Bethesda Softworks: "Skyrim"
Puscifer: "Conditions of my Parole"
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
November (Rain)
The last days of November. The punishing winds driving massive clusters of clouds, and the sub-zero rain are nothing short of a mind-numbing combination. The winter lurks somewhere behind the high hills and snow shores of Lapland, although it is only three weeks until Christmas. Now, I am just about as religious as a sexually active nun, but I appreciate the silence, the peacefulness, and the random acts of kindness when the hollow, über-capitalistic rat-race and the self-imposed chaos ceases on the morning of the 24th of December.
And if we are to celebrate anyone's birthday (the unfortunate event of entering this time and space, and this god-forsaken rock at the ass-end of the galaxy), it will be mine.
And if we are to celebrate anyone's birthday (the unfortunate event of entering this time and space, and this god-forsaken rock at the ass-end of the galaxy), it will be mine.
October
A cruel, cruel autumn.
One of the most difficult four weeks I have had in a while. Too many things needing to be un-fucked, like, yesterday.
One of the most difficult four weeks I have had in a while. Too many things needing to be un-fucked, like, yesterday.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
A Letter to the Unknown (Part Two: Conflict)
Starless and Bible black. That is the precise and accurate description of the sky right now. The rain has just beaten the ground with anger and fury, and it seems that the sky is holding its breath before yet another down pour. The in-house sound system is flooding the area with easy listening acid jazz. Who am I to complain, since I chose the music myself. The small catfish in the aquarium is sucking the glass wall like there is no tomorrow. Sometimes I feel there isn't. However, amusing little sucker, he is.
If I were a pencil-neck treehugger, I would describe the current sensation as "karmic ripples". Since I am not, I do not, but there is too much unfinished business floating around. I find it alarming if I choose my daily activities on the basis of "things I do not have the time to do" and "things I have barely time for". I start the day by looking at the things I can ignore for the time being, and concentrate on the things that are imperative, or something that should have been done yesterday. Mind you, I am not proud of the aforementioned, nor am I lamenting. I am simply stating a fact.
Ignorance is bliss. A rather famous quote from a rather famous movie. I have been in this existence long enough to understand that I can't afford to be ignorant, and I cannot choose not to understand. If this is mirrored against the last paragraph, you might understand my dilemma. I could choose the other way, and not give a toss about the things falling from my lap left and right when ploughing through yet another goddamn day. But I shan't. Ever.
"We will pay the price but we will not count the cost", wrote Neil Peart, and there's no better way of saying it.
If I were a pencil-neck treehugger, I would describe the current sensation as "karmic ripples". Since I am not, I do not, but there is too much unfinished business floating around. I find it alarming if I choose my daily activities on the basis of "things I do not have the time to do" and "things I have barely time for". I start the day by looking at the things I can ignore for the time being, and concentrate on the things that are imperative, or something that should have been done yesterday. Mind you, I am not proud of the aforementioned, nor am I lamenting. I am simply stating a fact.
Ignorance is bliss. A rather famous quote from a rather famous movie. I have been in this existence long enough to understand that I can't afford to be ignorant, and I cannot choose not to understand. If this is mirrored against the last paragraph, you might understand my dilemma. I could choose the other way, and not give a toss about the things falling from my lap left and right when ploughing through yet another goddamn day. But I shan't. Ever.
"We will pay the price but we will not count the cost", wrote Neil Peart, and there's no better way of saying it.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Friday, September 16, 2011
Path
The way you organize your computer desktop corresponds with the way you organize your life.
(With a tip of the hat to Robert Fripp)
(With a tip of the hat to Robert Fripp)
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Monday, August 29, 2011
August
Augmented reality and steam engines.
Eidos Montréal & Square Enix: "Deus Ex: Human Revolution"
William Gibson & Bruce Sterling: "The Difference Engine"
Eidos Montréal & Square Enix: "Deus Ex: Human Revolution"
William Gibson & Bruce Sterling: "The Difference Engine"
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
2nd Jubileum
What would I make out of this misery,
where does it all go when it has ceased to be?
I stood patiently among waiting women, children and men,
and they are waiting for theirs like I waited for mine, but nobody ever arrived.
where does it all go when it has ceased to be?
I stood patiently among waiting women, children and men,
and they are waiting for theirs like I waited for mine, but nobody ever arrived.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
July
"Oh, let the sun beat down upon my face, stars to fill my dream
I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been
To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen
They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed
Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear..."
-Robert Plant
I am a traveler of both time and space, to be where I have been
To sit with elders of the gentle race, this world has seldom seen
They talk of days for which they sit and wait and all will be revealed
Talk and song from tongues of lilting grace, whose sounds caress my ear
But not a word I heard could I relate, the story was quite clear..."
-Robert Plant
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
On Innovation
Not too long ago I was asked to be "more innovative". For once, and you can draw a cross on the kitchen wall to mark this most sacred day, I was too stunned to speak. Innovation, as a term, stems from the Latin word "innovatus", which is the noun form of innovare "to renew and to change". In order to change, or to renew, one needs inspiration, and inspriration is not something in me that cannot be switched on/off by command. There is of course the kind of innovation set in motion by external forces, be it happiness, sorrow, loss, a change in the market place, destruction, annihilation or another threat. However, to me, inspiration in its purest form is something not to be analyzed or understood.
It just arrives.
There are not too many things in this existence I feel so nonchalant about. It is one of the few things that need not to be understood. I think of it, in my understanding, pretty much the same way Robert Fripp feels about (creating) music: music is always present, music is always there, but we have to be able to hear it. We have to be able to receive it. In order to hear this inspiration one must learn how to listen to silence. One has to be silent. When, and if, it arrives, it is another thing completely.
