Sunday, June 25, 2006

Part Fore

My five goddesses speak to me, all in their different voices.

The first is the one I cling to the most, she comes to in her in shining golden armour, holding her cigarette in one hand, a German dictionary in the other. “I give counsel to my people to respect neither anarchy nor despotism,” she says to me in her soothing sensual voice. I listen attentively, then we both laugh and eat strawberries.

The second one is always smiling. We walk over to her little cottage. She’s sitting at her porch and says: “A vegetable garden in the beginning looks so promising and then after all little by little it grows nothing but vegetables, nothing, nothing but vegetables.” A poodle runs by, and we hide inside the house. I notice that her bracelet has been caught by her doorknob. As she untangles her precarious situation, I take a peep inside her bedroom. No bed.

The third one walks by and she/he yells out: “This is earth, isn’t it hot?” We make some Bombay Bash and drink drink drink. We put on our sunglasses and try to look bored although we’re having a great time. Boredom looks cool and interesting. We’re brooding, and we’re hot.

My fourth goddess leans over. “Last night you were, unhinged. You were like some desperate, howling demon. You frightened me… Do it again,” she whispers in my ear. I take off my clothes, run into the vegetable garden and howl at the moon. The goddesses watch me.

I sink unto the ground, naked and exhausted, when the last goddess walks over to me, and wraps me into a large blanket. “When the self speaks to the self, who is speaking?” They all vanish, and again I’m left alone. No matter, I can manage without them. For now at least.

The naked lycanthrope, still wrapped inside his blanket, steps into the arena, ready to face the two-headed beast from East London. A woman in the audience faints. A terrible ruckus. The queen calls for order. The two-headed beast withdraws itself from the fight. I win!

I dedicate this fight to my mystical friend. All my love to you, my friend, all my love.

Part Tree

I’m drinking a cup of coffee in a small cafe in the centre of Moscow. It’s cold, so I’m wearing fur. I think it’s mink, but it could be fox. The horses come running by, I hear the barking of the dogs in the distance. I have my bronze horn in hand, but I refuse to blow it. I take a sip of my coffee and write an amazing poem on the tablecloth. Sadly, the fierce cold wind blows it away. Lucebert walks by, throws a glass of water in my face, and changes into a baboon.

“You crazy baboon,” I yell but to no avail. I shouldn’t be in the mad jungles of Africa, while my lover is fighting for his saucy life on the front! I should be standing next to him, calling out the Germans and giving Bush the finger. Get more political. Don’t think, just walk. Do it in style. Look fabulous and get your act together. The future is now. You have to want to kill to have that latest mp3-player. PSP, that sort of thing. Take more GHB, boost your performance. Efexor Excell, Risperdal, vitamin shakes and loads of nicotine, that will wake me up. I have to read more books and buy expensive hair products. I need to shine. The baboon ran away. I could go after him or push the escape button. I push the button, change my mind, and run after the baboon. I catch up, write him a cheque ‘for sensual massage’ and wait for Thatcher to show up, so I can look up her skirt.

I’m falling down the rabbit hole again.

Are people out to get you?
Does the TV show you special messages just for you?
Do you think something alien has entered your body?
Do you have supernatural powers?
Do you hear voices?
Can you still feel?
Do you hate other human beings?
Are you often alone?
Can you still remember what you did an hour ago?

All baboons have long dog-like muzzles (cynocephalus = dog-head), close-set eyes, heavy powerful jaws, thick fur except on their muzzle, a short tail and rough spots on their rear-ends, called ischial callosities. These callouses are nerveless, hairless pads of skin which provide for the sitting comfort of the baboon. Baboons cannot mate with rabbits, but are known to eat them on some occasions, mainly the olive baboon, perhaps the most ferocious of all baboons. When two people, or in this case a rabbit and a baboon, are attracted to each other, a virtual explosion of adrenaline-like neurochemicals gush forth. Fireworks explode and we see stars. Phenylethylamine is being spread around like crazy. Their love however, is doomed.

Hush. The weatherman is making an announcement. ‘Monday morning we will experience a morning without sun, without clouds, without rain and the earth will stop spinning for about five seconds. That is all.’

