someone else succeeds through TV.

There on an outcrop I asked myself the questions our civilisation failed to ask before inventing TV and thankfully I got more questions for my questions than answers for my nonsense; and then I knew that even if our planet is sick, the Universe is still very healthy thank you very much.

If you go into the forrest you must become crazy, your brain must turn to stone, your hairs need to stand on end like roots that plug into the sky, you must spread the fingers of each hand, alternatively and you must let everything boil down to chance. It is an esoteric lesson you must learn and nothing but your devoid brain may teach it to you. The rest is up to squirrels and woodpeckers, to grubs that bloom in tree bark and to lake water of dark green.

I plunged in shallow water, on the edge of the lake where dark seeds of unknown trees floated near the surface. The dirt was clean on my skin and the sun less toxic on the water's edge. I have been to the place, now I can say, where religions were possibly invented, where man played hide and seek with the gods, when the world did not know how to keep count and never filled out an application form. I have touched the edges of our dimension and cannot clearly say if there are more dimensions or dementias out there, or just an array of dementions we chose to forget in the name of our half-baked sanity. Now everything seems to be tottering on the edge of things.

As the fires roam the darkness and your vision mingles with whimsical photons you begin to forget what is light and what is dark, you remain in the shadow that the moon and sun project on the earth through their light and you understand that things have no nature, that we are natural things that are just a whole we are so desperately trying to pull apart out of need for an ill sort of gravity. We are behaving like animals in need of tidy little cages. We have forgotten our natural common sense and our mischevious nature and turned them in, in exchange for cell phone bills and internet porn.

We have sold out the outlaws in our souls that high-jack us in the middle of our dreams and scare us half to death because we have forgotten the most important part of our beings, the part that is so desperately screaming in the dead of night, its rumble falling on dead and fast asleep ears. We have sold them out for scraps and our destiny is our own, prisoners of devices we unwittingly chose in exchange for true freedom.

Here on the edge of Batshitterry, where Unlearning begins, the Sunrise of Apocalypse is clearly visible, rising not over the plains of Armagheddon but over forrested mountains of forgotten memories that surge violently out of olden rock to fill the void of our being. We are on a head on collision course with the past. Prepare to be head-butted by revelation.

The old men in the Bible have gotten it all wrong. Bent over old texts they partially understood.

There are no true monsters and demons, just abused energy we spue without knowing. There are only Jack the Rippers, mass-murderers, business men and the unwitting flock, cronic epyleptics and religious bigottry, cutthroat capitalism and misunderstood philosophers from Locke to Marx. Lenin was a copy-paster and Stalin was a thug. Pol-Pot took more souls than the Devil, so stop believing in lies. We are alone. And we are being watched not by the gods, but by ourselves and we highly disapprove, as each day passes.

This is the age of Babylon fading, of Nonsense fading, when Sound and Fury finally dim down after 2000 years, and we must tread carefully, the morning we are waking to is a mischevious one, it rejoices in havoc, it chooses through chance and it preys on the weak.

Welcome to Batshitterry.

P.S. Head-butts not included. If mentally unstable forget what you have read. If mentally stable forget what you have read. If mental, forget. If stable, deny. If forget then read and then forget. If head-butt then remember and then forget. If bullshit then don`t care. If care then be careful. If careful steer clear of the forrest.

Falling back into the Big Sleep - Part 1

2009-06-05T05:13:00.000-07:00

Jan had recovered what was left his great accumulation of wealth.

There were his compasses, a few wrecked mechanical watches, a great amount of his books on flowers, some broken bits and pieces of a machinery that he could never make work and that now never would, pots and pans, some cracked perfume bottles, a pair of eyeglasses that were utterly useless, the recipe for making the Golem, of course, his three pounds of Arabian coffee beans, some pens and quite a healthy amount of pencils, his chess board but with almost all of the pieces gone missing, a magnifying glass, three pairs of scissors, two brass cups, a jar full of medical alcohol, his favourite pair of socks, his lucky pair of trousers, his unlucky and now only hat, some other books on mathematics, his tools he used when studying geometry, his astrolabe, a shovel he had no idea he posessed, a hatchet, needles and pins, blue yarn, some Chinese silk and some velvet, one apple, Nietzche`s Also sprach Zarathustra, a dog and a black cat, a magician`s notebook that came into his posession but which he never read out of respect, an unfinished novel, some bad poems, a finished but never published manuscript on Hermetics, two Egyptian statues, a piece of a Babylonian glazed brick he had stolen out of the Berlin History Museum right from the Gate of Ishtar, a composite bow, some arrows he made as a child, the remnants of a gramophone he never got around putting together until he lost some of the parts one by one, his written account of when he thought he might have encountered the Frankenstein monster, a photograph given to him by a friend in which he claimed he had captured the apparition of a vampire, a stuffed white rabbit, a world map and a globe. And no money. No money whatsoever.