Anyone who has ever done anything that resembles creative work, knows what I'm talkin' about. The self-feeding cycle of accomplishment and triumph, the overwhelming sensation of creating something that is completely new and something that has not existed before, and breathing life into something subjectively unique. And I dare say "fuck it", if someone has had the same idea before, because the sensation cannot, and will not, be diminished by the discovery of similar structures in this time and space. We all, creatively speaking, draw water from the same well, drink the cosmos therein, and piss the same possibilities.
If you do not have a single creative cell in the decaying piece of flesh you call "body", then pass on by, stranger, pass on by, for you will not get, understand, and comprehend it in a million cycles of the sun, the stars, or the motherfucking moon.
And, alas, we come a full circle here. Asking someone to be "more creative", getting a "no" for an answer, and then going ballistic about it would be like asking "what time it is", and then getting pissed off about the answer.
It just arrives.
There are not too many things in this existence I feel so nonchalant about. It is one of the few things that need not to be understood. I think of it, in my understanding, pretty much the same way Robert Fripp feels about (creating) music: music is always present, music is always there, but we have to be able to hear it. We have to be able to receive it. In order to hear this inspiration one must learn how to listen to silence. One has to be silent. When, and if, it arrives, it is another thing completely.
Anyone who has ever done anything that resembles creative work, knows what I'm talkin' about. The self-feeding cycle of accomplishment and triumph, the overwhelming sensation of creating something that is completely new and something that has not existed before, and breathing life into something subjectively unique. And I dare say "fuck it", if someone has had the same idea before, because the sensation cannot, and will not, be diminished by the discovery of similar structures in this time and space. We all, creatively speaking, draw water from the same well, drink the cosmos therein, and piss the same possibilities.
If you do not have a single creative cell in the decaying piece of flesh you call "body", then pass on by, stranger, pass on by, for you will not get, understand, and comprehend it in a million cycles of the sun, the stars, or the motherfucking moon.
And, alas, we come a full circle here. Asking someone to be "more creative", getting a "no" for an answer, and then going ballistic about it would be like asking "what time it is", and then getting pissed off about the answer.
Monday, June 27, 2011
A Letter to the Unknown (Part One: Silence)
To whomever it may concern,
The humming of the air-con and the gentle ripple of the aquarium water-pump. The phones remain silent as the holiday season has officially begun. The temperature is rising outside although the sun is playing hide and seek behind snow white fair weather clouds. It seems that the oracles of weather got it right when they prophesied swelter for the rest of the week, and for once, I am more than pleased that they are right.
I cannot escape the feeling of something lurking around the corner. There is an impending potential, like an uninvited guest, sending shivers as it waxes and wanes without pattern and form. Perhaps I am over-sensitive this time of year. Perhaps I've been stigmatized forever, but then, this time I will not seek validity in this from the empty words of gods and men, regardless of the form the manifestation appears, nor will I be hell-bent over some half-assed gut feeling originating in the abyss within. Ah, the dilemma of human condition. Words are absolutely useless, when the meaning and the intent behind verbal communication has to guessed and/or deciphered, or arduously excavated from the layered sub-contexts of what hasn't been said. An Oxford "Silence-English-Silence" Dictionary would come in handy.
But fear not, dear observer, conclusions can be drawn, although they cannot be concise, precise or absolute. Silence, as a part of interaction, is an act of withdrawal. It is ultimately about giving the power of choice away, and letting someone else choose. It is about disregarding the truth as it is, leaving knots untied and hanging in the wind, thus, abandoning the power to object, to intervene and to react. Silence is submission, a prayer at the altar of god of cowardice, and a towel abandoned at the ringside of life. Silence can sometimes be a strategy: a conscious choice, a last resort when played into a metaphysical corner. One should not mistake the silence I speak of to the "Silence" of eternity, that of which is said to be golden, and the source of great strenght. That would be the silence within, this is the silence without. I speak of silence when any form of communication would be imperative. Silence as a form of abuse and violence, and the only way to retaliate is the same. Silence as a weapon.
The humming of the air-con and the gentle ripple of the aquarium water-pump. The phones remain silent as the holiday season has officially begun. The temperature is rising outside although the sun is playing hide and seek behind snow white fair weather clouds. It seems that the oracles of weather got it right when they prophesied swelter for the rest of the week, and for once, I am more than pleased that they are right.
I cannot escape the feeling of something lurking around the corner. There is an impending potential, like an uninvited guest, sending shivers as it waxes and wanes without pattern and form. Perhaps I am over-sensitive this time of year. Perhaps I've been stigmatized forever, but then, this time I will not seek validity in this from the empty words of gods and men, regardless of the form the manifestation appears, nor will I be hell-bent over some half-assed gut feeling originating in the abyss within. Ah, the dilemma of human condition. Words are absolutely useless, when the meaning and the intent behind verbal communication has to guessed and/or deciphered, or arduously excavated from the layered sub-contexts of what hasn't been said. An Oxford "Silence-English-Silence" Dictionary would come in handy.
