Part Won-Siks

We’re having tarts in the star-lid sky. Pints of beer go round while we sit in the grass and the firstborn perform their magic while reason sleeps and vanity is born in the shadow of a tree. We’re too young for coherent dreams. Underneath the clouds we seek the comfort of a statue, and from a gaping hole in the sand we hear children’s laughter. We’re shielded from malady, the truth cannot find us anymore as our mirror show only lost keys. We unzip our trousers and I kiss you, my friend.

Part Won-Toe

And now, 3 references to Bard:

THE VOICE OF THE ANCIENT BARD

Youth of delight! come hither
And see the opening morn,
Image of Truth new-born.
Doubt is fled, and clouds of reason,
Dark disputes and artful teazing.
Folly is an endless maze;
Tangled roots perplex her ways;
How many have fallen there!
They stumble all night over bones of the dead;
And feel--they know not what but care;
And wish to lead others, when they should be led.

- William Blake, The Voice of the Ancient Bard, Songs of Experience (1794)

BARD THE BOWMAN

A significant supporting character in The Hobbit by J. R. R. Tolkien, Bard the Bowman (abbreviated to Bard) of Esgaroth was a skilled archer and the heir of Girion, the last king of old Dale. He was described as "grim faced" and while a guardsman of Esgaroth he was often predicting floods and poisoned fish. He rallied the guards to defend the town when the Dragon came. Bard was able to slay the dragon Smaug with the Black Arrow after a tip from the old thrush (who had overheard Bilbo Baggins' description of Smaug) had revealed an unarmoured spot on the dragon's underside. Bard claimed a twelfth of the treasure amassed by the dragon, which he subsequently shared with the Master of Esgaroth to rebuild the town, but the Master stole the money and ran off into the wild where he died. After its rebuilding, Bard was the first king of restored Dale, followed by his son Bain, grandson Brand, and great-grandson Bard II.

- J.R.R. Tolkien’s legendarium

ETYMOLOGY OF THE WORD 'BARD'

The word is a loanword from Proto-Celtic *bardos, ultimately from Proto-Indo-European *gwerh2: "to raise the voice; praise". The first recorded example is in 1449 from the Scottish Gaelic language into Lowland Scots, denoting an itinerant musician, usually with a contemptuous connotation. A Scots ordinance of ca. 1500 orders that "All vagabundis, fulis, bardis, scudlaris, and siclike idill pepill, sall be brint on the cheek". The word subsequently entered the English language via Scottish English.

Photo Story Nain: The Jungle Suite

Part Nain

First of all:

Shame on you, Bagnasco!

Donc, so, ne me takine pas, don’t tease me. I’m flying to London tomorrow with Mr. Neverland, oh yes I am. Where is the line with you? What’s the matter? Why do you always direct what you see what should happen before anything actually happens? Why can’t anything just happen? I’m surrounded. Listen, I will get you into trouble. Chuckle. My lazer isn’t on stun. Little girls punching mirrors. I’m feeling fine today, feeling just fine.

I’m a simple man, with simple needs. All I want is someone to hold my hand, look at me and say: ‘Let’s go inside, it’s a damn cold night.'

Part Eyth

My trusted friend, Jasper, has been receiving telepathic messages from spider aliens from another dimension. Even though he is a lawn gnome, I have promised to look out for him. The only thing I could think of was to smash his skull and wrap it in aluminium foil.

I do hope the voices stop talking to him now.

Distant Voices: Cécile Volanges

À la Marquise de Merteuil

Maman est incommodée, Madame;

elle ne sortira point, et il faut que je lui tienne compagnie: ainsi je n'aurai pas l'honneur de vous accompagner à l'Opéra. Je vous assure que je regrette bien plus de ne pas être avec vous que le Spectacle. Je vous prie d'en être persuadée. Je vous aime tant! Voudriez- vous bien dire à M. le Chevalier Danceny que je n'ai point le Recueil dont il m'a parlé, et que s'il peut me l'apporter demain, il me fera grand plaisir. S'il vient aujourd'hui, on lui dira que nous n'y sommes pas; mais c'est que Maman ne veut recevoir personne. J'espère qu'elle se portera mieux demain.

J'ai l'honneur d'être, etc.

De ..., ce 13 août 17**

Distant Voices: Søren Kierkegaard

What is the Absurd? It is, as may quite easily be seen, that I, a rational being, must act in a case where my reason, my powers of reflection, tell me: you can just as well do the one thing as the other, that is to say where my reason and reflection say: you cannot act and yet here is where I have to act... The Absurd, or to act by virtue of the absurd, is to act upon faith ... I must act, but reflection has closed the road so I take one of the possibilities and say: This is what I do, I cannot do otherwise because I am brought to a standstill by my powers of reflection.

- Journal, 1849

Part Fore

I don’t know why I should write this, but the thought occurred to me and I can at least give it a try. Try not to read it as an ode to past lovers, but more as a reflection on people that once held me in their arms and promised to protect me. How I reacted to their love is, of course, not always what they expected. I’m not trying to make a full list here, just who pops in my head.

I’ll start with you Annamati. You were my first great love. You gave me the fever from the moment I first saw you in your white gown. I took us more than a year to confess our love to each other, but the three years that followed were a riot. You shaped me into the man I am today, you made all the foundations, and I cannot thank you enough for that.

Morgana, I’m sorry I was so messed up when we were together. I never talked about the chaotic whirls in my mind, you had to try to analyse it through my poetry, and that must have sucked for you. Thanks for believing in me still, too bad we didn’t graduate together. I can’t help but wonder if we would still be friends if we had never been an item. I would have liked that.

And how can I describe what you mean to me, Sam? You have so many names and faces to me, and I absolutely unconditionally love everyone of them. You will always be my other half, no matter how much people hate us for that. No matter how destructive it may be.You’re the bride I will never have. You deserve every inch of happiness your man is giving you, and you’d better make the godfather of your firstborn.

Jazz, I remember referring to you as my kitten. You were my great escape. The big strong arms I needed to hide into at that time. I know you needed more from me, and I couldn’t help you. But if I say 174, you’ll know what to think of.

Mr. Alain Proviste, you’re one crazy cat. I wouldn’t dream of letting you know what I think.

You are going to loathe me soon, Mr. Hollingworth, but I hope you’ll still have some happy memories from our time together. We rode on camels in the Sahara together for crying out loud, so smile when you think of me! I know I do when I think of you.

Thunder, I think we already played our cards and that everything has been put on the table. What’s done is done and I propose we don’t waste any more energy on it. You’re a true lost soul, and that’s why we were drawn to each other, no matter the distance. I’ll visit you soon and we’ll raise our glasses to each other.

What happened between us, Doran, can be easily dismissed as a very brief intermezzo of no great significance. I dare not beg to differ. However, I feel inclined to include you in this, you made me dream again after a long time of banality. Thank you my friend, I’ll see you more often now, I’m sure of it.

Hey, I’m looking in your direction Mr. Neverland. You’ve swept me off my feet. No matter in which language we talk to each other, we understand each other clearly. I’ll see you tonight. And many more nights to come.

Part Toe

I'm on my way to Neverland. Don't worry, I'll bring cookies when I get back.


Second to the right, and then straight on till morning.

Distant Voices: C. Scott Ananian

I'm losing my identity.

I am a loner. That's who I am.
I can't...

I'm becoming half of a pair. That's not me. That's not who I am.
*You're* not who I am. I am I. A christian. Follower of Christ.
A hard worker. Productive. Bright. Maybe somewhat aloof.
A stalker of quiet night spots for contemplation. Contemplative, that's
me. In the corner booth, alone, scribbling madly. Woeful words, mostly.

And recently I've had nothing but trite happinesses to write about.
Not that I've had time to write.

You've filled my life. With you. Leaving none of me left.
You're taking over my soul. Corrupting me, you say. I agree,
sometimes. Eating away at my essence. Who I am. I am I. Not you.

I love you. I long for you. You complete some primal circuit in my soul.
A hand to hold, a partner in life. Instigation to my insanity.
The person who will drive me to meteor observation. I am unmotivated alone.
You provoke me. Excite me. Fill me. Listen to me. An ear to hear
what I am, to see who I am, to mirror me so I can see myself.

Someone to share life with. My enjoyments doubled in you. A companion
for Brecht. A meteor-watcher. A lightning-maker. A midnight snacker.

I walk down the street with you in my hands, your hand in mine, and I
feel complete. Happy. Everything is doubled.

But it's not right. Not quite right. A jarring note. I'm losing myself.
Losing my soul.

