Wednesday, May 02, 2012

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Lab Rats

Today I am (again) talking about a lab rat named Alfred. He lives in a cage with another lab rat named Josephine.

Alfred: Josephine?
Josephine: Yes Alfred?
Alfred: Not trying to read you or anything but you look sickening today. Naomi-Cambell-realness girl.
Josephine: I’M FROM CHI-CA-GO! pause BITCH! snaps finger in a Z formation
Alfred: Josephine?
Josephine: Yes Alfred?
Alfred: Learn to take a compliment.

Josephine starts gnawing at her leg, while Alfred stares at a random spot in the distance.

Josephine: Name your top three of favourite mice
Alfred: Well, there’s Mickey of course, and The Brain…and then there’s that one with the human ear on his back.
Josephine: Oh yeah, he’s amazing. But don’t forget Ren.
Alfred: I’m pretty sure he’s a chihuahua.
Josephine: Uh. Well, that does explain a few things.
Alfred: That one mouse from Ratatouille…
Josephine: Gay.
Alfred: So gay.
Josephine: We sure are lucky our cage is close to the TV and that those scientist types love watching cartoons.
Alfred: What are they researching anyway?
Josephine: Once a week they measure my tail.
Alfred: They’ve never measured my tail.
Josephine: Well… awkward silence I wouldn’t worry about that, really, who cares right?

Suddenly, a third rat with a freakishly long tail is placed in their cage. He stares coldly at Alfred and Josephine. For no apparent reason.

Alfred: Erm, you know him?
Josephine: Who?
Alfred: This guy. He’s right there. I’m pretty sure he can hear me.
Josephine: pretends not to see the other rat So, anyway, all you need basically is a car battery and some candles, and then you take...
Alfred: Josephine, stop. What’s going on here?
Josephine: You’re being replaced.
Alfred: scared What?
Josephine: Yeah, he’s gonna snap your neck like a twig.

Fade out.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Another revolution? Yeah sure, I guess...

Most of history was just folks passing time, waiting for the internet to be invented.

Tuesday, March 06, 2012

The Easy Life

Is it an attainable goal? Should it even be a goal? I think I could be happy with a structured life; the same job, the same man, the same holiday each year. Double-dating, dinner parties, pets, it all seem wonderfully comfortable. Then there’s the other side, the feeling of loss of possibilities. The restriction somehow. But also, that uncontrollable fear of fucking it up. Hard. When we build something, it can also be torn down and more often than not we (subconsciously) do the tearing down ourselves. Is it out of selfishness? It seems most people are able to let go of their individual ambition and live simply smothered under drudgery. But what if I’m an Epsilon wishing to be an Alpha? I know a guy (don’t we all) who has the luxury to do what he loves doing, doesn’t have to worry about money, he can be completely free to do whatever he wants and he’s still complaining about how life could be better. It’s something completely natural, we will always want something else than what we have. In that regard, you know it will never change. Why not chose drudgery; some recreational drugs, regular sex, poker night with the guys and just accept the fact that you cannot live your own life (as you wanted it) to the end. Very few people can. Despite all those inspirational slogans slapping us in the face wherever we look, we’d mostly just rather sit back with a beer then go out to chase our dreams. With all the daily crap we have to deal with, who has energy for that? Life is an uncomfortable cocktail party that no one wanted to attend in the first place. Some people are just standing closer to the bar than others.

Friday, February 24, 2012


Adj. 1. deeply involved especially in something complicated
Adj. 2. twisted together in a tangled mass
Adj. 3. involved in difficulties

Monday, February 13, 2012

the owls are not what they seem

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Yet there are those who open many eyes. Eyes are the mirror of the soul, someone has said. So we look closely at the eyes to see the nature of the soul. Sometimes when we see the eyes - those horrible times when we see the eyes, eyes that ... that have no soul - then we know a darkness, then we wonder: where is the beauty? There is none if the eyes are soulless.