Fearing that paper would burn he turned all his riches into gold assets, which was smart of him to do. Unfortunately for him, gold doesn`t burn like paper but it melts like wax. And it also disappears, as he arrived from his trip to find his mansion burnt to the ground and his gold bullion turned into thin air by the thieves that must of rummaged through the rubble. Jan was of course by no means distraught. He was just amused by the situation.

He set about rearranging his life by taking a nap. It was the most sensible thing to do after all. He was very tired.

Creepy Crawlies in the Age of Dementia

2009-06-05T04:16:00.000-07:00

You don`t really have to be picky when it comes to dementia. You might actually say that it chooses you than you it, although it might end up being picky and you can`t really be upset about that because it`s dementia... and it can be whatever it wants to be, even picky. Yes, yes.

The glassy encasement levels of dementia come to own your subdued subconscious and there is nothing you can really do about that picky picky little fact of life. Therefore one has to go inwards and philosophize about things, events, happenings and black tea by the Black Sea on a Saturday morning when the rain won`t stop coming down.

Wherefore we are going to go nobody knows now anymore.

But it is sure to be an interesting trip.

So let us then soliloquize in a haphazard 50/50 way whilst chasing imaginary dragons. Hic sunt leones!!!

It is like browsing a bit of Finnegans Wake with the lights dimmed down and the sounds rolling off your ear into darkness. You have to appreciate the ride, not understand it.

There is a prickly thought that always comes to mind but I will not say which because which is that what interests me is not to utter what is which that has taken a grip in the spiraling pot pouri of imagination.

Depths must be fathomed here where things creak in the dead of night hinging on old wood picked dry by the mites of dimmed perception.

Leaning towards and going into the occult, the nocturnal, the mischievous and the misleading, the creeping, along the whetstone surface of our intertwined synapses, we have to, we have to, we necessarily have to find something of use and at least one thing of value.

This is not getting lost, this is getting sidetracked while trying to get found. It is all very complicated I assure you! Oh so very complicated...

We must delve into the labyrinthine here and we MUST get lost, we must be lost eventually, not to others, but to ourselves. This proves nothing, this means nothing, this is just an exercise but if done right it could turn into a right of passage.

Do you know the Tarot? No? Never mind that. The Tarot knows you. And even if you were to know the Tarot, you still wouldn`t know it but it would still know you.

The more you know, the harder it gets. Remember! You have to get lost. But how can you get lost if you know, or at least think you know. Knowing that you think you know helps you even less. Ideally you should have to be at the point of knowing you actually don`t know anything, but that is something really difficult to know you know. Because you have to admit that you really don`t know and be alright with that.

It takes a lot of courage but have no fear, that is not a prerequisite. Lacking courage means that you must take the ride again, until you find courage to really take the ride. But even then the cycle doesn`t stop here. It is beautiful, no?!

Yes, we must learn to let go before anything else, just unwind and glide because nobody ever walked on foot to meet epiphany.

What?! You wonder that epiphany can come out of dementia, that creeping crawling little insignificant thoughts can lead you to great discoveries about yourself and the world. Impossible?

No. Very possible. All it takes is a leap of faith. And courage.

The Board of Simplicity

2009-06-01T10:09:00.001-07:00

There are many a things that befuddle me. Life would be one of them. Ice skating would be another but then again who really gives a crap.

I am strangely amused by opera, disgusted by the news, horrified of the youth and simply put off by the new whiff of pseudo-intellectuality that is jamming the brainwaves of our hive mind consciousness as of late.

But enough about things that don`t really matter.

While hallucinating on fever, sitting in a place with a pair of green coloured shades in a dark room with another guy, discussing chess, the alignment of planets and such, drinking tea and not really giving a crap, I had what some may call a revelation.

A lighting of a celestial idea light bulb if you will. It wasn`t necessarily biblical but I guess it might have been mystical due to the fact that for some odd reason I was seeing prancing pink unicorns. Anywayz. There it was. It had come to me.