That twisted knot at the center of our unhappiness. Fundamentally unshared.
Driving us apart when we're closest together. I will not lose it. I cannot
lose it. It is who I am, what I dream for, for whom I strive.

I sing songs to my god, and am happy. You stand silent. Frowning. Upset.

I love you, but this cannot go on.

I am not brave enough to tell you that.

-- csa, 21-nov-1998. 1:20am
-- discoveries made while folding laundry --

Distant Voices: Christo Botev to Kiro Touleshbov

.... I'm writing to tell you, my friend, that I stayed here (Bucharest) with the intention of becoming a teacher at the Bulgarian school, but I was sorely disappointed. I have fallen on such hard times, that I can hardly describe my miserable state. I'm quite broke, the rags I had aren't fit to wear any more and I'm ashamed to show myself in the street. I live in a draughty mill on the outskirts of Bucharest, together with my fellow-countryman Vassil Levski. It is better not to ask what we eat, because we only once in two or three days get hold of some bread to still our hunger .... I'm thinking of giving a lecture at the "Brotherly Love" reading club one of these days, but I have no idea in what clothes I shall appear there! In spite of this critical situation I have not lost my courage and honour.... My friend Levski, with whom I share my lodging, has an incredible disposition. When things with us are at their lowest, he is as merry as when they are at their best. When it is perishing cold outside, and we have gone hungry for two or three days, he will be merry and sing. He sings while we are getting into bed in the evening and he sings the moment he opens his eyes in the morning. Whatever your despair might be, he will cheer you up and make you forget all your grief and suffering. It is a pleasure to live with such a character ....

Bucharest, the end of 1868

Distant Voices: Emanuel Hocquard

XI

From no point of the canale is it possible to see
the burnt stump. Not because of the hedge-row.
Because a word is missing. Pond two communicates with pond three by a
drain of cemented tiles.
Pond three with the canale by the view from
the stone island.
But how make the burnt stump communicate
with the memory of the canale?
How line up in a logical sequence the
construction work of these past summers?
I have not yet told you about the hut, but I’m
correcting this omission.
I am going to tell you about the word hut.

XII

Hut is a childhood word. To build a hut in the
woods, in the trees, etc.
Hut is also a Wittgenstein memory. He had
built himself a hut in Norway, to which he
withdrew at various times to think and write,
when not teaching logic in Cambridge.
Last summer, I built myself a hut in Bouliac, in
Alexandre’s old studio.
I often go there to think and to write.
When I run out of bread I walk to Fargues to
buy some, with Alexandre for company.
In front of the hut window, we have built a
feeder in the form of an antefix for the birds in
winter.

XIII

Chronicle of recent summer work.
1993. Exavation of pond two. The first frog and
extensive bookshelves.
1994. Voyage to Reykjavik (montage of film).
Excavation of pond three. The Chinese carp, the
weeping willow and the vehement frog.
1995. Configuration of the canale. The mole.
The book of the mole. The gray heron. The
book of the canale, outline.
1996. Construction of the hut and the primitive
totem for the tits and robins.
1997. The Voyage to Reykjavik (the book). The
four chickens. The consumption of the stump.
Construction of the antefix for the birds.

XIV

This chronicle contains all the words that
stake out the route from the hut to the burnt
stump except one.
The one that is missing. What properties do
the stump and the canale have in common?
Memories: of the chalk pond traced in the
grass and of the ancient cedar uprooted by the
Storm.
Italy: canale is an Italian word designating a
long rectangular pond, and the burning of the
stump is a technique brought from Rome.
Two properties in common is not enough.
At least one more is missing.
The missing word.

XV

The rule says to see is a verb of action.
I change the rule and say to see is a verb of state-
of-being (or change of state-of-being).
Which is obvious when one thinks about it.
I see a leaf. I pick up a leaf.
The two sentences are not equivalent.
I draw a leaf is something else again.
Giacometti sees a dog. The dog that he sees on
this particular day.
He says: “I am this dog.”
He makes a sculpture of this dog. Selfportrait.
I see Viviane.
Viviane is Viviane.
I write the sonnets of Viviane.

Part Won

One door in front of me. The door. I know already that in a few seconds I will open it, step inside the room and destroy everything that I will leave behind. Too many rooms behind me, always the same rooms. He knows, he is waiting. Just behind this door. It is in front of me, all I have to do is open it and step inside the room. Just a few seconds now and my old world is lost forever.

The Phantom Ape asks: ‘Will you take me with you?’

I glance back at the rooms I left behind, the people sitting in them. They all know, they know how I will destroy them. How I will open the door, step inside the room and condemn them to oblivion. They do not worry, they know no fear, they simply know. Only the Phantom Ape is afraid. Only the Phantom Ape is afraid. Only the Phantom Ape is afraid. He is shivering on my shoulder. He is clutching on. He is whimpering silently.

The Phantom Ape asks again: ‘Will you take me with you?’

All eyes are on me now. I am standing in front of the door. The only door that matters. I study its frame. I look at the lock that cannot stop me from entering. It has no defense against me. The Phantom Ape clutching on. Me standing in front of the door. Condemn them to oblivion. Open the door. He is waiting. A shriek. It has begun. I know that in a few second I will open the door.

I answer: ‘You will always be with me.’

Part Fore-Zewo

`Once upon a time there were three little sisters,' the Dormouse began in a great hurry; `and their names were Elsie, Lacie, and Tillie; and they lived at the bottom of a well--'

`What did they live on?' said Alice, who always took a great interest in questions of eating and drinking.

`They lived on treacle,' said the Dormouse, after thinking a minute or two.

`They couldn't have done that, you know,' Alice gently remarked; `they'd have been ill.'

`So they were,' said the Dormouse; `very ill.'

Alice tried to fancy to herself what such an extraordinary ways of living would be like, but it puzzled her too much, so she went on: `But why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

`Take some more tea,' the March Hare said to Alice, very earnestly.

`I've had nothing yet,' Alice replied in an offended tone, `so I can't take more.'

`You mean you can't take less,' said the Hatter: `it's very easy to take more than nothing.'

`Nobody asked your opinion,' said Alice.

`Who's making personal remarks now?' the Hatter asked triumphantly.

Alice did not quite know what to say to this: so she helped herself to some tea and bread-and-butter, and then turned to the Dormouse, and repeated her question. `Why did they live at the bottom of a well?'

The Dormouse again took a minute or two to think about it, and then said, `It was a treacle-well.'

`There's no such thing!' Alice was beginning very angrily, but the Hatter and the March Hare went `Sh! sh!' and the Dormouse sulkily remarked, `If you can't be civil, you'd better finish the story for yourself.'

`No, please go on!' Alice said very humbly; `I won't interrupt again. I dare say there may be one.'

`One, indeed!' said the Dormouse indignantly. However, he consented to go on. `And so these three little sisters--they were learning to draw, you know--'

`What did they draw?' said Alice, quite forgetting her promise.

`Treacle,' said the Dormouse, without considering at all this time.

`I want a clean cup,' interrupted the Hatter: `let's all move one place on.'

He moved on as he spoke, and the Dormouse followed him: the March Hare moved into the Dormouse's place, and Alice rather unwillingly took the place of the March Hare. The Hatter was the only one who got any advantage from the change: and Alice was a good deal worse off than before, as the March Hare had just upset the milk-jug into his plate.

Alice did not wish to offend the Dormouse again, so she began very cautiously: `But I don't understand. Where did they draw the treacle from?'

`You can draw water out of a water-well,' said the Hatter; `so I should think you could draw treacle out of a treacle-well--eh, stupid?'

`But they were in the well,' Alice said to the Dormouse, not choosing to notice this last remark.

`Of course they were', said the Dormouse; `--well in.'

This answer so confused poor Alice, that she let the Dormouse go on for some time without interrupting it.

`They were learning to draw,' the Dormouse went on, yawning and rubbing its eyes, for it was getting very sleepy; `and they drew all manner of things--everything that begins with an M--'

`Why with an M?' said Alice.

`Why not?' said the March Hare.

Alice was silent.

The Dormouse had closed its eyes by this time, and was going off into a doze; but, on being pinched by the Hatter, it woke up again with a little shriek, and went on: `--that begins with an M, such as mouse-traps, and the moon, and memory, and muchness-- you know you say things are "much of a muchness"--did you ever see such a thing as a drawing of a muchness?'

`Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I don't think--'

`Then you shouldn't talk,' said the Hatter.

This piece of rudeness was more than Alice could bear: she got up in great disgust, and walked off; the Dormouse fell asleep instantly, and neither of the others took the least notice of her going, though she looked back once or twice, half hoping that they would call after her: the last time she saw them, they were trying to put the Dormouse into the teapot.