But fear not, dear observer, conclusions can be drawn, although they cannot be concise, precise or absolute. Silence, as a part of interaction, is an act of withdrawal. It is ultimately about giving the power of choice away, and letting someone else choose. It is about disregarding the truth as it is, leaving knots untied and hanging in the wind, thus, abandoning the power to object, to intervene and to react. Silence is submission, a prayer at the altar of god of cowardice, and a towel abandoned at the ringside of life. Silence can sometimes be a strategy: a conscious choice, a last resort when played into a metaphysical corner. One should not mistake the silence I speak of to the "Silence" of eternity, that of which is said to be golden, and the source of great strenght. That would be the silence within, this is the silence without. I speak of silence when any form of communication would be imperative. Silence as a form of abuse and violence, and the only way to retaliate is the same. Silence as a weapon.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
The morning after
Summer Solstice and the town is asleep. Even the birds are quiet. Petrichor lingers as the sky is clearing, and I embrace the sweet silence.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Notes from the End of an Era Pt. 5 [Halcyon]
"The Seraphim gathered in response to the cries from the physical. There was more to this little town than met casual observation. A decree was made to send One from Helios and Vesta. It’s name was Pamposh."
“As Pomposh walked from the gathering, there immediately came a massive, heavyweight gravity storm. Internalizing the mammoth, black-hole-like magnitude manifesting from the storm, and wielding the mass of his intellect — matched only by his piety — caused a conscious edifice to materialize before the townspeople. Appearing over the entrance was the name of the structure. He then de-gravitized and faded like a whisper on the wind, into the ether.”
Steve Vai
Sunday, June 12, 2011
Kalon K'agathon
"Lies are felt but seldom seen" --Kip Winger
Indifference can mean one or two out of three things. In the vast potential field faced every waking hour the outcome of choices is meaningless, the potential field reads nothing or cannot be interpreted, or a choice is not understood properly.
What people choose every day is determined either by values or circumstances, or both. It does not matter in this context if a choice is not a conscious one, the rules still apply. As the circumstances change, so do values. Thus, we face a mighty metaphysical cluster of circumstancial subjections derived from personal realities created by cognitive processes. To try to understand and study these processes is almost impossible due to the fact of human beings having constant trouble telling virtues and values apart. Hell, most of the literate population cannot tell the difference between morals and ethics, and they still call themselves "human beings". The only reasonable way to study such things is by observing how the said morals, ethics and values are actually manifested in retrospective. Those actual manifestations have to be put in the right context, meaning that the circumstances, and the remorseless peer pressure of social interaction, have to be analyzed and understood.
If virtues are ideals, what are values?
"...a value is a type of belief, centrally located within one's total belief system, about how one ought or ought not to behave, or about some end state of existence worth or not worth attaining. Thus, a value may be viewed both as a predisposition to act (attitude), and as an estimation of worth of an action..."
If we accept the aforementioned to be plausable, and keep in mind that every single action a human being manifests is selfish, or has its origins in selfish motives, we find that any virtue as an example of moral excellence, and any value as a belief in virtue(s), are actually both dogmas. They do not exist anywhere but in the metaphysical quasi-realities of men.
If an attitude is a meta-reaction towards arisings depending on the given circumstanses combined with the accumulated experience data, then a value is an attitude mirrored against a correspondent virtue.
As an example: general attitude towards death and euthanasia. A recent survey made in the USA (Leslie Kane, 2010) gave a following result: 46% of physicians agree that physician-assisted suicide should be allowed in some cases; 41% do not, and the remaining 14% think it depends. It can be said in broad terms, that the attitude towards euthanasia seems to be somewhat favorable among general population in the Western World. According to Ezekiel Emmanuel "the distinction between active and passive euthanasia is morally significant and legalising euthanasia will place society on a slippery slope, which will lead to unacceptable consequences". I will take that one a notch further. If the members of general population, whom at least theoretically are in favor of euthanasia, would be marched into an ICU, and then ask to pull the plug (or pull the trigger, the end-result is the same), the attitude would change. This is actually what Emmanuel proposes: letting someone die, and being a part of an event chain that leads to death, are two distinctively different things to human beings. Playing Pontius Pilate is is a-okay while the doing the Kevorkian is not? I really do not understand how legalising euthanasia would place society on a slippery slope unless the society in question is already in such a state. One has to remember that the society in question passed 114 death penalties in 2010 alone, and since 1976 it has executed over one thousand.
Ultimately, the discussion and the dilemma are not actually about euthanasia in itself, but about the proverbial hand washing of those who have to make choices about life and death. The discussion is not about the justification, but about the consequences to those who remain behind to live with that choice. The virtues are out of the window, the values seem to be vague and the attitudes turn as quickly as a coat turns on a politician when a minister's seat is within a grasp.
Indifference can mean one or two out of three things. In the vast potential field faced every waking hour the outcome of choices is meaningless, the potential field reads nothing or cannot be interpreted, or a choice is not understood properly.
What people choose every day is determined either by values or circumstances, or both. It does not matter in this context if a choice is not a conscious one, the rules still apply. As the circumstances change, so do values. Thus, we face a mighty metaphysical cluster of circumstancial subjections derived from personal realities created by cognitive processes. To try to understand and study these processes is almost impossible due to the fact of human beings having constant trouble telling virtues and values apart. Hell, most of the literate population cannot tell the difference between morals and ethics, and they still call themselves "human beings". The only reasonable way to study such things is by observing how the said morals, ethics and values are actually manifested in retrospective. Those actual manifestations have to be put in the right context, meaning that the circumstances, and the remorseless peer pressure of social interaction, have to be analyzed and understood.
If virtues are ideals, what are values?
If we accept the aforementioned to be plausable, and keep in mind that every single action a human being manifests is selfish, or has its origins in selfish motives, we find that any virtue as an example of moral excellence, and any value as a belief in virtue(s), are actually both dogmas. They do not exist anywhere but in the metaphysical quasi-realities of men.
If an attitude is a meta-reaction towards arisings depending on the given circumstanses combined with the accumulated experience data, then a value is an attitude mirrored against a correspondent virtue.