Thursday, February 09, 2012

Dream Journal: Toe

This is a recurring dream. I've had it maybe 5-6 times over the course of several years.

I mockingly call this dream ‘Satan’s Little Helper’ because of the transparent Hell-motive. Transcribed above is what happened the first time I had this dream. I’ve had it several times since and always remembered I had been in this situation before, so I adapted. I only adapted in making the ‘job’ easier for myself, not by refusing the ‘job’ or going off course in any way. Somehow, that seems impossible. I cannot describe enough in words how absolutely terrifying this dream is, to the degree that I’m happy I don’t believe in Hell. The worst part is being alone; there is no explanation as to where I am or why am I there. In the dream I’m also not freaking out by all of this, I’m just acting like it’s a job that needs to be done…maybe that is the most terrifying aspect of all.

I’m in a slaughterhouse. It’s a large hangar with white tiles on the floor and walls. There’s blood everywhere. The air is dirty with flies and there’s a nauseating smell. All around me are dead bodies, stacked on top of each other in grotesque piles of naked people. Some are hanging on hooks and occasionally a new body comes crashing on the floor through some sort of chute. I’m the only living person there. I’m dressed as a butcher, with a leather apron. I’m wearing a mask like an executioner. Over a loudspeaker I hear a harsh metallic voice. I don’t understand the words but I know it’s shouting commands at me. My job is to drag the bodies on top of metallic stairs that are in the middle of the hangar. Once there I can throw them into a giant furnace. I drag a man’s dead body to the foot of the stairs, but he’s too heavy to lift on my shoulders and carry. The metallic voice on the intercom is getting more angry. I look around the hangar and I find a hatchet and a large sack. I take off my mask and start hacking at the dead bodies, removing their limbs, chopping off their heads and splitting their torsos. I put parts of them, randomly, in the sack making sure it’s not too heavy to drag up the stairs. I’m completely covered in blood now and I’m wiping off pieces of flesh on my apron. I carry the sack up the stairs and once up there is a small platform. I look down and watch the greedy flames of the furnace which is the biggest I have ever seen. I toss limb by limb into the fire, my eyes transfixed on the flames. When my sack is empty I go down again and repeat the process. Somehow I know this is my job for the rest of my existence.

Wednesday, February 08, 2012

Dream Journal: Won

Location: home (slept alone)
Time: between 1 AM & 7:30 AM

The world is some post-apocalyptic wasteland and a few people (like me) are running from something. There is some unknown enemy, I just know they're human and they have guns. We are literally running in the dark streets, and know we could get killed any minute.

So I’m running and being chased by something, scared for my life. There’s a tent, but just before I can reach it, I fall on the floor and I hide my face in my hands, thinking; ‘maybe in the dark they won’t see me lying on the floor in the mud’. There’s a noise behind me and I’m sure I will get shot. But the person behind me is not evil, it’s a little boy. A little skinny boy dressed in rags. He drags me into the tent and we sit there for a while, looking at each other. There might be other people in the tent, but I can't see them. We managed to lit some sort of gaslight and in the shadows and on the surface of the tent I see my shadow and I realise I’m much bigger & stronger then the little boy. I should be protecting him.

Suddenly a man opens the tent, a soldier armed with a gun. He demands us to come out. I argue with him but say that if he’s alone, I’ll come fight him. The soldier says his name is Peter and he’s there with another soldier, also called Peter. Me and the little boy get out of the tent, but the little boy transformed into a man, roughly of my size. We both face a Peter, but suddenly we’re armed with swords, each one of us a different kind. My sword is long & white, with a very thin & small handle. I have trouble wielding it. The little boy, who is now a man, has somehow convinced one of the Peters that he should help us, so the three of us attack the Peter that is left.

Peter is an excellent fighter and we can’t seem to win. No matter how many times I cut him with my sword, he keeps fighting. Nothing even a scratch on him. I try to cut off his head, but my sword doesn’t even scratch his skin. I consider giving up, dropping the sword and letting him kill me but seeing the other two fight gives me courage. The Peter we’re fighting got fatter and fatter during the fight as well.