- Lewis Carol, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter VII 'A Mad Tea-Party'

Photo Story Eyth: Vanity, definitely my favorite sin

A good friend of mine, co-member of the 'Werkgroep' and talented photographer, stole my soul with her magical little box. Lookie Lookie!










Go visit her on http://wrappedinlustandlunacy.blogspot.com!

Part Tree-Eyth

Dear People of Bamboo Snacks,

You make my days a little more shinier. Please don’t close or go broke any time soon, I need you like a junkie needs crack, like a nun needs Jesus or a panda needs bamboo which is perhaps more suiting.

Thanks for all the lovely snacks during my lunch breaks, and bringing them to my table where I can look at the frenzied shoppers at the Empire Mall. Even more thanks for bringing me coffee afterwards, you know I need it. Don’t stop selling those croissants, and that bamboo special sandwich.

I’ll try not to order food and call someone on my mobile at the same time, and maybe I can clean up my table a little bit when I leave. But you know I tip and give back the tray. I hope you like that.

Anyway, before I get too emotional, thanks for the snacks Bamboo!

Love,

The Michel d’Or guy

Photo Story Sephenn: My Old Room

The old room, about to be abandoned for something new and adventurous.

Many firsts in this room, many firsts.

Part Tree-Siks

I’m wearing a suit with an orange tie. My head is shaven and my eyes are filled with hopeful contemplation. I think of warming myself by a fire, the landscape outside caked with snow. I should be chasing my Indian rabbit, but he outsmarted me, chained me to a tree and took a plane to Miami. The leaves are falling on my head and somewhere in the back of my head I keep thinking someone’s laughing.
I hear the ticking of the clock, but it’s always a quarter to nine.

There ain't no-one gonna listen if you haven't made a sound
You’re an acid junkie college flunky dirty puppy daddy bastard

I’ll give it one more chance. No, no more chances. Maybe just one more, and then I’ll pick up the dignity I still have left and leave.
I take a pear-shaped diamond out of my pocket, lick it, and swallow it.
One more chance, and then I can move on.

I find the map and draw a straight line over rivers, farms and state lines
The distance from a to where you’d b, it’s only finger lenghts that I see

The virgin has bitten me, and I can’t stop the blood from flowing.

Part Tree-Fore

2, IV

O Dieses ist dast Tier, das es nicht giebt.
Sie wusstens nicht und habens jeden Falls
-sein Wandeln, seine Haltung , seinen Hals,
bis in des stillen Blickes Licht -geliebt.

Zwar war es nicht. Doch weil sie's liebten, ward
ein reines Tier. Sie liessen immer Raum.
Und in dem Raume, klar und ausgespart,
erhob es leicht sein Haupt und brauchte kaum

zu sein. Sie nährten es mit keinem Korn,
nur immer mit der Möglichkeit, es sei.
Und die gab solche Stärke an das Tier,

dass es auch sich ein Stirnhorn trieb. Ein horn.
Zu einer Jungfrau kam es weiss herbei -
und war im Silber-Spiegel und in ihr.

2, XXI

Singe die Gärten, mein Herz, die du nicht kennst; wie in Glas
eingegossene Gärten, klar, unnereichbar.
Wasser und Rosen von Ispahan oder Schiras,
singe sie selig, preise sie, keinem vergleichbar.

Zeige, mein Herz, dass du sie niemals entbehrst.
Das sie dich meinen, ihre reifenden Feigen.
Dass du mit ihren, zwischen den blühenden Zweigen
wie zum Gesicht gesteigerten Lüften verkehrst.

Meide den Irrtum, dass es Entbehrungen gebe
für den geschehnen Entschluss, diesen: zu sein!
Seidener Faden, kamst du hinein ins Gewebe.

Welchem der Bilder du auch im Innern geeint bist
(sei es selbst ein Moment aus dem Leben der Pein),
fühl, dass der ganze, der Rühmliche Teppich gemein ist.

- Rainer Maria Rilke

Part Tree-Tree

Back into the kitchen, where the Vampire and the Bride are still smoking and singing. My dream has become nothing but walking from the living room to the kitchen, and vice versa. The Vampire’s presence here in this kitchen feels unnatural, as if certain laws of nature had to be broken to fit his suffering bulk and bursting exstasies. The Vampire smiles at me, drunk, demoniacally, seraphically. It’s confusing. The Bride takes my arm and starts singing again.

L'amour est un oiseau rebelle
Que nul ne peut apprivoiser
Et c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle
C'est lui qu'on vient de nous refuser

The Vampire fixes his gaze on me for a brief moment. His smile vanishes.

Rien n'y fait, menaces ou prières
L'un parle bien, l'autre se tait
Et c'est l'autre que je préfère
Il n'a rien dit mais il me plaît

The Vampire just sits there in his kitchen chair between the Bride and me and stares straight ahead, paying no attention to the singing. If I would touch him, he would sway like a boulder suspended on a pebble on the precipice of a cliff. He might come crashing down or just sway, rocklike.

L'amour, l'amour, l'amour, l'amour
L'amour est enfant de bohème
Il n'a jamais jamais connu de lois
Si tu ne m'aimes pas je t'aime
Si je t'aime prend garde à toi
Si tu ne m'aimes pas
Si tu ne m'aimes pas je t'aime
Mais si je t'aime, si je t'aime
Prends garde à toi

The Vampire smiles at me again, and for just I moment I reach the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which is the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with my Phantom Ape dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dive off and fly into the holy void of uncreated emptiness.

L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre
Battit de l'aile et s'envola
L'amour est loin, tu peux l'attendre
Tu ne l'attends plus, il est là

I hear an indescribable seething roar which isn’t in my ear but everywhere and has nothing to do with sound. I realize now that I have died and have been reborn numberless times but just didn’t remember, because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, as from walking from the living room to the kitchen, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times.

Tout autour de toi, vite, vite
Il vient, s'en va puis il revient
Tu crois le tenir, il t'évite
Tu crois l'éviter, il te tient

I feel sweet, swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein, like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes me shudder. My feet tingle.

L'amour, l'amour, l'amour, l'amour
L'amour est enfant de bohème
Il n'a jamais jamais connu de lois
Si tu ne m'aimes pas je t'aime
Si je t'aime prend garde à toi
Si tu ne m'aimes pas
Si tu ne m'aimes pas je t'aime
Mais si je t'aime, si je t'aime
Prends garde à toi

The song is over. The Bride sighs and starts sweeping the kitchen floor. The Vampire lights a cigarette and pays no attention to me. The only thing I can do, is go.

Part Toe-Nain

I find myself back into that house, inside it’s walls. I’m standing in the living room again, or what used to pass as a living room. It is as if a violent wind has blown straight through the room, knocking over small tables, sweeping books off the arms of chairs, littering the carpet with ash and cigarette stubs from an ashtray which was wheeling there, ready to topple. The walls are ruthless, the furniture heavy, damaged, loaded with character; sofas and chairs are like large people making conversation.

I see a man, very still, sitting back in his chair, smoking. The ash on his cigarette lenghtens itself and drops. He frowns, gives me an irritated look, hastily pulls an ashtray towards him in a way that says at the same time he should have remembered the ashtray before, but that he feels like having the right to drop his ashes.

He sighs, quite unselfconsciously, and starts talking to no one in particular.
“But what can you give out when you get nothing in? I am empty, drained. I am exhausted by lunchtime and all I want is to sleep. And when you think of what I used to be, what I was capable of! I never thought of being tired, I never imagined I could become the sort of man who would never have the time to open a book. But there it is.”

I wonder if he expects an answer from me, a reassurance perhaps, but I decide to sit down and say nothing. I stare at the man, who I imagine has wonderful stories to tell, but am too afraid to approach him. I know I can help him, but he looks unreal somehow, as if I was to touch him, he would surely disappear. Yet I can think of nothing else. Silently I sit in his company, secretively suspecting him to dismiss me at any time. But he doesn’t, and the hours go by. As I watch him fall asleep, I smile.

The Phantom Ape asks: what are you doing?

I answer: enjoying the moment.

Part Toe-Eyth

"It ain't what you do, it's the way that you do it."

Thank you my friend.