As an example: general attitude towards death and euthanasia. A recent survey made in the USA (Leslie Kane, 2010) gave a following result: 46% of physicians agree that physician-assisted suicide should be allowed in some cases; 41% do not, and the remaining 14% think it depends. It can be said in broad terms, that the attitude towards euthanasia seems to be somewhat favorable among general population in the Western World. According to Ezekiel Emmanuel "the distinction between active and passive euthanasia is morally significant and legalising euthanasia will place society on a slippery slope, which will lead to unacceptable consequences". I will take that one a notch further. If the members of general population, whom at least theoretically are in favor of euthanasia, would be marched into an ICU, and then ask to pull the plug (or pull the trigger, the end-result is the same), the attitude would change. This is actually what Emmanuel proposes: letting someone die, and being a part of an event chain that leads to death, are two distinctively different things to human beings. Playing Pontius Pilate is is a-okay while the doing the Kevorkian is not? I really do not understand how legalising euthanasia would place society on a slippery slope unless the society in question is already in such a state. One has to remember that the society in question passed 114 death penalties in 2010 alone, and since 1976 it has executed over one thousand.
Ultimately, the discussion and the dilemma are not actually about euthanasia in itself, but about the proverbial hand washing of those who have to make choices about life and death. The discussion is not about the justification, but about the consequences to those who remain behind to live with that choice. The virtues are out of the window, the values seem to be vague and the attitudes turn as quickly as a coat turns on a politician when a minister's seat is within a grasp.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
June [Absorbing]
Reading:
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, Books I-III, Adam Smith
Listening:
In Absentia, Porcupine Tree
Welcome to my DNA, Blackfield
An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations, Books I-III, Adam Smith
Listening:
In Absentia, Porcupine Tree
Welcome to my DNA, Blackfield
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
Occupational Threshold
Men's curiosity searches past and future, and clings to that dimension.
But to apprehend the point of intersection of the timeless
with time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given and taken,
in a lifetime's death in love, ardour and selflessness, and self-surrender.
T. S. Eliot Four Quartets
But to apprehend the point of intersection of the timeless
with time, is an occupation for the saint—
No occupation either, but something given and taken,
in a lifetime's death in love, ardour and selflessness, and self-surrender.
T. S. Eliot Four Quartets
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Magnetic North and Intentional Suffering
It is the fire that lights itself
But it burns with a restless flame
The arrow on a moving target
The archer must be sure of his aim
It is the engine that drives itself
But it chooses the uphill climb
A bearing on magnetic north
Growing farther away all the time
--Neil Peart, RUSH, "Cut to the Chase" from the album "Counterparts", October 19, 1993, Anthem/Atlantic
But it burns with a restless flame
The arrow on a moving target
The archer must be sure of his aim
It is the engine that drives itself
But it chooses the uphill climb
A bearing on magnetic north
Growing farther away all the time
--Neil Peart, RUSH, "Cut to the Chase" from the album "Counterparts", October 19, 1993, Anthem/Atlantic
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Nwalme
"...you will linger on in darkness and in doubt, as nightfall in winter that comes without a star. Here you will dwell, bound to your grief under the fading trees... until all the world is changed and the long years of your life are utterly spent..."
Friday, May 6, 2011
Hybrid Utterances
Intelligence. A mind that burns like a fire. A closed system lacks the ability to renew itself. Knowledge alone is a poor primer...
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Vox Populi
You will get what you deserve. You will get exactly what you ordered. A vote and a voice is worth exactly as much as the shallow and misguided existence of your representative.
And that isn't much.
And that isn't much.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
April
Absorbing:
"Traveling Music", Neil Peart
"The Masked Rider", Neil Peart
"Monoliths & Dimensions", Sunn o)))
"The New Black", Strapping Young Lad
"Manafon", David Sylvian
"Traveling Music", Neil Peart
"The Masked Rider", Neil Peart
"Monoliths & Dimensions", Sunn o)))
"The New Black", Strapping Young Lad
"Manafon", David Sylvian
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Incantation
Who are you, who took the clay from my river?
Who burned my figures in her dark house?
Who spilled my water over a grave?
Who gathered sprigs of my fruit trees in the corners?
Who cut the seam of my robe in the house of the tanner?
Who gathered up the dust of my feet on the threshold?
I sent to the mouth of the harbour, where tallow was bought for you;
I sent to the moat, where clay was picked up for you...
...Who are you, whose son? Who are you, whose daughter?
You who sit here and command your sorcery, your plots,
That you have done against me!
May Ea the magician undo,
And nullify your sorceries!
Asarluhi, the magician of the gods, son of Ea the wise!
--unknown author, Mesopotamia, 1st Millenium BC (supposedly)
Who burned my figures in her dark house?
Who spilled my water over a grave?
Who gathered sprigs of my fruit trees in the corners?
Who cut the seam of my robe in the house of the tanner?
Who gathered up the dust of my feet on the threshold?
I sent to the mouth of the harbour, where tallow was bought for you;
I sent to the moat, where clay was picked up for you...
...Who are you, whose son? Who are you, whose daughter?
You who sit here and command your sorcery, your plots,
That you have done against me!
May Ea the magician undo,
And nullify your sorceries!
Asarluhi, the magician of the gods, son of Ea the wise!
--unknown author, Mesopotamia, 1st Millenium BC (supposedly)
Absorbing [March]
Reading:
Peter Pešić: "Labyrinth: A Search for the Hidden Meaning of Science"
William Gibson & Bruce Sterling: "The Difference Engine"
Listening:
Various Artists: "Kill Bill, Vol. 1 Soundtrack"
Ted Nugent: "Craveman"
Blue Murder: "OST"
Peter Pešić: "Labyrinth: A Search for the Hidden Meaning of Science"
William Gibson & Bruce Sterling: "The Difference Engine"
Listening:
Various Artists: "Kill Bill, Vol. 1 Soundtrack"
Ted Nugent: "Craveman"
Blue Murder: "OST"
Notes from the End of an Era Pt. 4 [Desparatus]
Someone being punched righteously straight into the face by reality and the causality within. I watch in the sidelines and smile. I have forseen this.