Or I had arrived to it. Or we had met somewhere in between. But moving on...

In that slight daze I had come upon the sudden realization that a lot of things in life don`t really matter. Still, how much we may try, even the most inconsequential thing takes up oh so much of the little time we have to spend on Planet Human.

Therefore it had occurred to me that we lack guidance or comme il faut, our madness lacks method.

I am proud to say that I have come up with one. A method not a madness.

It is a simple method, using a simple tool to arrive at a simple outcome which will simplify our complications aka lives.

The method is SIMPLICITY. The tool is a BOARD. A BOARD OF SIMPLICITY.

So now we have the method and the tool und what do we do now ja?

This board of simplicity is special. Only simple ( and I don`t mean simple as in "dumb", I mean simple as in straightforward, uncomplicated etc.) things adhere to it. Anything that is too complicated will fall off leaving you with the simple things. The things you need to take care of in order to save up time for just living live.

The Board of Simplicity is free and totally simple. It is my gift to humanity. Try it out some time.

Just throw things at it. What sticks - sticks. What doesn`t - doesn`t really matter too much.

Batteries not included.

The Board of Simplicity is an IMMAGINATIVE TOOL. It does not exist. It is abstract. If you do not posess the mental abillity to fabricate one (anybody can fabricate one if given a sufficient amount of intellect) then you are fucked.

Try out my Board of Simplcity. It works! And it`s free!!!

Bob Dylan, the Devil, Robert Johnson, music and the Metatron

2009-05-06T01:48:00.000-07:00

Music. Now music is seemingly something very abstract. An abstract art. Not the but a abstract art. Mathematical. Numerological. Complicated.

Simple question - Where does music come from? I`ve tried to answer a million times and I simply cannot get it. How did it spawn? Cause it is not "song" like in bird song, bird talk. It is not communication. More a sort of transcendence. Transcendental. Does it come from you know who? No?! Probably not. Then where the fuck does it come from?

I simply cannot answer but that might be because I am simple and I`m not in the mood for intellectual reasoning and some Wikipedia article. I`m going for the instinctive vibe here.

I am truly flabbergasted by music. By the simple and unexplainable fact that it exists. Fuck the reason for why we exist. Who made the world, the universe, who invented masturbation and fellatio, is there a or more or none or some or whatever gods and such and why and what and where?!

Bullshit. Why do we have music? Why?

Moving on. There are also certain types of music. And I`m not talking genres here. I`m talking straight through the middle black and white, simple partition. Not good and bad. That is ultimately bullshit and also some crappy superstition a bunch of people invented to convince themselves that some killing or exploiting another group of people was okay because they were "the bad" people. There are just people. Good and bad are overrated and invalid concepts.

Anywayz.

I`m talking music that matters and music that does not matter. Nothing general, simply personal stuff. Music you resonate to and music you do not resonate to. The celestial connection if you will, the transcendental element or the lack thereof.

So, there are two types of music. The one that matters and the one that does not matter to you particularly. The one you listen to and the one you only hear.

It`s the difference between listening to the universe singing to a tune and hearing some commercial band. There can be no contest.

Now. Music, abstractly, exists all over, yet it has to be materialized, through instruments and musicians and through musicians playing their instruments.

We will refer to a simple instrument, a basic one, not among the first but thereabouts. The guitar, the lute, the whatever. A string instrument with some strings and a resonating chamber.

A most versatile and seemingly easy to master instrument. But enought about the guitar.

Now the guitarist. The musician playing the guitar. And that sort of music that makes your whole body tremble.

It is the closest music there is to whatever. But not just the music. Also, the words. And more than that, the voice. The voice. Not a voice. The voice. That voice. It`s like listening the rings of Saturn singing. It is celestial. Not many musicians have the voice. But some do.

Now I`m not really sure about the whole heavenly messenger thing but... when listening to some musicians playing their instrument and singing, you begin to wonder. You begin to wonder who the fuck was dabbling in the whole thing because in some there is something that is uncanny to say the least.

Two quick examples - Robert Johnson, a negro blues guitarist and Bob Dylan. Who would of thought?! Their voices suck, but the way they sing, now that is something else. They have the voice, that voice. Almost independent of themselves. Just hear them sing. It`s nothing you can put your finger on but it is there and it is godlike or devil like or whatever, but it is supernatural.