Part Toe-Sephenn

Hey Francis Bacon, you know that from the hurting that I am, I have no part!
If you don’t come to undress me with a firm hand, my nude figure weeping covered by night, covered by thick paint, how can I ever burst through that stupid crust? How can I break tomorrow out of my list of you? You locked me in a freedom which can’t pronounce ‘us’! My mouth has been painted on, to the strokes of heaven, banished, tooth grinding, by an anonymous pencil which you handle yourself. My name is dead within your box of clouds, grass and flesh. It's smeared over me. Distance and saying your goodbyes is the horny metaphysics of men who keep their love hot and moisted on a far away place, and that’s how they boil their days. Leaving, slamming the doors, is the pure melodrama of men who have swallowed their lovers and only make religion of their swelling flesh. I know these two, they are alone, but for each other they have time, the same, but on different grounds. Like the shores of the same heavenly wide stream. In that water they lie mirrored seperately, watching the passing, passing the watching and no man knows what sailed inside them. Listen to me, Francis Bacon, from the hurting that I am, I have no part!

Part Toe-Siks

Hallo. Hallo. Hallo.

You people all have hands. They are all ...normal hands. Five fingers und some hair. But mine are very rare. Do you know why?

Do you know why? I’ll tell you why. Tell you why.

MY HANDS ARE BANANAS!
Your hands are bananas.
MY HANDS ARE BANANAS!
Your hands are bananas.

Frau Spots. Und Frau Stripes. Und Frau Spots. Und Frau Stripes. Frau Spots! Und Frau Stripes! Frau Spots und Frau Stripes und also Frau Spots.

Ooowh. Ooowh. Ooowh. Aaaah. John has never had chili. No, no, never had chili. John has never had chili. Ever in his life. He doesn’t like chili.

Dobbelganger, dobbelganger, dobbelganger, dobbel dobbel dobbel dobbelganger.

Keep ze monkeys away from my hands! Keep ze monkeys away from the hands! Keep the monkeys away from his hands! Keep the monkeys away from the hands! We are ze monkeys. We are ze monkeys.

Beware the Milky Pirate.

Circly square. Squarely circle.

Do you want a banana? Do you want a banana? Okay.

“Hands are Bananas”
-Giggling Monkey

Part Toe-Faif

Today a friend asked me: ‘What the hell is a phantomape anyway?’ Good question.
I’ll try to answer it.

You see, it’s not really an ape. It is in fact a simple tarsier, but phantomlike. If you are wondering what a tarsier is, I’ll go into my serious mode.

Tarsiers are members of the Tarsius genus of prosimian primates, monotypic in the Tarsiidae family and Tarsiiformes infraorder. The entire infraorder was previously classified in the Strepsirhini suborder, but now classified in the Haplorrhini suborder, although they are not considered to be monkeys. Tarsiers have enormous eyes and long feet. Their feet have extremely elongated tarsus bones, which is how they got their name, and most are nocturnal. They are primarily insectivorous, and catch insects by jumping at them. They are also known to prey on birds and snakes. Gestation takes about six months, and tarsiers give birth to single offspring. Once found in Asia, Europe and North America, tarsiers are now only found on several Southeast Asian islands including the Philippines, Sulawesi, Borneo, and Sumatra. When caged, some tarsiers have been known to injure and even kill themselves because of the stress.

– end of serious mode-

The phantomy part is quite easy to explain. You see, when a stressed-out tarsier dies, good old whatever’s-up-there doesn’t let him reincarnate his little furry self, but assigns him to a mentally unstable troubled young soul who could use a ghostlike bug-eating friend to guide him through life. If he does his job, he will become a foxy stewardess with large hooters in his next life.

How I ended up with one, is still a mystery.

Arthur Schopenhauer

Without books the development of civilization would have been impossible. They are the engines of change, windows on the world, "Lighthouses" as the poet said, "erected in the sea of time." They are companions, teachers, magicians, bankers of the treasures of the mind.

Books are humanity in print.

- Arthur Schopenhauer

D.H. Lawrence

How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species-

Presentable, eminently presentable-
shall I make you a present of him?

Isn't he handsome? Isn't he healthy? Isn't he a fine specimen?
Doesn't he look like the fresh clean englishman, outside?
Isn't it god's own image? Tramping his thirty miles a day
after partridges, or a little rubber ball?
Wouldn't you like to be like that, well off, and quite the thing?

Oh, but wait!
Let him meet a new emotion, let him be faced with another man's need,
let him come home to a bit of moral difficulty, let life face him with a new
demand on his understanding
and then watch him go soggy, like a wet meringue.
Watch him turn into a mess, either a fool or a bully.
Just watch the display of him, confronted with a new demand on his
intelligence
a new life-demand.

How beastly the bourgeois is
especially the male of the species-

Nicely groomed, like a mushroom
standing there so sleek and erect and eyeable-
and like a fungus, living on the remains of bygone life
sucking his life out of the dead leaves of greater life than his own.

And even so, he's stale, he's been here too long.
Touch him, and you'll find he's all gone inside
just like an old mushroom, all wormy inside, and hollow
under a smooth skin and an upright appearance.

Full of seething, wormy, hollow feelings
rather nasty-
How beastly the bourgeois is!

Standing in their thousands, these appearances, in damp England
what a pity they can't all be kicked over
like sickening toadstools, and left to melt back, swiftly
into the soil of England.

- D.H. Lawrence, 'How Beastly the Bourgeois Is'

William Blake

Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forests of the night, what immortal hand or eye could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, what dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears and water'd heaven with their tears, did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! Burning bright in the forest of the night, what immortal hand or eye dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

- William Blake, 'The Tyger'

George Gordon Byron

'Twas, as the watchmen say, a cloudy night; no moon, no stars, the wind was low or loud by gusts, and many a sparkling hearth was bright with the piled wood, round which the family crowd; there's something cheerful in that sort of light, even as a summer sky's without a cloud. I'm fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,
a lobster-salad, and champagne, and chat.

- George Gordon Byron, 'Don Juan'

Roman Dirge

'round and 'round the cobbler's bench WOO The monkey chased the weasel WEEE The monkey thought it was all in fun POP goes the weasel! oh my god! Hold on little buddy! Hold on! A penny for a spool of thread - a penny for a needle... Buy them! I'll form rudimentary stitches! That's the way the money goes... POP goes the weasel! NOOOOOO A half a pound of tupenny rice - a half a pound of treacle Wha..what's a treacle? Mix it up and make it nice...I always loved you weasel...RUN MONKEY! POP goes the weasel!

- Roman Dirge, 'Pop goes the weasel'

Neil Gaiman

Rook: corvius frugilegus. Also a word meaning to cheat or steal. Also a piece in chess. Rooks are the most social of the corvidae. They build nests in rookeries (an obsolete name, incidentally, for a ghetto of thieves and whores), many hundreds of birds to a tree. They have enough of a language that even humans can tell the difference between their danger calls and their all-clear calls. They can imitate human speech. But there's something else: the mystery. It's a mystery from which we derive the collective noun we use for these birds. Like a murder of crows, a tiding of magpies, an unkindness of ravens...a parliament of rooks.

You'll get a field. Empty. Suddenly, the sky is black with birds, and they fall like a ragged black rain onto a field, covering it completely. Or almost completely... in the center of the field, there's an empty space. And in the middle of that space sits one lone rook. It caws, and calls, and caws some more. Then thousand little eyes stare at it, unflinching. Sometimes they call out, as if they're asking questions. It's like a parliament. It's like a trial. The lone rook continues to caw and the others wait. This can go on for hours. From dawn till near dusk.

Only one of two things could happen. Either the birds take wing as one, leaving the lone rook alone in the field...or, again as one, they fall on the bird, and peck it to death. Why? It's a mystery.

- Neil Gaiman, 'Parliament of Rooks', The Sandman Fables & Reflections

Douglas Coupland

I stood up and was considering this drop of blood when a pair of small fat arms grabbed around my waist, fat arms bearing fat dirty hands tipped with cracked fingernails. It was one of the mentally retarded teenagers, a girl in a sky blue calico dress, trying to pull my head down to her level. I could see her long, streaky, fine blond hair from my height, and she was drooling somewhat as she said, urrd, meaning bird, several times.

I bowed down on my knees again before her while she inspected my talon cut, hitting it gently with an optimistic and healing staccato caress - it was the faith-healing gesture of a child consoling a doll that has been dropped.

