Part Toe-Nain

Random Facebook status of some friends

... dead and broken
... is trying hard not to revert to zombie mode..braaaains
... is in 2.0
... needs a fucking cigarette
... is putting a hand out to people he lost in the past
... est à Paris
... is baking Kerupuk
... seems to be broken. Please contact manufacturer.
... told you so
... thinks there's love in the bodies of elephants too
... touched God in full explosion
... is looking for inner fucking peace
... is fucked
... is hungry for brainfood
... is in Lana Turner's villa enjoying Liz Taylor's company
... has issues with 'patience'


... thinks that life is great

Part Toe-Eyth

Part Toe-Sephenn

I'm dancing with the pink-lipped harlequin. We're in a field of poppies, burning bright. Sometimes he bites, he growls, he snorts haughtily, but I cling to his shoulders and try to keep in rhythm. In his diamond-patterned costume I assume he has knives hidden, but that's only a thought, we're swirling so fast I could never check. We stop. We step apart and look at each other. His disapproving glare puts tears in my eyes. I'm not a very good dancer, I'm not fast enough for him. I show him my picture of Madame Blavatsky and for a moment I seem to have his attention.

'Stand your ground chief,' the phantom ape says, 'stand your ground.'

He takes a knife out of his vest pocket and throws it at my feet.
'I'm not a saint', I say, 'and I can be a coward at times, unable to move.'
He looks at me, puzzled. I keep talking.
'I can be very forgiving, but I don't easily forget. And I'm edgy. I'm too sensitive. I pick up other people's moods too easily. I require lengthy explanations for things that shouldn't be explained in the first place, and yet I still wonder what is going on. I hear something, twist it around and then twist some more until I can't sleep at night and start shaking. I'm not acting very confident. My brain doesn't function like other people's, and that I experience things differently, so naturally I turn to others for guidance, and I trust, I believe, I dive in, but what if they're wrong? I'm a taciturn man, I'm an observer. I notice little things and changes around me. I skip the bigger picture and focus on the details. I'm mindful of the way things are said. The tone of voice, the matter in, the choice of words, details that are left out, but I can't trust my observations. They're coloured, I project too much into them, it all turns out clumsy and ambivalent. There's no more black and white left, everything's gray and shrouded. No more clear options, just choices you make to get to the next day. The grounding's gone. No words etched in stone, just acting on impulses and spilling out random thoughts. By every choice I make right now, my entire life changes. All I have is myself to rely on ultimately, and I can't trust my own twisted version of subjective reality. It is your fault, isn't it? You are doing this to me. These little games you are fond of playing.'
The pink-lipped harlequin takes the picture of Madame Blavatsky out of my hand .
'Are you going to take that away from me? You can't, you see. I need that picture. I was just showing you so you would understand. So you would see her eyes and understand. She knows and she's always looking. She can see right through all the chaos and nonsensical rubbish. Without her looking I'd be lost.'
He grins, folds the picture and puts it into his vest pocket.
'Naturally. It's all variations to the same theme. I'm going now, someone's waiting for me at the edge of the field. At least, he said he would. I sometimes doubt he will, but that's another story. I'm still going. Please give back the picture.'
The pink-lipped harlequin turns away his head and I silently start marching to the end of the field.

Distant Voices: Friedrich Nietzsche

Let us face ourselves. We are Hyperboreans; we know very well how far off we live. “Neither by land nor by sea will you find the way to the Hyperboreans"—Pindar already knew this about us. Beyond the north, ice, and death—our life, our happiness. We have discovered happiness, we know the way, we have found the exit out of the labyrinth of thousands of years. Who else has found it? Modern man perhaps? “I have got lost; I am everything that has got lost,” sighs modern man.
This modernity was our sickness: lazy peace, cowardly compromise, the whole virtuous uncleanliness of the modern Yes and No. This tolerance and largeur of the heart, which “forgives” all because it “understands” all, is sirocco for us. Rather live in the ice than among modern virtues and other south winds!
We were intrepid enough, we spared neither ourselves nor others; but for a long time we did not know where to turn with our intrepidity. We became gloomy, we were called fatalists. Our fatum—the abundance, the tension, the damming of strength. We thirsted for lightning and deeds and were most remote from the happiness of the weakling, “resignation.” In our atmosphere was a thunderstorm; the nature we are became dark—for we saw no way. Formula for our happiness: a Yes, a No, a straight line, a goal.

- The Antichrist