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.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
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!
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!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
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
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
Monday, October 23, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, October 09, 2006
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
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'
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'
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'
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'
- 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
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'
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
- 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."
- 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’
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'
- 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
- 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’
- 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’
- 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’
- Anthony Burgess, ‘A Clockwork Orange’
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