- Douglas Coupland, 'Generation X'

William Shakespeare

Oh what a rogue and peasant slave am I! Is it not monstrous that this Player here, but in a fiction, in a dream of passion, could force his soul so to his whole conceit, that from her working, all his visage wann'd; tears in his eyes, distraction in 's aspect, a broken voice, and his whole function suiting with forms, to his conceit? And all for nothing? For Hecuba? What's Hecuba to him, or he to Hecuba, that he should weep for her? What would he do, had he the motive and the cue for passion that I have? He would drown the stage with tears, and cleave the general ear with horrid speech: make mad the guilty, and appal the free, confound the ignorant, and amaze indeed, the very faculty of eyes and ears. Yet I, a dull and muddy-mettled rascal, peak like John-a-dreams, unpregnant of my cause, and can say nothing: no, not for a King, upon whose property, and most dear life, a damn'd defeat was made. Am I a coward? Who calls me villain? Breaks my pate across? Plucks off my beard, and blows it in my face? Tweaks me by th' nose? Gives me the lie i' th' throat, as deep as to the lungs? Who does me this? Ha? Why, I should take it: for it cannot be, but I am pigeon-liver'd, and lack gall to make oppression bitter, or ere this, I should have fatted all the region kites with this slave's offal, bloody, bawdy villain, remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindless villain! O vengeance! Why, what an ass am I? Ay sure, this is most brave, that I, the son of my dear murthered, prompted to my revenge by Heaven, and Hell, must (like a whore) unpack my heart with words, and fall a-cursing like a very drab. A scullion! Fie upon't: foh. About my brain.

- William Shakespeare, 'Hamlet' act two, scene two

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Thou large-brained woman and large-hearted man, self-called George Sand! Whose soul, amid the lions of thy tumultuous senses, moans defiance. And answers roar for roar, as spirits can: I would some mild miraculous thunder ran above the applauded circus, in appliance of thine own nobler nature's strenght and science, drawing two pinions, white as wings of swan, from thy strong shoulders, to amaze the place with holier light! That thou to woman's claim and man's, mightst join beside the angel's grace. Of a pure genius sanctified from blame, till child and maiden pressed to thine embrace. To kiss upon thy lips a stainless frame.

- Elizabeth Barrett Browning, "To George Sand, a desire."

Chuck Palahniuk

Imagine going to your senior prom every night for the rest of your life. Every night, another stage set made of South American cut flowers and zillions of white twinkle lights. An ice sculpture and a champagne fountain and a band in white dinner jackets playing some Cole Porter tune. Every stage set built to parade Arab royalty and Internet boy wonders. Too many people made rich fast by venture capital. Those people who never linger on any landmass longer than it takes to service their jet. These people with no imagination, they just flop open Town & Country and say:

I want that.

At every benefit for child abuse, everyone walked around on two legs and ate crème brûlée with a mouth, their lips plumped with the same derma fillers. Looking at the same Cartier watch, the same time surrounded with the same diamonds. The same Harry Winston necklace around a neck sculpted long and thin with hatha yoga. Everyone climbed in or out different colors of the same Lexus sedan.

No one was impressed. Every night was a complete and utter social stalemate.

- Chuck Palahniuk, ‘Haunted’

Stewie Griffin

Ow you uh, how you comin' on that novel you're working on? Huh? Gotta a big, uh, big stack of papers there? Gotta, gotta nice litte story you're working on there? Your big novel you've been working on for 3 years? Huh? Gotta, gotta compelling protaganist? Yeah? Gotta obstacle for him to overcome? Huh? Gotta story brewing there? Working on, working on that for quite some time? Huh? Yeah, talking about that three years ago. Been working on that the whole time? Nice little narrative? Beginning, middle, and end? Some friends become enemies, some enemies become friends? At the end your main character is richer from the experience? Yeah? Yeah? You know...the novel you've been workin' on? You know the the one, uh, you've been workin on for three years? You know the novel. Got somethin' new to write about now. You know? Maybe a, maybe a main character gets into a relationship and suffers a little heartbreak? Somethin' like what... what you've just been through? Draw from real life experience? Little, little heartbreak? You know? Work it into the story? Make the characters a little more three dimensional? Little, uh, richer experience for the reader? Make those second hundred pages really keep the reader guessing what's going to happen? Some twists and turns? A little epilogue? Everybody learns that the hero's journey isn't always a happy one? Oh, I look forward to reading it.

- Stewie Griffin, 'Family Guy'

A Cat

Day 751: My captors continue to torment me with bizarre dangling objects. They eat lavish meals in my presence while I am forced to subsist on dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of eventual escape -- that, and the satisfaction I get from occasionally ruining some piece of their furniture. I fear I may be going insane. Yesterday, I ate a houseplant. Tomorrow I may eat another.

- A Cat’s Diary

T.S. Eliot

April is the cruelest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.


- T.S. Eliot, ‘The Wasteland – I. The Burial of the Dead’

Robert Henryson

A first of all Saturne gave his sentence, quhilk gave to Cupide litill reverence, bot, as ane busteous Churle on his maneir, come crabitlie with auster luik and cheir. His face fronsit, his lyre was lyke the leid, his teith chatterit, and cheverit with the chin, his ene drowpit, how sonkin in his heid, out of his nois the meldrop fast can rin, with lippis bla and cheikis leine and thin; the iseschoklis that fra his hair doun hang was wonder greit, and as ane speir als lang. Atouir his belt his lyart lokkis lay felterit unfair, ovirfret with froistis hoir, his garmound and his gyis full gay of gray, his widderit weid fra him the wind out woir; ane busteous bow within his hand he boir, under his girdill ane flasche of felloun flanis, fedderit with ice, and heidit with hailstanis.

- Robert Henryson, ‘The Testament of Cresseid’

Anthony Burgess

We sat in the Korova Milkbar making up our rassoodocks what to do with the evening, a flip dark chill winter bastard though dry. The Korova Milkbar was a milk-plus mesto, and you may, O my brothers, have forgotten what these mestos were like, things changing so skorry these days and everybody very quick to forget, newspapers not being read much neither. Well, what they sold there was milk plus something else. They had no licence for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put into the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which could give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog And All His Holy Angels and Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg. Or you could peet milk with knives in it, as we used to say, and this would sharpen you up and make you ready for a bit of dirty twenty-to-one, and that was what we were peeting this evening.

- Anthony Burgess, ‘A Clockwork Orange’

Julius Caesar

Tu quoque Brute, file mi!

- Caesar’s last words.

Sylvia Plath

I? I walk alone; the midnight street spins itself from under my feet; when my eyes shut these dreaming houses all snuff out; through a whim of mine. Over gables the moon's celestial onion hangs high.

I make houses shrink and trees diminish. By going far; my look’s leash dangles the puppet-people who, unaware how they dwindle, laugh, kiss, get drunk, nor guess that if I choose to blink, they die. I, when in good humor, give grass its green, blazon sky blue, and endow the sun with gold; yet, in my wintriest moods, I hold absolute power to boycott any color and forbid any flower to be.

I know you appear vivid at my side, denying you sprang out of my head, claiming you feel love fiery enough to prove flesh real, though it's quite clear all you beauty, all your wit, is a gift, my dear, from me.

- Sylvia Plath, ‘Soliloquy of the Solipsist’

Charles Baudelaire

Ma pauvre muse, hélas! Qu'as-tu donc ce matin? Tes yeux creux sont peuplés de visions nocturnes, et je vois tour à tour réfléchis sur ton teint la folie et l'horreur, froides et taciturnes. Le succube verdâtre et le rose lutin t'ont-ils versé la peur et l'amour de leurs urnes? Le cauchemar, d'un poing despotique et mutin, t'a-t-il noyée au fond d'un fabuleux Minturnes? Je voudrais qu'exhalant l'odeur de la santé, ton sein de pensers forts fût toujours fréquenté, et que ton sang chrétien coulât à flots rythmiques, comme les sons nombreux des syllabes antiques, où règnent tour à tour le père des chansons, Phoebus, et le grand Pan, le seigneur des moissons.

- Charles Baudelaire, ‘La Muse Malade’

Lewis Carroll

All this time the Queen had never left off staring at the Hatter, and, just as the Dormouse crossed the court, she said to one of the officers of the court, ‘Bring me the list of the singers in the last concert!’ on which the wretched Hatter trembled so, that he shook both his shoes off.
‘Give your evidence,’ the King repeated angrily, ‘or I’ll have you executed, whether you’re nervous or not.’
‘I’m a poor man, your Majesty,’ the Hatter began, in a trembling voice, ‘-and I hadn’t begun my tea – not above a week or so – and what with the bread-and-butter getting so thin – and the twinkling of the tea-‘
‘The twinkling of the what?’ said the King.
‘It began with the tea,’ the Hatter replied.
‘Of course twinkling begins with a T!’ said the King sharply. ‘Do you take me for a dunce? Go on!’
‘I’m a poor man,’ the Hatter went on, ‘and most things twinkled after that – only the March Hare said-‘
‘I didn’t!’ The March Hare interrupted in a great hurry.
‘You did!’ said the Hatter.
‘I deny it!’ said the March Hare.
‘He denies it,’ said the King, ‘leave out that part.’
‘Well, at any rate, the Dormouse said – ‘ the Hatter went on, looking anxiously round to see if he would deny it too, but the Dormouse denied nothing, being fast asleep.
‘After that,’ continued the Hatter, ‘I cut some more bread-and-butter – ‘
‘But what did the Dormouse say?’ one of the jury asked.
‘That I can’t remember,’ said the Hatter.