There is nothing more satisfying than being right.
There is nothing more satisfying than being right.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
The Land of Strange Gods II: Borderline
The gentle veil of rain shimmered in the early morning half-light. His eyes were fixed somewhere in the horizon, but he was looking at no particular point in the distance. The land was asleep and the yellow leaves rested in the trees looking tired. There was a great sense of sadness and longing. The landscape became blurred and distorted in his sleep deprived perception. When he slowly turned to face his car, an 18-wheeler passed the truck stop sending a gust of wind and water behind his back. As the whirlwind of leaves and tiny droplets slowly died, he pinned the butt of his still lit cigarette with the nail of his index finger against the upper joint of his thumb. He exhaled almost theatrically through his nostrils and sent the cigarette flying through the air towards the thick woods.
Then, it came again. The uncomfortable feeling at the tip of his sternum, rising towards the neck and when it reached the level of his heart, his whole chest jolted with arrhythmia. He raised his hand to feel the back of his head and slowly turned to look at the sky behind him. The reality changed in front of his eyes and a film of water appeared over his eye-sight. Small ripples formed around the clouds as everything turned black and white. He felt the back of his head again carefully. From the liquid sky a pillar of water-like substance coiled in a downward spiral attaching to the back of his head. He took hold of the thing firmly with both hands and uttered a single word. Motherfucker. The sky replied with a tremor that brought him to his knees. His upper body buckled and twisted violently backwards.
It was barely audible, but he heard it: the three very deep and low shocks in roughly half second intervals. He had no idea what it meant and what it was trying to say. He felt betrayed and trapped in this creation, as the plaything of a malevolent, unpredictable and autistic deity, and as the middle finger of god. Waves of pain washed over him. It was a divine catharsis delivered in a manner which made Satan appear gracious, courteous and kind. His mind was soon blank and cleansed. The vast nothingness inside his head made the only unpurged thought echo like whisper in a cathedral.
The thought of her.
It completely eluded him. He was kept sane and walking the Earth by one of the most despised human fallacies. Love. What an appropriate shrine for a failure. The punishing waves of hurt gave birth to another thought amidst the abyss of his mind, and then, to another and another. A train of thought sped away, spitting soul-fire, through the vast chambers of his consciousness.
"Am I turning into one of these monkeys? I am not one of these monkeys. I have a purpose. What is my purpose? I do not remember. Who am I? Why am I here? Where is she? I love her. No, I am not capable of love. It is one of the tricks of that evil fucker. Love is only fine-tuned jealousy. Who said that? I do not remember. Oh, dear god..."
And then it stopped like it always did. He opened his eyes carefully to see the world in color again. The soaked leaves on the wet asphalt felt strange underneath his aching knees.
He staggered a few uneasy steps towards the car. He just wanted to sleep. The smell of diesel fuel on the parking lot made him feel even more heady. Through the open door, he fell to the front seats, face first. The first time on that particular day a wish was granted to him.
A series of images scattered in blackness. Black and white photographs of non-Euclid shapes rotating in a dimensional void. Scattered parts of a grand design floating in terrifying silence. It must be here somewhere. I placed it here. I cannot walk towards the images for I have no legs. I cannot reach out to them for I have no hands. I have no willpower to move the images anymore and I have forgotten how anyway. This place has a terrible sense of sadness and longing, if it is a place at all. But then, everywhere I go these days it seems to be the same. It is a world where it always rains. Each night is like a demand. Oh yes, it is still here. Behind a column of schematics rotating slowly around their axis. If I could just get closer. The image has faded even more as I feared, but I can still make sense of the picture. She is sitting on a beach amongst ancient ruins. She rests her back against a fallen pillar of a temple at the waterline of a white city lost in time. The sea behind her is calm, reflecting the light ethereal. There is no sun but the velvety silver light appears from every angle. Her white long dress glows in this unearthly light and embraces every curve of her beautiful body. Her hair is just as I remember, soft and sand brown. A few cork-screw curls caress her goddess-like face with high cheekbones as the rest of her hair is gathered behind her head skillfully in a bundle. She smiles. There is a small jewel implanted on the surface of one of her teeth and there is a matching one pierced on the left just above her full and lush lips. I want to drown in her large, dark and playful eyes forever. It will not be long before the image disappears completely. A curious thing it is, this entropy without time. Everything here is eternal, but this one thing. Did I do something? Am I losing the connection? Would she even recognize me anymore? It is getting harder to remember, even though I am keeping myself awake for days to make the sleep and dreams deeper. Dreams are helpful. They make me remember. I don't want to wake up. I...
The smell of rain and the hissing from the road invaded his conscious thought. He opened has eyes and felt a sharp pain in his left hand. He carefully opened his clenched left fist to find the ignition key inside. It had left a deep red mark on his palm. He rose up arduously and shoved the key to its place in the steering column. Not much farther, he thought, as he turned the key to wake up the sleeping engine. Everything in his body hurt. He thought of it as vapid waste of useless flesh. There was a sense of special discomfort he felt towards this body. Hands, feet, breathing and heartbeat seemed all foreign to him, especially after an incident with the maker. His eye-sight was still flooded with overlapping images lifted from his dream. He really needed to clear his head. This sensory overload was too much for the flesh. He searched for the glove compartment for a fresh pack of smokes. There. A lighter. Check. Cold coffee from last night on the dash. Roger. A box full of strong painkillers. Uh-huh. Good to go.