Suddenly I miss Kiki, my old pet frog. Kiki ….what ever happened to you, old pal?

Part Toe

I treat people like playthings sometimes, it’s my inner child combined with my inner megalomaniac psychopath. People are toys. They can get out of fashion, like he-man or the teenage mutant ninja turtles, or remain classics like barbie or lego. Sometimes they break, sometimes they get misplaced. No worries, I can always buy more toys. Rauchen kann zu einem langsamen und schmerzhaften Tod führen. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it? I don’t treat people like toys, it’s really the other way around. Or upside down.

And now, a dialogue between Ursula von Schakkebrück and Sir Gaylord Ulafsonn

Ursula: My fanny is bleeding.
Gaylord: Not my bloody problem.
Ursula: :)
Gaylord: :)
Ursula: I love you.
Gaylord: Suck my balls then.

I’m sure Broadway would love to have me. Speaking of Persian, the Old Persian of the Achaemenian Empire, preserved in a number of cuneiform inscriptions, was an Indo-European tongue with close affinities with Sanskrit and Avestan (the language of the Zoroastrian sacred texts). After the fall of the Achaemenians the ancient tongue developed, in the province of Pars, into Middle Persian or Pahlavi (a name derived from Parthavi - that is, Parthian). Pahlavi was used throughout the Sassanian period, though little now remains of what must once have been a considerable literature. About a hundred Pahlavi texts survive, mostly on religion and all in prose. Pahlavi collections of romances, however, provided much of the material for Ferdowsi's Shahnameh. After the Arab conquest a knowledge of Arabic became necessary, for it was not only the language of the new rulers and their state, but of the religion they brought with them and - later - of the new learning. Though Pahlavi continued to be spoken in private life, Arabic was dominant in official circles for a century and a half. With the weakening of the central power, a modified form of Pahlavi emerged, with its Indo-European grammatical structure intact but simplified, and with a large infusion of Arabic words. What’s that Skippy? You dig it? Right on, Skippy. Right on.

I dedicate my second page to M. Robotgnome, The Panama Girl, Miss Smartypants 2004, Ron Thunder, Ramona, The Black Widow, Mr. Doodoohead, Kimberly, Limpy Toe Bastard, King Pornos, Señor Pépé, Legs-in-the-air, The Bongoman, the on/off button, Fab Glamshine, the good people of Aldi, Tita Tovenaar, The Voice of Gawd and of course the alien ballerina that danced off a cliff, we’ll always remember you hun.

Always check your pockets for change. You know, the world has always had arrivistes, at least since the Neanderthals were raised from their evolutionary slumbers by the advent of homo sapiens from Africa. No longer was it enough to sit around all day picking the lice from your nearest and dearest and grumbling about the problems of getting a decent meal in a world full of saber tooth tigers with a brain only marginally bigger than a household dog. Suddenly you needed kit. To begin with it was fire. Then it was a hunting sword. Then it was nifty set of religious beliefs than entitled you to kill anyone who stood in your way. Then it was a short skirt, a collection of philosophers, a nubile rent boy for duty and a watermelon for ecstasy, the Olympic games and a theatre. Athens came and Athens went, and it did okay for a while, but to be honest with you, it was never going to last. Socrates believed in argument. He didn't believe in possessions. Plato believed in Socrates. He believed in him so wholeheartedly he forgot that he was an angry dwarf who forgot to actually write any books. Za bazar otvetish.

And now, a reflection by Hans Verhagen: “Normally, all parts of the body grow to a certain point and then they stop. The nose does not continue to grow indefinitely. Imagine then, that suddenly one part begins to grow beyond its normal limits. For no apparent reason.”

Part Won

Once, there were little buggies, little one-celled creatures that could bump about and smell a few chemical changes in their world of organic soup. “This is all there is to be known,” they declared, and went about their contended existence, absorbing and dividing, absorbing and dividing, and making a lot more of themselves. But a radical few somehow knew there was more out there than proteins and amino acid chains. They could sense it in their cilia, feel it in their flagella and know it in their nucleus. They could not prove it, but they knew there was more to be known about What Is Out There. Though most of the bacteriological community rejected this radical thesis and thought them mad, a precious few wanted to lift the veil on the rest of the universe. So they put their potentially eternal life on the line and, in fear and hot water, they organized themselves into multiple-celled critters. In that transcendent moment they OPENED THEIR FIRST EYE!