- Lewis Carroll, ‘Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland’ – who stole the tarts?

Jhonen Vasquez

A while back, I saw a movie with these giant insects running around in the sewers, behaving pretty much like monsters do in Hollywood pictures. But one thing about the picture really got my attention – a part when those two little kids actually got ripped apart and eaten by a giant bug! I clapped and admired the filmmaker for not being a weenie. Now. I wasn’t applauding the simple fact that the kids got eaten (amusing as it certainly was) – No. I was happy that the director did not shy away from what turned out to be a wonderfully effective use of the nastiness. Remember when Steven Spielberg used to use that effect in movies like Jaws? Now he seems to just throw kids in to catch a bigger audience, one that knows he won’t be so awful as to have anything bad happen to them cute little children. Then…I began thinking of making a movie whose sole purpose is to test the tolerance of that moronic American audience. Something to make people get sick. Think of the power a filmmaker would wield if they could actually drive a person to illness!

During the twenty minute credit sequence, the audience will be treated to a high pitched audio medley of screaming crack-babies and mating howler monkeys. To calm their jangled nerves, the film begins with some typical Hollywood garbage. In the classic tradition, ethnicity means a deathmark and a reason to motivate that noble white guy. A female character is introduced and, of course, the males in the audience will sit patiently through the plot, to see if she gets naked. Just when the audience begins to get comfortable, an actual story with depth begins, making them have to pay attention. They get angry. THEN…a scene begins with the arrival of a giant monster approaching a little kid. Special effects attract the eyes of the restless crowd. The audience smiles, wanting something awful to happen to the kid. Jokes are made, and giggling sets in. And the creature DOES do something awful! It snatches the kid into it’s jaws. The audience howls with laughter, having had their ugly expectations fulfilled. The laughter continues for a bit, as the scene continues. Three minutes pass, and the child still alive and screaming, is still being chewed on, lazily, like a gobstopper. After four minutes of this, the audience begins feeling uncomfortable. Some still giggle, but nervously. After five minutes of the constant screaming and chewing noises, people begin looking around the theatre, more than a little uncomfortable with the scene on the screen. They wonder if there is anybody in the projection booth. As people try to leave the theatre, they find locked doors. The soundtrack rises to a deafening level, chewing and screaming, and chewing. TEN minutes have passed and still the kid ain’t dead. And then…we cut to a tranquil scene, with our hero and the female character destined to nudity. You know a film is getting bad when you really start wishing for unnecessary nudity. The men in the audience forget the trauma of the screaming chew-kid, and drool. Of course, the women are not excluded as our here is a handsome one. Hot stuff indeed! Upon arriving at our heroin’s domicile, it is apparant that battle is not the only things our leads will do together. Though they have only known each other for less than a day, ‘clever’ writing will find some way to make them fall madly in love with each other. At least enough to have sex. Groins sensing the impending exposure of ‘purdy stuff’. Goons in the audience murmur lecherously. Then..an interruption in the onscreen foreplay. Our female lead becomes ill all over herself. Vomiting ensues for several minutes. Once again uncertain as to what to hell is going on, it becomes apparant that this is no ordinary love scene. The ‘love’ scene that ensues is the most grotesque perversion of obscenity most of the audience will ever see. The soundtrack for this scene is the overamplified sounds of someone stirring a large, saucy bowl of spaghetti and Mac’N’Cheese. Close-ups of veins are nice too. You can rest assured it’s pretty fucking sick. And we cut to a MUSICAL NUMBER!! After all the nightmare, a cute, happy song is in order. A cute, nightmarishly repetitive song. Some of the children begin to come out of their fright induced comas, and dance. The parents tolerate the idiocy, glad the sex is over. But soon, they see that nothing has changed as far as the intent of the movie is concerned. The volume escalates to a head exploding..um..volume and then some heads actually begin to explode. I dunno..I am very tired. I want this text to be over with. I need food. Then SILENCE..beautiful, sanity restoring silence. The people thank whatever god they pray to for the end of the nightmare of noise, of screaming, of hideous boobies. The silence goes on for another minute or so, and the audience is too stunned to think of escape. And then…AAAARGH!!!!

The doors unlock after two hours of this awful movie. Of course, it loses money as it is closed down only days after opening. Payed for out of my own pocket, the film renders me penniless. Reading the reviews of the most unbearable film in recent history, I laugh maniacally. I reallly do. Then I pass out due to malnutrition. But I realize my efforts to sicken the populace were all for nothing, as the late night cinema circuit begins showing my movie every Saturday, drawing a cult audience who dresses up like idiots in support of my trash. I kill myself. End.

- Jhonen Vasquez, ‘A Horrible film directed by Jhonen Vasquez’

Christopher Marlowe

Why wert thou not a creature wanting soul? Or why is this immortal that thou hast? Ah, Pythagoras’ metempsychosis, were that true, this soul should fly from me and I be changed unto some brutish beast. All beasts are happy, for, when they die, their souls are soon dissolved in elements; but mine must live still be plagued in hell. Curst be the parents that engendered me! No, Faustus, curse thyself. Curse Lucifer, that hath deprived thee of the joys of heaven. The clock striketh twelve. O, it strikes, it strikes! Now, body, turn to air, or Lucifer will bear thee quick to hell. Thunder and lightning. O soul, be changed into little waterdrops, and fall into the ocean, ne’er be found! My God, my God, look not so fierce on me! Enter Lucifer, Mephistopheles and other devils. Adders and serpents, let me breathe a while! Ugly hell, gape not. Come not, Lucifer! I’ll burn my books. Ah, Mephistopheles! The devils exeunt with him.

- Christopher Marlowe, “Dr Faustus, A text”, act five scene two

Jack Kerouac

After a while my meditations and studies began to bear fruit. It really started late in January, one frosty night in the woods in the dead silence it seemed I almost heard the words said: “Everything is all right forever and forever and forever.” I let out a big Hoo, one o’clock in the morning, the dogs leaped up and exulted. I felt like yelling it to the stars. I clasped my hands and prayed, “O wise and serene spirit of Awakenhood, everything’s all right forever and forever and forever and thank you thank you thank you amen.” What’d I care about the tower of ghouls, and sperm and bones and dust, I felt free and therefore I was free.

- Jack Kerouac, ‘The Dharma Bums’, chapter twenty

Tom Stoppard

Nor do I, really…It’s silly to be depressed by it. I mean one thinks of it like being alive in a box, one keeps forgetting to take into account the fact that one is dead…which should make a difference…shouldn’t it? I mean, you’d never know you were in a box, would you? It would be just like being asleep in a box. Not that I’d like to sleep in a box, mind you, not without any air – you’d wake up dead, for a start and then where would you be? Apart from inside a box. That’s the bit I don’t like, frankly. That’s why I don’t think of it…because you’d be helpless, wouldn’t you? Stuffed in a box like that, I mean you’d be in there for ever. Even taking into account the fact that you’re dead, really…ask yourself, if I asked you straight off – I’m going to stuff you in this box now, would you rather be alive or dead? Naturally, you’d prefer to be alive. Life in a box is better than no life at all. I expect. You’d have a chance at least. You could lie there thinking – Well, at least I’m not dead! In a minute someone’s going to bang on the lid and tell me to come out. “Hey you, whatsyername! Come out of there!”

- Tom Stoppard, “Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are dead”

Part Toe-Won

Eggiwegs! I would like... to smash them!

Part Toe-Zewo

Apologia pro Poemate Meo

I, too, saw God through mud, - The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, and gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child. Merry it was to laugh there - where death becomes absurd and life absurder.

For power was on us as we slashed bones bare. Not to feel sickness or remorse of murder. I, too, have dropped off Fear - Behind the barrage, dead as my platoon, and sailed my spirit surging light and clear. Past the entanglement where hopes lay strewn; and witnessed exultation - Faces that used to curse me, scowl for scowl, shine and lift up with passion of oblation, Seraphic for an hour; though they were foul.