It was all unremarkable. Yet another podunk sleepy factory town tucked behind gods know where. The ill-proportioned box-shaped buildings made out of concrete elements, and the general ugliness of everything was nothing short of appalling. He pulled left on the main street to the parking space of the apparently only hotel in town. It was a two-storey hotel, about average in size, and with a not very interesting facade of white bricks and corrugated iron plating underneath the windows. There were only two other cars in the parking lot, and he mused that they were probably cars owned by the hotel staff. It was in the middle of the week, which meant that the restaurants would be closed in the night. A good place for deep sleep, if nothing else. The ceiling was low in the lobby and the front desk was worn. The check-in was uneventful and quick. He dragged his flight-case to the first floor where the smoking rooms were. He let the door swing open before entering the room. Judging by the view from the doorway, it did actually not look as bad he had envisioned it. The curtains were exceptionally good. He could black out the whole room. There was one abstract painting hanging on the wall like an afterthought. The bathroom was white on white on white, and it delivered the second surprise of the day as it was clean. It was the hotel room modestly acceptable. This would then serve as yet another permanent address for the time being. There was even a small shelf for the luggage beside the writing table. He lifted the bag to the shelf and opened it to make inventory. It was like he had left it years ago. Three black suits in packed in transparent vacuum bags. Three pairs of black wing-tipped shoes. Three black cotton turtle neck shirts. One black dress shirt. One black silk tie. A bundle of black socks rolled into a ball. A dozen black underpants. One black notebook. One black fountain pen. One black pouch that contained toiletries. A black older model mobile phone switched off. All the items were unlabeled and therefore untraceable. He peeled off his traveling clothes and threw them into a trash can. As he walked naked towards the bathroom, his eyes caught the refection in the mirror. He appeared in his thirties, but those who had seen him, had described his age from 25 to 40 depending on the given situation. His face could be described as the definition of average but perfectly symmetric. His body was completely hairless with the only exception being the mop of black hair on his head. Only a closer examination would have revealed that it was all synthetic and it would change color when exposed to a certain level electricity. His eyes changed color too but only depending on his mood that was usually shifting between shadowy gray and black. He stood examining the reflection in the bathroom mirror under the cathode ray blue light. It was all unremarkable.
Then, it came again. The uncomfortable feeling at the tip of his sternum, rising towards the neck and when it reached the level of his heart, his whole chest jolted with arrhythmia. He raised his hand to feel the back of his head and slowly turned to look at the sky behind him. The reality changed in front of his eyes and a film of water appeared over his eye-sight. Small ripples formed around the clouds as everything turned black and white. He felt the back of his head again carefully. From the liquid sky a pillar of water-like substance coiled in a downward spiral attaching to the back of his head. He took hold of the thing firmly with both hands and uttered a single word. Motherfucker. The sky replied with a tremor that brought him to his knees. His upper body buckled and twisted violently backwards.
It was barely audible, but he heard it: the three very deep and low shocks in roughly half second intervals. He had no idea what it meant and what it was trying to say. He felt betrayed and trapped in this creation, as the plaything of a malevolent, unpredictable and autistic deity, and as the middle finger of god. Waves of pain washed over him. It was a divine catharsis delivered in a manner which made Satan appear gracious, courteous and kind. His mind was soon blank and cleansed. The vast nothingness inside his head made the only unpurged thought echo like whisper in a cathedral.
The thought of her.
It completely eluded him. He was kept sane and walking the Earth by one of the most despised human fallacies. Love. What an appropriate shrine for a failure. The punishing waves of hurt gave birth to another thought amidst the abyss of his mind, and then, to another and another. A train of thought sped away, spitting soul-fire, through the vast chambers of his consciousness.
"Am I turning into one of these monkeys? I am not one of these monkeys. I have a purpose. What is my purpose? I do not remember. Who am I? Why am I here? Where is she? I love her. No, I am not capable of love. It is one of the tricks of that evil fucker. Love is only fine-tuned jealousy. Who said that? I do not remember. Oh, dear god..."
And then it stopped like it always did. He opened his eyes carefully to see the world in color again. The soaked leaves on the wet asphalt felt strange underneath his aching knees.
He staggered a few uneasy steps towards the car. He just wanted to sleep. The smell of diesel fuel on the parking lot made him feel even more heady. Through the open door, he fell to the front seats, face first. The first time on that particular day a wish was granted to him.
A series of images scattered in blackness. Black and white photographs of non-Euclid shapes rotating in a dimensional void. Scattered parts of a grand design floating in terrifying silence. It must be here somewhere. I placed it here. I cannot walk towards the images for I have no legs. I cannot reach out to them for I have no hands. I have no willpower to move the images anymore and I have forgotten how anyway. This place has a terrible sense of sadness and longing, if it is a place at all. But then, everywhere I go these days it seems to be the same. It is a world where it always rains. Each night is like a demand. Oh yes, it is still here. Behind a column of schematics rotating slowly around their axis. If I could just get closer. The image has faded even more as I feared, but I can still make sense of the picture. She is sitting on a beach amongst ancient ruins. She rests her back against a fallen pillar of a temple at the waterline of a white city lost in time. The sea behind her is calm, reflecting the light ethereal. There is no sun but the velvety silver light appears from every angle. Her white long dress glows in this unearthly light and embraces every curve of her beautiful body. Her hair is just as I remember, soft and sand brown. A few cork-screw curls caress her goddess-like face with high cheekbones as the rest of her hair is gathered behind her head skillfully in a bundle. She smiles. There is a small jewel implanted on the surface of one of her teeth and there is a matching one pierced on the left just above her full and lush lips. I want to drown in her large, dark and playful eyes forever. It will not be long before the image disappears completely. A curious thing it is, this entropy without time. Everything here is eternal, but this one thing. Did I do something? Am I losing the connection? Would she even recognize me anymore? It is getting harder to remember, even though I am keeping myself awake for days to make the sleep and dreams deeper. Dreams are helpful. They make me remember. I don't want to wake up. I...
