Top 5 Movies of 2011

Post-Apocalyptic Antwerp

Hibernating

Please, give me some perspective
and just let me sleep

Voyageur

Manipulated Living

T-XYZ

Like in a post-apocalyptic disaster movie, the air has become poisonous and I am sporting a gas mask, running from one safe spot to another. My vision is hindered and I feel my friends are always far away. Time, probably bored with always going in a straight line, has decided to change the rules and now I’m forced to wait until the rising sun in both past and future. The present, has been decreed, is not invited. It’s like the White Queen’s rule of ‘jam to-morrow and jam yesterday’ which dreadfully confused poor little Alice. From a scientific point of view, Time has to work together with the three spatial dimensions but is in itself one-dimensional. So, if it doesn’t flow in a line, there are seemingly infinite moments, a bunch of paths that you can move along from this moment to the next. All of a sudden, Time is starting to look very much like a tree. Was the Queen wrong? Maybe I can have jam always and never at the same time? It is not me who will read these words later, it will not be my eyes. It’s not even me anymore writing these words. It is not my reality that caused me to write this.
“What are you on about?” the Phantom Ape asks. If Time was so fickle, could it not be manipulated? Maybe I could shake the tree, switch a branch, map out a more agreeable future for myself.
“Blavatsky said to wait,” the Phantom Ape sounds more desperate now, “you promised her.” She and her divine spark can both suck it. How sick I am of waiting. I’m six years old now, cleaning up toys together with my mother. I get into a trance and remember playing with a blue electric light for more than an hour which engulfed the entire room. It was one of the most magical events in my entire life. In reality, according to my mum, I stared at a piece of lego for about ten minutes and then she told me to quit fooling around and put it in the damn box. Time is a tree and reality a most personal experience. Last week I kissed someone and the blue electric light came back, but this time it was inside of me, spreading out of my pores as if my body was too small. As before, I was told to put it back in a box. In a way, it should stay contained. One moment traded for another, 22 years in one bright blue flash.
"You're crazier than you think I think you are."
You know I believe in killing your darlings, and if you turn out to be one, my little monkey, I'll cut you up. You've been useless in this text, utterly useless.

Upādāna

What is the definition of attachment?

Being dependent on someone or something: emotional, mental or physical.

We attach ourselves to things, to people, to places: it’s like we can't help but cling to anything and everything around us. But an attachment is an odd companion. It treats this something as though it is a part of your body; inseparable, despite the fact that it is not a part of yourself.

We become so hurt by losing it. What we don't realize is that possession is merely a comfortable illusion we create for ourselves because we want a thing to exist as if it were a part of us when it can physically never exist that way.

Only the idea of it can exist that way and ideas are as much a part of you as your tone of voice and the words you speak. They are a collection of the world around you, interpreted by your subconscious mind. You don't possess them, you are them. They as much possess you as you do them and ideas themselves are ethereal, inherently unable to be possessed, wandering through everything we think, see, and do.

Our minds are constantly outside, never fully existing in the present moment, always directed by the past, and dreaming or worrying of the future. Creating fantasies within the mind, and using those fantasies to interpret the external world. What is the present moment? Does it even exist?

Can we free ourselves from attachments? Can we free ourselves from our pasts and fantastic futures to find the present moment? Can we will something like that to happen?

Essentially will is our ability to cause things to happen. We will something and it occurs. But what is will?

Cause and effect. Will is the cause and the effect is whatever we will to happen. But we forget that will is not simply an ultimate cause; it too had causes to bring about the act of willing. In forgetting this, our understanding of will is not unlike a god's act of creation scenario along with its inherent paradox.

Our will is created by forces outside our conscious experience. The perspective of willing is merely that: it is an illusion. We are not the ultimate cause in our act of willing. If we understand this, then what do we become?

Well, what are we to begin with? How does a person define himself? Is he merely what he perceives as himself? Certainly not. We have already shown that will is merely an illusionary perspective of something more. So we too are something more than we think we are.

Are we then a collection of cells to form a body and a collection of experiences and understandings to form a mind? What is it that wills? Is it our cells? Is it reality bent into perspective by our minds? A thought is merely a perspective, an experience (and a very personal one). It is not you who does the thinking, you are merely experiencing a perspective on the thought; a thought being a collection of actions outside your comprehension.

We are not merely what we perceive to be ourselves. In fact what we perceive to be ourselves is but a small view of something much more, it is illusionary and masks the true nature of existence. We must therefore redefine our understanding of ourselves.

What then are we?




(thank you ML)

Melancholia

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.

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.

Phantom

Labyrinth

the hornless minotaur in the ochre room
exhausted, trapped in boneless skin
the balding bitches licking his heels
him begging for release, to kill
a tourist passing through

the yellow birch stands smooth
and bronzed smelling like oil of wintergreen
the small black marks and scars
on his matured bark grow in the shade
of all those provincial hedges

the sacrificial virgins are being led away
from the threshold
with paralyzed gazes and spaghetti legs
abducted into the borderland
cutting corners
transforming themselves on the cold stone
defying classification
until the center is reached

Howl

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls

Allen Ginsberg, Howl, part I lines 1-12

The Tale of Little Red Riding Hood

Translated from English to Dutch, French, Polish, Finnish, Italian, Icelandic, Latin, Welsh, Hebrew, Hungarian, Chinese, Afrikaans, Russian, Turkish, Haitian, Greek, Spanish, Thai, Arabic, back to English using Google Translate technology.
By Bard Neeus (2010-11-22)

However, the city was old as well. Grandmother loved her despite the high pressure: Red Riding Hood, a young woman named in Red Hat.