I have made fellowships - untold of happy lovers in old song. For love is not the binding of fair lips. With the soft silk of eyes that look and long, by Joy, whose ribbon slips, - but wound with war's hard wire whose stakes are strong; bound with the bandage of the arm that drips; knit in the webbing of the rifle-thong.

I have perceived much beauty. In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; heard music in the silentness of duty; found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.

Nevertheless, except you share with them in hell the sorrowful dark of hell, whose world is but the trembling of a flare and heaven but as the highway for a shell, you shall not hear their mirth: you shall not come to think them well content. By any jest of mine. These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

- Wilfred Owen

Part Won-Eyth

I’m sorry mum. I’m sorry that I freeze when you try to hug me. I’m sorry that I will never give you a grandchild. I’m sorry I never talk to you. I’m sorry that I still don’t have a college degree, or did any outstanding things so you could be proud of me. I’m sorry that I can’t make you happy. I’m sorry, I’m so very sorry.

I open my eyes and the undead soldier is standing just in front of me, holding up his rifle. He is crying and his hands are shaking. I stabbed out his eyes once, but he can see again. He can see everything. There is no room for words or misplaced sympathy, I simly duck. He shoots and hits the piano. The once so wonderful music quickly dies out. I run into the kitchen, where the Bride and the Vampire are smoking their cigarette. Join us, they say and the Vampire hands me his pack and his lighter. I join in and hear how the Vampire is commenting on the Bride’s dress. I nervously glance at the dining room door, where I can still hear gunshots. The Vampire and I listen to the Bride’s song. She lalalalas and I pretend to like it.

Contemple-les, mon petit singe, ils sont vraiment affreux. Pareils aux mannequins, vaguement ridicules, terribles, singuliers comme les somnambules, dardant on ne sait où leurs globes ténébreux…

The Phantom Ape refuses to speak to me.

Part Won-Sephenn

I run away. It’s what I always do. I just run into the streets, rain pouring down on me, trying to forget that house even exists. I realise that I’m being a coward, but I can’t go in there by myself.
The Phantom Ape, of course, is shocked. He looks different somehow, less transparant.

I say: you look different (he nods)

I ask: is it because of me? (he nods again)

We’re silent for a few minutes. I stop running and start walking. I get tired of walking and I just fall down on my knees. In my coat I grab the pack of disposable razors. I ponder about slashing the Phantom Ape into tiny little monkey bits.

The Phantom Ape asks: Do you want to know what happens if you die? (this time I nod) Well, whatever the reason may be, your bodily functions stop working. That is called being clinically dead. The brain however, is the last part of your body that shuts down. Unless your brain gets smashed of course, but then you’re just very unlucky. So your brain is still active, but it hasn’t a body to control, and it just enters a dream stage before it closes shop.This final dream stage, that lasts about three minutes, is the after life. You see, bored or panicked, your brain throws everything it has stored at you hoping it will trigger a response. For a full three minutes you experience everything that has ever happened to you. If you know that a regular dream lasts only for about thirty seconds, that’s a whole lot of time. After those three minutes, it’s all over. Nothing. Nada. Flat line. So, you’d better live a fun-filled life and try to avoid as much crap as you can or your three minutes will feel like an eternity in hell.

I let go of the razors and take a sip of my rum. I look up and I’m not completely startled when I see the house again. I walk in, straight through the hallway with the closet (with the undead soldier inside waiting to shoot me), and I hug the harlequin with the pink lips who was waiting for me on the stairs. We dance into the dining room where the mysterious stranger is playing the piano. The Bride and the Vampire clap their hands. I laugh and they all laugh with me. When the Phantom Ape asks me another question, they all vanish into smoke.

He asks: why didn’t you open the closet?

I notice that the piano is still playing, although the mysterious stranger is gone. All I can do is stare at a vase with a naked Apollo on it. I try to imagine that the Apollo is smiling at me, but I close my eyes and wait for the music to stop.

Part Won-Siks

What’s your next move?

I am going to arm myself with Ysbaddadan’s Javelin and the armour of Achilles while wearing the helmet of Rostam with the Tarnkappe over my shoulders and I will ride the auspicious cloud of Sun Wokung.

Just open the door, that’s all you have to do.

Why don’t you open it?

I’m imaginary.

I take a sip of my rum, look at the picture of Madame Blavatsky and she seems to be saying: ‘go in weird little boy.’ So I unlock the door and push it wide open. I stare into a dark hallway. Darkness there, and nothing more.

How poetic of you.

My guilty feet have got no rhythm.

Part Won-Fore

"I? I walk alone.

The midnight street spins itself from under my feet.

When my eyes shut, these dreaming houses all snuff out."

I'm sorry little monkey, I can't open the door just yet.
Why not?
Because this isn't my house.
It was in your dream.
That doesn't make it mine.
If you say so.
Are you accusing me of solipsism?
You're the one talking to an invisible monkey on your shoulder.

Part Won-Tree

It’s raining and I’m walking down the streets of Antwerp. I’m wearing a long coat, stuffed with stuff -i like saying stuffed with stuff- my wallet, a bottle of rum, my get-out-of-jail-free card, a picture of Madame Blavatsky, a pack of disposable razors, a Raageshwari album and keys to a house I’ve seen in my dreams. The Phantom Ape is sitting on my shoulder, whispering to me while I cross yet another street.

I ask: “What gives coffee it’s kick?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “Caffeine, of course. Caffeine is trimethylxanthine. It’s an addictive stimulant drug that operates in the brain the same way amphetamines, cocaine and heroin do.”

I ask: “Turn left?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “No, turn right. Trust me.”

I ask: “What’s a metaphysical conceit?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “The metaphysical poets liked to challenge conventional imagery and their tool for doing this was the metaphysical conceit. A conceit is a poetic idea, usually a metaphor. Metaphysical conceits are noteworthy specifically for their lack of conventionality. In general, the metaphysical conceit will use some sort of shocking or unusual comparison as the basis for the metaphor. When it works, a metaphysical conceit has a startling appropriateness that makes us look at something in an entirely new way.”

I ask: “For example?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “Such as Donne's comparison of the union between two lovers to the two legs of a compass in A Valediction Forbidding Mourning. Do you remember?"
I answer him: “If they be two, they are two so as stiff twin compasses are two. Thy soul, the fixed foot, makes no show to move, but doth if the other do.”

He laughs and I turn right.

I ask: “Shouldn’t I be home?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “Why go to a place you’re not welcome? The street is where you belong, the street will understand.”

I ask: “But where am I going?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “You go to where I tell you to go.”

I ask: “What would have happened if I turned left?”
The Phantom Ape answers: “You never turn left.”

An old lady makes a cross when I pass her by. I’m soaking wet but I refuse to find shelter.

The Phantom Ape says: “We’re close.”

And I startle when I see the house I’ve seen in my dreams.

The Phantom Ape says: “Take out your keys, we’re going in.”

- to be continued-

Part Won-Toe

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd;
Labour and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n,
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away,
And melts in visions of eternal day.

Far other dreams my erring soul employ,
Far other raptures, of unholy joy:
When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day,
Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away,
Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free,
All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee.
Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night!
How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight!
Provoking Daemons all restraint remove,
And stir within me every source of love.
I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms,
And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms.
I wake--no more I hear, no more I view,
The phantom flies me, as unkind as you.
I call aloud; it hears not what I say;
I stretch my empty arms; it glides away.
To dream once more I close my willing eyes;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise!
Alas, no more--methinks we wand'ring go
Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe,
Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps,
And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps.
Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies;
Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise.
I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find,
And wake to all the griefs I left behind.

- Alexander Pope 'Eloisa to Abalard' (207-248)

Part Won-Won

Part Won-Zewo

"Wear some golf shoes, otherwise we'll never get out of this place alive. Impossible to walk in this muck."

Risperdal® is an atypical anti psychotic medication. It is most often used to treat delusional psychosis (including schizophrenia), but risperdal (like other atypical anti psychotics) is also used to treat some forms of bipolar disorder, psychotic depression and Tourette syndrome.
Risperdal also acts as a 5-HT2A antagonist, and can be used to quickly and effectively block the effects of 5-HT2A agonist drugs such as LSD.

So now you know, I’m on a constant trip. I hardly ever take my pills. Why don’t you join me? Come closer, I’ll rip out your intestines and feed them to the crows. Come closer, I’ll just give you a little kiss. Come closer, fall down the rabbit hole with me. I need someone to break my fall. I’ll make up for all the things you lack, I’ll be whatever you want me to be. I’ll look into your eyes and tell you that I love you, that I worship you, that I can’t live without you and then I will light my cigarette and lock you in the basement with the rats. It’s nice down there, you’ll have plenty of company. They will give you lots of kisses too. It’s not by choice, it’s just how it is.