The smell of rain and the hissing from the road invaded his conscious thought. He opened has eyes and felt a sharp pain in his left hand. He carefully opened his clenched left fist to find the ignition key inside. It had left a deep red mark on his palm. He rose up arduously and shoved the key to its place in the steering column. Not much farther, he thought, as he turned the key to wake up the sleeping engine. Everything in his body hurt. He thought of it as vapid waste of useless flesh. There was a sense of special discomfort he felt towards this body. Hands, feet, breathing and heartbeat seemed all foreign to him, especially after an incident with the maker. His eye-sight was still flooded with overlapping images lifted from his dream. He really needed to clear his head. This sensory overload was too much for the flesh. He searched for the glove compartment for a fresh pack of smokes. There. A lighter. Check. Cold coffee from last night on the dash. Roger. A box full of strong painkillers. Uh-huh. Good to go.
It was all unremarkable. Yet another podunk sleepy factory town tucked behind gods know where. The ill-proportioned box-shaped buildings made out of concrete elements, and the general ugliness of everything was nothing short of appalling. He pulled left on the main street to the parking space of the apparently only hotel in town. It was a two-storey hotel, about average in size, and with a not very interesting facade of white bricks and corrugated iron plating underneath the windows. There were only two other cars in the parking lot, and he mused that they were probably cars owned by the hotel staff. It was in the middle of the week, which meant that the restaurants would be closed in the night. A good place for deep sleep, if nothing else. The ceiling was low in the lobby and the front desk was worn. The check-in was uneventful and quick. He dragged his flight-case to the first floor where the smoking rooms were. He let the door swing open before entering the room. Judging by the view from the doorway, it did actually not look as bad he had envisioned it. The curtains were exceptionally good. He could black out the whole room. There was one abstract painting hanging on the wall like an afterthought. The bathroom was white on white on white, and it delivered the second surprise of the day as it was clean. It was the hotel room modestly acceptable. This would then serve as yet another permanent address for the time being. There was even a small shelf for the luggage beside the writing table. He lifted the bag to the shelf and opened it to make inventory. It was like he had left it years ago. Three black suits in packed in transparent vacuum bags. Three pairs of black wing-tipped shoes. Three black cotton turtle neck shirts. One black dress shirt. One black silk tie. A bundle of black socks rolled into a ball. A dozen black underpants. One black notebook. One black fountain pen. One black pouch that contained toiletries. A black older model mobile phone switched off. All the items were unlabeled and therefore untraceable. He peeled off his traveling clothes and threw them into a trash can. As he walked naked towards the bathroom, his eyes caught the refection in the mirror. He appeared in his thirties, but those who had seen him, had described his age from 25 to 40 depending on the given situation. His face could be described as the definition of average but perfectly symmetric. His body was completely hairless with the only exception being the mop of black hair on his head. Only a closer examination would have revealed that it was all synthetic and it would change color when exposed to a certain level electricity. His eyes changed color too but only depending on his mood that was usually shifting between shadowy gray and black. He stood examining the reflection in the bathroom mirror under the cathode ray blue light. It was all unremarkable.
March
"It's been doing some thinking
And felt fair that she should know
All actions in which partake
Are far beyond it's control
Whether it was born or bred
(Genetic, Environment)
I wouldn't bother to ask it why
Simply concentrate on when
It lies awake, yes, quite obsessed
Making plans but It won't tell
So longs to hear her final words:
"I brought this on myself"
The theory of futility
Now you'll learn, so be prepared
Enemies are equal to
Wrath times the speed of fright squared"
--Peter Thomas Ratajczyk (1962-2010)
And felt fair that she should know
All actions in which partake
Are far beyond it's control
Whether it was born or bred
(Genetic, Environment)
I wouldn't bother to ask it why
Simply concentrate on when
It lies awake, yes, quite obsessed
Making plans but It won't tell
So longs to hear her final words:
"I brought this on myself"
The theory of futility
Now you'll learn, so be prepared
Enemies are equal to
Wrath times the speed of fright squared"
--Peter Thomas Ratajczyk (1962-2010)
Friday, March 4, 2011
Sleepless
Needless to say I'm tired but there's always a way to cope,
there's unspoken beauty in hope, when hope is love and love is hope.
Then whose is the voice saying "go back the same way you came",
when I am breathless from running and determined I'm here to stay.
And go find someone who can help you with your heart,
and go bleeding somewhere else, I tell the mirror it's all your fault,
the man on the other side
So this is where we have come, we are helpless and we're wrong,
I always thought the life I lead would give us what we want.
With every nerve that I've got, with every pore of my skin,
I can feel the weather changing within
The daybreak is so cold, awake from dusk 'till dawn.
Am I just a paper where the picture is drawn?
But as far as I can recall, I've had a mind of my own,
when everything else is gone, I am a whisper standing stall.
there's unspoken beauty in hope, when hope is love and love is hope.
Then whose is the voice saying "go back the same way you came",
when I am breathless from running and determined I'm here to stay.