They were messengers. Of nothing important. Just of something, no matter what.

And where the fuck did music come from?

Here`s another guy.

Skin Cancer and Fluffy Bunnies

2009-05-06T01:34:00.000-07:00

Yes, we are slowly losing it. Yes. Just the other day I noticed, the sun is getting hotter. Hotter than last year, hotter than 2 years ago. Just hotter. Hotter and hotter. It burns the skin. Fuck global warming, economic crisys, warfare, stupidity, racism and all the other crap.

I am beginning to fear that I might be getting skin cancer. Don`t ask why, I just know, okay! Skin cancer is not something you`d want to get because it is nasty. But enough about my frequent attacks of paranoia.

Let us get into the real gist of things which is "... and fluffy bunnies". Well what about fluffy bunnies? Do you like fluffy bunnies? Do fluffy bunnies like you? Fluffy do bunnies like you or them or do they not fluffy wise bunny like you them or what?

Excuse me.

I just don`t like the idea of skin cancer. I don`t really have anything to say against fluffy bunnies except that they are damn too fluffy. You just can`t trust a fluffy thing like that. Not in this day and age. It would be... wrong!

Skin cancer is the fluffy bunny of cancers or skin is the fluffy and bunny is the cancer... or does it go the other way around?! Hm. I am facing a hypothetical mental conundrum coupled with my deep seeded fear that the world will end. Also I am afraid of skin cancer and the sun.

More of the sun than of the cancer. Beware! I`m pretty sure that if you don`t like cancer, cancer certainly won`t like you.

Word of advice - start wearing sunscreen, hope for Christmas and keep a sharp eye. Skin cancer could be everywhere, hiding behind a fluffy bunny.

Fuck! It could be a fluffy bunny!

Help!

Relishing the sun, keeping to the shade

2009-03-06T01:24:00.000-08:00

First there's whatever you bring with you and then there's what you get and then there's what you leave behind. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck. Sun and rain and heat and warmth and cold and darkness and night, stars and moon. It spins and it spins and for whatever the reason may be, they are eternal and untouchable.

Then's there's the perennial but that does not last as long as it takes to invent the word for it. And everything shifts again, eternally and forever in the motion ingrained on this earth spinning around a stone set on fire by light, which dims and rises and sinks and buzzes, all surrounded by nothingness which is the lack of light i.e. dark.

Relax... It's always the way you'll never figure out it's gonna be. That's why life is. And it is life. And it is beautiful. And short. So just feel.

The vile stench of premeditated stupidity

2009-01-30T09:04:00.001-08:00

There is nothing more bland and idiotic than opinion on this godforsaken angstfilled planet. And those opinionated nazi-fucks that generate, breed, pray and spill blood for the god of opinion are the lowest forms of life that exist on this earth.

But what is more mind numbing, suffocating and absolutely absurd is that this ilk of humanity that spurns me into regurgitation reflex is the fact that they believe with all their heart that opinion actually matters.

Well it doesn`t matter. It never does, it never will. Because it is only an opinion, a side-story, a variant of the truth, a perspective.

It is a piece of the fucking puzzle, it is not the ultimate truth, it is only an opinion. Nothing more, nothing less.

Opinion is semantics. Common sense, now that`s something completely different. But the fuckers who pray to Opinion don`t give a fuck about common sense, because they don`t have any. Never had, never will have, because the`re too deep in the cess pool of semi-intelectual self-determination to actually give a fuck anymore. Plus it`s easier to just be opinionated than just be common sensical abou things. It`s just not original enough anymore.

So... Opinion is stupid. Common sense is common sense. Fuck this!

There be no free rides on this bus tonight!

2008-04-13T09:26:00.000-07:00

There comes a time in every man's life when his lack of perspective and lust of dreary and dissipated ranting dissolves into the rotten banter that would make any dickensian phrase resemble the leviathanic drudgery of a mobyie dickye quest, with a peg leg and a tatooed oceanian, whatever that may mean.

Hark Mr. Strabuck the turning of the tide, and make it a double latte at that, the moon ist half'd ris'n from the froth of potential and we're all betwixt the legs of the great whore, just before the monthly flood. Man the harpoons and the starboard boughs of all the ships that lay the oceans dry, look to the nooks and crannies for the ratbastards that run from the batlles, envisage our confrontations to come and be the conflagrations however they may be, there ain't gonna be no curtains, see?!