Not an actual eyeball of course, but a collection of real, working nerves. Good move! Now they could FEEL their connection to the chemical soup that swarmed about them and knew far more about What Is Out There. This gave them a tremendous advantage over the sense-less ones, whom they ate. The dark, quiet, still, flavorless pool of slight chemical variation became an active sensory bath of pinches, bumps and strokes. Quite inflamed by this new flood of data, the nematode nation invented sex. Another good move, because not only did they multiply like crazy, but in that magic moment of frenzied fornication, they also came into contact with a quiet feeling deep within their nerve clusters. There was still more to know! Though the rest of the worms scoffed and called them mad, the pioneering few concentrated their nerves in the direction of the faint, faint, impossibly faint stimulus that beckoned to them and, in a transcendent moment, OPENED THEIR SECOND EYE!

Light! Sound! Color motion pictures! Good move again! More of the universe unfolded, a sensual cornucopia of information about What Is Out There and their connection to it; and they gorged themselves on it – eating, reproducing and watching 500 channels of cable TV. One frenzy of sensual fun later, the organic soup was filled with these Children of the Organized Nerve Cluster. Though deep within their ganglia they knew there was more to be known, most of them made the mistake their single-celled ancestors made so long ago. They scoffed at the notion that there was more to be known and any more ways of knowing it, and called any dissenters madmen. Well sir, a pioneering few again concentrated their awareness on the still, sweet sound that lay across the chasm of sensory awareness, stirred something somewhere within the recesses of the glandular system and, in a transcendent moment, OPENED THEIR THIRD EYE!

Good move yet again! They received messages and sensory information unknown to the average cow or market analyst and just as hard to explain to them as it is to explain trigonometry to a meal worm. They took another quantum leap forward in knowledge about What Is Out There and their ineffable connection to it. But the rest of the cows and market analysts call them mad. Well, twenty-three zillion bacteria said the same thing a hundred million years ago. And guess where they are today? They’re still bacteria! So I say to you, be mad! Be willing to be insane before the rest of the world. Wear your individual madness proudly! Overcome the tyranny of your current neurological input devices, and TAKE LEAVE OF YOUR SENSES!

Hubris! Talk talk talk, nothing but talk. I’m writing in Times New Roman 10, because somehow I feel these ramblings don’t deserve a fancy font and I like these words to stay small, if they were bigger I feel I could feel like not-writing anymore. I always stop writing at some point. For instance, this paragraph above was not written just now, I just wanted something to fill this page, because an empty sheet is too confronting. The paragraph above are the words of a Malkavian. If you don’t know what a Malkavian is, don’t bother trying to figure it out. Someone has written to me today that I’m different, that I somehow miss the code.

At least, I think that was what he said. How dare he suggest that there is a code, and that I lack knowledge of that code (if there is one). Nonsense, is what Alice said to the caterpillar. No she didn’t, but it sounds like something Alice would say, that cheeky little monster. After the code incident, someone wrote ‘spooooky’ and stopped there. The reason for me writing this down, if there is any, is that I –tonight- feel that I should pay more attention to what people say to me. Not what they mean or what I think they mean, or assume they mean, but to their actual words. The words they utter to me, without reflection on my part. I really believe I will become more neurotic if I keep this up. Already I feel more anal. I feel like I should complain more. This is what most people write about, isn’t it?

Their complaints, their ennui, how lost they feel in society, how everyone is against them and most importantly: how misunderstood they are. I really hate that, it’s just too boring. See, humor. Feel free to use it in everyday life. Today I told my professor I was feeling self-destructive. He laughed and gave me an excellent grade. I was confused, but somehow feeling happier. I could draw conclusions out of this particular event, but I won’t. Oh look at that, I’m near the end of page one, isn’t that great.

Finished already? That’s alright, I’ll borrow this idea. Daring sword fight included.