And go find someone who can help you with your heart,
and go bleeding somewhere else, I tell the mirror it's all your fault,
the man on the other side
So this is where we have come, we are helpless and we're wrong,
I always thought the life I lead would give us what we want.
With every nerve that I've got, with every pore of my skin,
I can feel the weather changing within
The daybreak is so cold, awake from dusk 'till dawn.
Am I just a paper where the picture is drawn?
But as far as I can recall, I've had a mind of my own,
when everything else is gone, I am a whisper standing stall.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Broken [Redux]
On a hallway painted white, on the edge of the world I know,
came a thought to rest on my shoulders, like a shadow or a ghost.
Something demands an answer, but maybe there is no question here,
on the threshold of losing everything or somewhere in between.
And how right were you when you said it comes with the falling snow,
arrives and refuses to go, into unknown.
And something in me moves restlessly, breaks against my frame
and turns out to be, a voice of compassion not knowing whereof it speaks
came a thought to rest on my shoulders, like a shadow or a ghost.
Something demands an answer, but maybe there is no question here,
on the threshold of losing everything or somewhere in between.
And how right were you when you said it comes with the falling snow,
arrives and refuses to go, into unknown.
And something in me moves restlessly, breaks against my frame
and turns out to be, a voice of compassion not knowing whereof it speaks
Always outnumbered, never outgunned
The Holy Father has complained that the atheists pick and choose their morals. That is correct: today I will be frowning upon child abuse and not having a problem with homosexuality.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Notes from the end of an era Pt. 3 [Gateways]
I have, literally a minute ago, decided a path which to take. A decision in itself does not mean any form of actualisation. Hell, the proverbial "making up your mind" does not mean anything, and no, a decision does not mean that you are "halfway there". You probably tell yourself that all the time, don't you? A decision is never causal. Period. It is an end-result of events and acts, and a possible gateway to more events and acts, but by nature, it is never a cause.
If we describe causality as the relationship between the first event and the second event, a metaphysical arising called "decision" describes the relationship between "the subjective former and the imagined latter". However, there are beings to whom a decision describes the relationship between the actual-as-they-know-it and an identified potential field. To witness such is a rare privilege, I might add. This is related to another human fallacy called "intuition", which would be best described as "a lame excuse for not understanding why a choice was made, usually in an either-or situation".
Thus, to come into a conclusion intuitively, and to make a decision based on that intuitive conclusion means clueless guessing.
A note to self: the explanation why this planet is such a dump has been discovered.
If we describe causality as the relationship between the first event and the second event, a metaphysical arising called "decision" describes the relationship between "the subjective former and the imagined latter". However, there are beings to whom a decision describes the relationship between the actual-as-they-know-it and an identified potential field. To witness such is a rare privilege, I might add. This is related to another human fallacy called "intuition", which would be best described as "a lame excuse for not understanding why a choice was made, usually in an either-or situation".
Thus, to come into a conclusion intuitively, and to make a decision based on that intuitive conclusion means clueless guessing.
A note to self: the explanation why this planet is such a dump has been discovered.
Monday, February 28, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Notes from the end of an era Pt. 2 [Premonition]
What will I make out of this? There is enough maleficium in play, and its metaphysical momentum is enough to cause great pain.
I will not be moved.
I will not be moved.
Friday, February 18, 2011
February
Cold, so unbelievably cold. But then, it is utterly useless to bitch and whine about the weather. It is what it is. The End of an Era draws nigh and I am lingering at the treshold of no longer and not yet.
"And there’s nothing I could do without here
Loving the state that I’m in
Between no longer and not yet
On the treshold of some brighter thing"
-- David Sylvian, "Wanderlust", from the album "Dead Bees on a Cake", CDV2876, Virgin
"And there’s nothing I could do without here
Loving the state that I’m in
Between no longer and not yet
On the treshold of some brighter thing"
-- David Sylvian, "Wanderlust", from the album "Dead Bees on a Cake", CDV2876, Virgin
Reading
Anthony Bourdain: "Medium Raw: A Bloody Valentine to the World of Food and the People Who Cook"
Neil Peart: "Roadshow: Landscape With Drums: A Concert Tour by Motorcycle"
Greg Taylor, Robert Schoch, and Erik Davis: "Darklore, Volume 5"
Neil Peart: "Roadshow: Landscape With Drums: A Concert Tour by Motorcycle"
Greg Taylor, Robert Schoch, and Erik Davis: "Darklore, Volume 5"
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
Observing
Lasse Hoile: "Insurgentes"
Kenji Kamiyama: "Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex 2nd GIG, Individual Eleven"
David Simon: "The Wire, Seasons 1-5"
Remi Aubuchon, Ronald D. Moore, David Eicke: "Caprica Season 1"
Kenji Kamiyama: "Ghost in the Shell: Stand Alone Complex 2nd GIG, Individual Eleven"
David Simon: "The Wire, Seasons 1-5"
Remi Aubuchon, Ronald D. Moore, David Eicke: "Caprica Season 1"
January
January of 2011.
I have absolutely nothing to say about this month. It shall pass in the annals, both professionally and personally, as a period that would be best buried underneath the snow.
There is nothing to learn about those failures.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Notes from the end of an era Pt. 1
"Function is what we do.
Being is the quality we bring to it.
Will is the intensity of our application / whether we do it or not."
--Robert Fripp
Being is the quality we bring to it.
Will is the intensity of our application / whether we do it or not."
--Robert Fripp
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Apotheosis
It is "the prayer day" today. My faith was lost a long ago and its ashes are scattered to a distant grove.
"Let me enlighten you, this is the way I pray" --David Draiman
"Let me enlighten you, this is the way I pray" --David Draiman
Monday, January 3, 2011
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