Monday, August 22, 2011
Thursday, August 18, 2011
20/03/2010 – 18/08/2011
Aalasyam amrutham visham. Non compus mentis. I’m like a fish out of water. 28°C in Sevilla! Thanks people (even Kath) for the birthday wishes. I say; eschew obfuscation, espouse elucidation. I’m confronting the maze of the blank page. Several billion trillion tons of superhot exploding hydrogen nuclei rose slowly above the horizon and managed to look small, cold and slightly damp. I’m the proud godfather of Amélia! It's psychosomatic. You need a lobotomy. I'll get a saw. Am I the peaceful phlegmatic? Unruffled. You’re softer than a pillow...stuffed with bunnies! The Pentabarf IS the most fundamental of all Discordian catma! Who knew you have to get x-rays for a job interview? I am seriously catching up with my translations. Swimming upstream and getting tired. I got the job, training starts the 21st. True Blood. Synergy. Training is over (praise Jebus), moving on to internship. I’m Resourcing the humans. Tomorrow is my last day of internship and after reunited with my man! Magus. Vampire diarrhoea. One roll for the whole shebang. Flat hunting. Getting the keys in 20 minutes! Filling boxes. 1 day, 18 hours, 23 minutes and 10 seconds. Dafarhinihibicolludol mix. Living together. 12 chapters, 8 stages, 7 characters - 1 novel. Tango with Blavatsky. The sudden access to panic experienced by one who realises that he is being drawn inexorably into a conversation from which one has no hope of enjoying, benefiting from or understanding. Waiting for books to arrive. Dancing to the wrong tune. NYC. Wicked on Broadway. Last hours in Manhattan. Rain in Antwerp. Say what? Kotek san.
"Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."
It's all downhill from here. Djindobre, mjeskam w belgie, nje moevje po polsku. Moevish po angielsku? Chsiaubim koepitsj chepwe paptche na zjime. Djenkoeje! Is sad to leave lovely Poznan. Light your torches, sharpen your pitchforks and get your mob on. Last day of work this year. Escape from Bellcrataz. Poker & chili con carne. Do not watch TV. Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.
Guildenstern: Consider: One, probability is a factor which operates *within* natural forces. Two, probability is *not* operating as a factor. Three, we are now held within un-, sub- or super-natural forces. Discuss.
Rosencrantz: What?
Kitten wanted. PIXEL. Thanks everyone for the wishes and the great birthday weekend! Confounding variables. In London. Lost in the maze without a ball of thread. Is again Uncle Bard; welcome to the family Matthias. I was warned about not having hot water, but no water at all makes me cranky. It is terrible to destroy a person's picture of himself in the interests of truth or some other abstraction. Can’t wait for tomorrow. Needs hiking gear. A weekend in Budapest. Almost. Brussels-Berlin-Poznan. I Survived the Tatra Mountains. I’m back in Antwerp. I was blown to pieces by Melancholia. Rush of empathy.
"Don’t bend; don’t water it down; don’t try to make it logical; don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."
It's all downhill from here. Djindobre, mjeskam w belgie, nje moevje po polsku. Moevish po angielsku? Chsiaubim koepitsj chepwe paptche na zjime. Djenkoeje! Is sad to leave lovely Poznan. Light your torches, sharpen your pitchforks and get your mob on. Last day of work this year. Escape from Bellcrataz. Poker & chili con carne. Do not watch TV. Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.
Guildenstern: Consider: One, probability is a factor which operates *within* natural forces. Two, probability is *not* operating as a factor. Three, we are now held within un-, sub- or super-natural forces. Discuss.
Rosencrantz: What?
Kitten wanted. PIXEL. Thanks everyone for the wishes and the great birthday weekend! Confounding variables. In London. Lost in the maze without a ball of thread. Is again Uncle Bard; welcome to the family Matthias. I was warned about not having hot water, but no water at all makes me cranky. It is terrible to destroy a person's picture of himself in the interests of truth or some other abstraction. Can’t wait for tomorrow. Needs hiking gear. A weekend in Budapest. Almost. Brussels-Berlin-Poznan. I Survived the Tatra Mountains. I’m back in Antwerp. I was blown to pieces by Melancholia. Rush of empathy.
Like a Hook into an Eye
I don’t know which is worse, a past I can't regain or a present that will destroy me if I look at it too clearly. Then there's the future. Sheer vertigo. Loving you blurred my vision; but now that you’re not here, I can now see more clearly than ever. It's like the tide going out, revealing whatever's been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing I see if I sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin I’ve made. Still, you fit into me, like a hook into an eye. I can’t tell you where it hurts. I can’t calm down. I can never stop howling.
I wonder which is preferable, to walk around all your life swollen up with your own secrets until you burst from the pressure of them, or to have them sucked out of you, every paragraph, every sentence, every word of them, so at the end you're depleted of all that was once as precious to you as hoarded gold, as close to you as your skin - everything that was of the deepest importance to you, everything that made you cringe and wish to conceal, everything that belonged to you alone - and must spend the rest of your days like an empty sack flapping in the wind, an empty sack branded with a bright fluorescent label so that everyone will know what sort of secrets used to be inside you?
When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
I wonder which is preferable, to walk around all your life swollen up with your own secrets until you burst from the pressure of them, or to have them sucked out of you, every paragraph, every sentence, every word of them, so at the end you're depleted of all that was once as precious to you as hoarded gold, as close to you as your skin - everything that was of the deepest importance to you, everything that made you cringe and wish to conceal, everything that belonged to you alone - and must spend the rest of your days like an empty sack flapping in the wind, an empty sack branded with a bright fluorescent label so that everyone will know what sort of secrets used to be inside you?
When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
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