Now my lullies, sit you down for the great stories of our dearlies departed, our own neverwas's and should-a ought-a -a- sort-a have-a beens that never sparked the spark, walked or planked walkings in the pre-planted, post-apocalyptic ramblings or otherwise initiated contact with the great bitcheries of our times.

There be no heroes to talk of, no great deeds to be remembered, just a blinding grind of mediocrity and a few late bank payments, some back pay and a bad case of the internets.

We're not talking human degradation here, we are not discussing the great tribulations of planet human in the great massive and otherwise neverbeforeseenheardordiscussed plan that is apparently ruling the greater scheme of things and certain animal copulation videos on a late thursday evening on animal planet.

This is not your average pseudointelectual discussion about how fucked, depraved, steroid driven and psychotic the pseudo-apocalypse of the interrupted development of planet human really is, but rather the total, complete and totally useless failure said apocalypse hath brought upon our feeble hiveminds.

Forget our tuned-in inertia, the low self-esteems we project to wield our "specialness" in everybody's face like a pachidermic cock of epic proportions, never-before seen since before the Great Flood.

This is an epic example of bullshit and the many ways it can be spawned by simply aboding on planet human and taking some time from the compulsory grind for some complementary you-time.

But back to our sea-dwelling mammals and the instant crude realization of our man confounded by his shallow and inane melvillian uproar to be found on the wrong end of a beer bottle.

Exploring the filth that breeds the human soul he hath come to yonder contemplation that might yet spark the remnants of his brain into guerrilla action, since all of his neuronic minions expired due to in-fighting that spurted into complete and utter bi-polar warfare: there ain't no meaning to nothing.

Onwards then on the great tides of our small insignificant deserts we circumnavigate, yay alas!
the earth be just a piece o paper, flat as the hairy chests of the mermaids of Wherever.

Distraught and yet satisfied to spell said realization without help from glorious God and trusty spellchecker, exit our hero from the planes of outer reality an enter he that is, to the crude and barren kafeneion surroundings of however possible synthethized alter-reality alter-ego , but only on certain days when he's feeling mildly psychotic, bliss.

After a double-decker absynth, anys and anason, some shady cigarettes from crazy looking frenchy drunk people that juggle fire for no particular reason other than the fact that they simply must, we discover him, hapless and unloved traveler on the poorly mapped road to bliss or any other sort of legal and available sexual gratification, in a bit of a rut, a sisyphical pattern that might present his newly found interest in engaging loss of potential.

But being stout at heart, having a weak liver and a whimsical bladder, rest assured his sullen countenance shall not last long and he will move forward on his declared road to self definition.

Yet, he is aware he must face the challenges, the anguishes and other sorts of depraved banter from neurotic, pilled-up lunatics, eccentric visual artists and other such parafianlialists of the great shit peddling that are the post-modern arts.

Forget the nay-sayers, your usually sexually confused humans that gobble up club culture and stalk the post-modern night like sexless vampires deprived of the most commonest of human decencies, the feministas and the strange people that gather over a vodka to discuss Nietzsche, the benign sexual predators and their asking-for-it-underaged-yet-apparently-versed victims, the school kids, the drunks that always fell the need to engage in conversation, the i'm-pissing-in-public-because-i'm-cool-and-misunderstood-and-i'm-
going-to-say-hello-to-you-even-if-i-don't-know-who-the-fuck
-you-are-let-alone-who-the-fuck-i-am-even-though-miction-is-obviously-dripping-on-my-tousers
kinda people, the photographers and fuck really knows what kind of deranged teens that walk the earth and chew on permanent markers because they can't afford their sister's pussy pills or because the falling DOW took a chunk of their investment package.

I'm talking real monsters here, the bad kind, the monsters that are socially approved, the upside-down-nutters, the fruit-cakes, the dark side of the arts, the tutti-fruttians and their surrealistic gala of sexual fantasies and misunderstood motherhood ideal, the yoga taking, vegetabla eating while on crack and talking about their childhood through an african tribal dance performance while wearing a butt-plug for the sake of the arts nutters.

But as Chaplin put it quite eloquently: there musten be einen sacrifitz! we musten tighten die belten!

So suck it in, man with really bad, graphical diarrheea, have a beer, have a smoke, readen sie den melville und den dickensian shait, taken sie den bussen home, forget about it.

Planet Human! Up Yours!

We be typing alone in the dark here.