One of those days, she said: ‘my mother, my love and I came to this very bad feeling after the rumours I have heard about the bread and butter.”

Never withdraw from your grandmother in another city Red Riding Hood!

In the wild, the wolf spirit is also a tree which fears deforestation marches that can never be found. Some writers have to go if you know that wolves pose a threat to grandmothers who hear the mission for the poor. She said, “the bread and butter are my mother.”

"I tend to break down what is.”

"Yes”, said Little Red Riding Hood, “in the first office of the village.”

"Why," said Wolf, “it seems they knew what they wanted when they visited first.”

The wolf fought against the economy as soon as possible, in fact, he was nuts. The butterfly curve of industry against the old house, turns out to be wild animals after a short time when the content is not a step.

“What's this?”

“I am Hood, the son,” said Little Red Riding Hood, “the opposition to beautiful, cereal, bread and butter. I come to see your mother.”

“A little girl in a big city," said the beginning of photography.

Good Bobby opened the door and saw girls for more than three days, winning seven of their index fingers. He waited to at last trust Red Hat, then sleep. Grandma blows.

“What's this?”

Red Hat is more difficult than he thought. Grandmother said, “I was surprised to hear the sounds of the first harsh winter so I sent the daughter of Red Riding Hood’s mother and her jar of cream pie.”

Wolf called, "I hope that the opening of the bottle is safe.”

Bobby with the red hat opened the door.

Wolf said, “put the bread and butter in a pan on the double bed, and take another chair with hair skin.”

Little Red Hat made the bed. She was surprised how many reservations grandmother had made. She said, “my grandmother in bed is significant.”

“I want to kiss the child.”

"Great, and a good friend in the legs.”

“Children are the best.”

“Move your ears.”

“I left the best for Israel.”

“Grandmother looks great!”

“It would be better to see my children.”

“Grandmother, girls have big teeth!”

"All the best food.”

The man who was with the big bad wolf, ate the red hat.

Doris Lessing

This is the sort of thing we accepted as normal. Yet for all of us there were moments when 'the game we were all agreeing to play' simply could not stand up to events: we would be gripped by feelings of unreality, like nausea. Perhaps this feeling, that the ground was dissolving under our feet, was the real enemy...or we believed it to be so. Perhaps our tacit agreement that nothing much, or at least, nothing irrecoverable, was happening, was because for us the enemy was reality, was to allow ourselves to know what was happening. Perhaps our pretences, everyone's pretences, wich in the moments when we felt naked, defenceless, seemed like playacting and absurd, should be regared as admirable? Or perhaps they were necessary, like the games of children who can make playacting a way of keeping reality a long way from their weaknesses?

From a friend

"Think of Easter as a resurrection. It's gonna get better from now on."

Names

What would my life look up if my name were Anthony? Or Christian? Mark, Damon, Benjamin, Jonas, Louis, Magnus, Conrad, Gregory, Ivan or even Alejandro? Would I be prettier if I were a Dante? Would I be smarter as a Joseph? Would I be straight as a Daniel? Would I be a world-famous painter if I was named Gustav? Would I be sick more if my name was Elias? Would Mauritz be more adventurous? Surely if I was a Bjorn, I would be more into sports? As a Rico, would I be into science?

Couldn’t I have a different name for each day of the week?

3 years of my life in status updates

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Part Sephenn - Dead Letter, Numb Twat, Drifting Stones

A boy (hungry) left the country
That empty stomach of his! That burning hole
Where once a lost Jesus
Was his groom, a greasy shining God,
A healing stomach ache against banality
Of rooting, saving, building, owing.

But banality is nothing?
Ah no? But oh, the joy!

On the city square friendly scholars sat
Reading Ovid by a full moon, they laced
Chaos to cosmos on their quoting tongues
And I presented my empty stomach to their feet
And nobody yelled that I confide in fantasy,
That you are nothing but a dead letter.

No sir, I don’t need a vision, no disclosure
And no revelation through higher powers, no ma’am,
A summer morning, black coffee, cigarettes,
The singing example of a fly, a mosquito,
Which bombards my absence with her drunk figures,
Such things suffice to lift up the skirt
Of a moist soul, to blind your critical eyes
With her numb twat, oh yes sir.

I don’t care about words, you see, but about constructions
That marched the street this morning out of nowhere
When the yawning children, still drunk from sleep,
Carefully played with each other’s desires
And caught balls that no man would toss over the hedge
They lie down on the curb, hugging each other
And kiss without caring about their distant futures
It is about these constructions, without meaning.

I dream with head and hole
Around the clock, I braid and I knot
With all ten toes, ten fingers
At once, I walk on my bare hands

Into the night, of this paper

My lips pluck drifting stones
Of the road, my climbing feet churn
The constellations, my voice
Comes up and runs away

I have nothing to gain.