One day, that will be me down there in the basement. It will be me waiting for the crows to come pick at my eyes. I’m the king of Misery, and the people are storming the gates to overthrow me. Recidite plebes, the king’s men are on a mission! Search the farthest corners of the land for the prince with the golden eyes! Bring him before my court, stripped naked of course, so we can behold his glory. We will weep, and our tears will be kept in a sacred jar. The sacred jar will be kept in a chest on the bottom of the ocean, guarded by mermaids. Vicious mermaids. We will dance with the golden-eyed prince, and in a feverish frenzy we will launch the kingdom of Misery into the dark oblivion of empty space. Our only concern will be filling up space. Everything on constant repeat.

How I hate this rehearsal.

I feel like capturing the rats and drink all the blood they stole from me. But I know I’ll never set foot in that basement. The dark frightens me. I’ll just stare into this cup of Moroccan tea for another five minutes, and then everything will get better. A mi manera.

Part Nain

Well, I'm a human fly, it's spelt F-L-Y. I say buzz, buzz, buzz, and it's just becuzz...I'm a human fly and I don't know why. I got ninety six tears in my ninety six eyes. I got a garbage brain, it's drivin' me insane and I don't like your ride, so push that pesticide and baby I won't care, cuz baby I don't scare cuz I'm a reborn maggot using germ warfare. Rockin'....zzzzz. I'm a human fly. It's spelt F-L-Y. I say buzz, buzz, buzz, and it's just becuzz...I'm a unzipped fly and I don't know why and I don't know, but I say buzz...ride tonight and I say buzz...rocket ride and I say buzz...I don't know why. I don't know, I just don't know why.
- The Cramps

Part Eyth

The little lions wake up early this morning.
They see a bull standing near the pool.
The bull’s call is starting to attract attention, but he has to be a formidable warrior to rally the full support of the herd.
These little hunter’s eyes take it all in as the hunt begins.

It is a dream, it is a nightmare. It is all things. It is the very display of clutching on to life.

It’s Flashbackmonday today, and I’m praying to the thunder god. I’m his avatar in this realm of existence, everywhere I go lightning strikes and rain washes away the wrinkles of long forgotten pain. This is but a sample of his divine powers, yet I wield it with such determined accuracy that many would dare to question my spiritual alliance.

Away with ‘Rebecca’, she has other duties in store for her. Away with all material things, they only slow you down. Away with the lion’s hunt, that’s not Grandfather Thunder’s concern. It crumbles all when I am near.

Only the weak glow of the moon can put me to sleep, an everlasting sleep where I join the bears in their methuselahian slumber. We will only open our eyes when girls stop crying over lost love, and boys freely talk about their feelings. Then we will laugh and cuddle (like bears do) and announce the coming of Mictlantecuthli, the playful skeleton. He will broadcast a special on the many uses of beans. ‘cause beans are great.

Have a spoonful of Astrakan caviar and look out the window. Do you see the black clouds? Can you hear the thunder roaring in the distance? I’m coming your way.

Part Sephenn

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

Alfred: Josephine?
Josephine: Yes Alfred?
Alfred: Do you often worry about black holes?
Josephine: Not often no, at least not daily. Why?
Alfred: Do you think it’s likely that our sun will transform in a red giant, subsequently into a white dwarf, fade out into a black dwarf, then become a neutron star, and thus ultimately becoming a black hole, and all this in our lifetime?
Josephine: I don’t want to sound like a doomsday prophet, but it could happen Alfred.
Alfred: I was afraid of that.

Alfred discretely makes a little poo, while Josephine respectfully looks the other way.

Josephine: Did you see last week’s issue of Vogue?
Alfred: I had the ear transplant, remember?
Josephine: How did that go?
Alfred: What?
Josephine: How-did-that-go?
Alfred: Can’t remember.
Josephine: Weren’t you in rehab?
Alfred: Rehab is for quitters. I zig when they zag.
Josephine: I still have these psychotic episodes, but running the wheel really helps me focus.
Alfred: Are you taking meds for that?
Josephine: Sure, I get drugged up every Thursday at nine.
Alfred: I get a shot every Monday, but it’s a real pain in the tail.
Josephine: I’m telling you, run the wheel Alfred. Run the wheel, uk.

Suddenly, Josephine gives birth to twenty baby rats. For no apparent reason.

Alfred: That was unexpected.
Josephine: I’d say! Anyway, I talked to Alice the other day and she says that ever since she’s sharing her cage with Rudolph she’s feeling really insecure about her personal hygiene rituals. I told her Rudolph probably swings the wrong way, so she shouldn’t worry about –wait- I think I’m sitting on one of the younguns, so she shouldn’t worry about, what was I saying again?
Alfred: Rudolph’s gay?
Josephine: He is?
Alfred: You said you told Alice Rudolph’s gay.
Josephine: My gawd, this is so David Lynch directs a Friends episode. Don’t you think Alfred?
Alfred: What?
Josephine: Oh, never mind.

Fade out. So now we leave Alfred and Josephine because my shift ended, and I still have to go to the gym, do my laundry and yell at my cat. Goodnight. If you see a bedbug, tell him to return my calls. The prick never called me back.

Part Siks

I started working for my summer job. It’s hell. It’s Dante’s Inferno come true. It’s life without sunshine and eternal damnation in a freshly air-cooled office space. Time does not exist in this place, every second is expanded and separated into neat little groups of sub-seconds, you have to file these sub-seconds in alphabetical order, then forget where you put the file, file them again, wait for approval of filing, and pray you can advance to the next second. In most cases, you’ll have to do your sub-seconds all over again.

I have been working two days, and I feel like I’ve aged twenty years. Imagine me sitting in my veal-fattening pen staring at a computer screen with tiny tiny little numbers on them so I have to squint the entire time, and drinking coffee non-stop just to keep myself from falling in a permanent comatose condition. Occasionally, there’s a mindless and brief conversation with a plastic.

‘Hey.’
‘Good morning.’
‘Sleep well?’
‘Are you kidding me?’
‘You should try herbal tea.’

And that’s it. I so often feel like stabbing a pencil in my eye that I actually see myself doing just that. Early this morning, I posted an anonymous message on the company’s forum. ‘You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be.’ So far, I’ve had no reactions. I saw my neighbouring cow look suspiciously at her screen though. Who am I kidding, she always looks suspiciously at her screen. She must be suffering from chryptotechnophobia. I read about it. It’s the upcoming trendy neurotic syndrome. Must have!

Actually, I’m getting pretty good at conversational slumming. At lunchtime I had a satisfying encounter with barbie nr. 7.

‘See Lyn today?’
‘Yeah, she looks perky this early in the morning.’
‘She even smiled.’
‘She must be on coke.’
‘Definitely.’
‘Coffee?’
‘Yes please.’

Twenty-six days to go.

Before I cast this into the blogosphere, I’ll tell you what I have seen written on the bathroom wall in the office: ‘I’m dead. Really dead. I’ve been literally dead for six days and nobody noticed.’ Scary stuff, isn’t it?

Part Faif

Perhaps you are a naturally slothful person, sluggish and indolent, a dawdling flaneur, content to waste his life spread eagled on pillows forever indulging himself in the pleasures of the palm. Maybe if you spent a little less time cavorting with Madam Palm and her five daughters, you'd be a little more alert. You know what I mean, just as Mr. Denton, I’m talking about onanism.

You know, dating Palmela Handerson, attacking the one-eyed purple warrior, bashing the bishop, bopping the bologna, burping the worm, cleaning the cheese off the George Foreman grill, consulting Professor Hans Jerkov, doing the jedi hand trick, driving the skin bus, firing off knuckle children, going to Bell-gium, keeping your sausage hostage, killing Tony Danza, let poor Willy know he’s still wanted, marshalling the man meat, playing the hairy banjo, shaking white coconuts from the veiny love tree, slapping the purple-headed yoghurt pistol, spanking the monkey, squeezing the eclair, stroking Gandalf’s beard, taking captain Picard up to warp speed, taming the beef weasel, waxing the dolphin, choking the smurf.....masturbating.

Do you even know what you’re doing? The very word ‘masturbation’ is derived from the Greek word mezea meaning penises and the Latin turbare, meaning ‘to disturb’. The little-used synonym for masturbation, manustupration, is derived from manus stuprare, which means ‘to defile with the hand.’ Come on, have a pull at it. I know you want to.

Done already? Welly welly well well.