…I can’t remember what happened next…

Thursday, January 12, 2012


The winter evening settles down with smell of steaks in passageways six o'clock the burnt out ends of smoky days and now a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of withered leaves about your feet and newspapers from vacant lots the showers beat on broken blinds and chimney-pots and at the corner of the street a lonely cab-horse steams and stamps and then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness of faint stale smells of beer from the sawdust-trampled street with all its muddy feet that press to early coffee-stands with the other masquerades that time resumes one thinks of all the hands that are raising dingy shades in a thousand furnished rooms.

You tossed a blanket from the bed you lay upon your back and waited you dozed and watched the night revealing the thousand sordid images of which your soul was constituted they flickered against the ceiling and when all the world came back and the light crept up between the shutters and you heard the sparrows in the gutters you had such a vision of the street and the street hardly understands sitting along the bed's edge where you curled the papers from your hair or clasped the yellow soles of feet in the palms of both soiled hands.

His soul stretched tight across the skies that fade behind the city block or trampled by insistent feet at four and five and six o'clock and short square fingers stuffing pipes and evening newspapers and eyes assured of certain certainties the conscience of a blackened street impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled around these images and cling the notion of some infinitely gentle infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth and laugh the world resolve like ancient women gathering fuel in vacant lots.


Tuesday, January 10, 2012

A fairytale

Once upon a time, there was a woman who had three daughters.
The first daughter asked her; ‘mother, why am I called Rose?’
The mother replied; ‘well dear, that is because when you were born, a rose fell on your head.’
The second daughter asked her; ‘mother, why am I called Violet?’
‘sweetheart, that is because when you were born, a violet fell on your head.’
The third daughter asked her; ‘wwwaaarrggjkkglfguh?’

Suddenly, at NASA

You know how you’ve been sending radio signals into space for decades hoping for a response from another planet? Well, this is it. Please stop spamming us. We beg of you to stop! It’s not you, it’s us. We’re just not that into you. We only read the signals because we get bored sometimes, but that doesn’t mean we should engage into an inter-planetary alliance. From now on we’re just going to ignore you, so it’s no use to keep sending us those da Vinci drawings and that Martin Luther King speech anymore. We know already! You had a dream, fine, let’s move on. I’m sure there are other aliens out there that would love your carbon-based company. Maybe you should look into the Circinus constellation, we hear they throw wicked cocktail parties. We hope we don’t offend you by saying this, but please do not invent space travel. All that talk about travelling faster than light is bullshit anyway, trust us. You will NEVER reach us. Don’t even try. We would hate to use force, but we’re a highly developed race. We have dead rays. We will obliterate you. We admit, kittens are hilarious and True Blood is a pretty raunchy series, but we’re just not looking for something new. This is our first and final message to Earth, please have a nice, lonely existence until your sun blows up.

PS; those alien abductions are totally not us. Not to snitch on anyone, but where do you think they get the staff for those cocktail parties we told you about? Think about it…


…so I was in the kitchen, standing in front of the toaster and…
Were you making toast?
When you were in the kitchen, standing in front of the toaster, were you making toast?
So, I was standing there and I thought to myself; “what am I doing?”
Making toast?
“What is my life leading to, why do I get up every morning?”
To make toast.
Exactly. Wait, what? No, I’m telling you I had an existential breakdown.
In the kitchen.
In front of the toaster.
While making toast.
So I went to the bathroom, I only had fifteen minutes left to shower and get dressed…
Where were you going?
So, there’s your answer. Why do you get up every morning? To go to work.
But is that it? Work?
Well, work gives you money. Money gives you happiness. I really don’t see what the problem is here.
It’s just all so pointless.
Next time you’re in the kitchen, standing in front of the toaster, you better make some goddamn toast.
So utterly pointless.

Friday, January 06, 2012