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"'So Mr. Garret, How you feelin?' The doc says. 'Numb' I say back. He chuckles a bit. Tells me you can't feel numb, 'cause numb means you can't feel. You can't feel numb, you can only be numb, he tells me."

"Be numb. Be numb. It goes on like a heartbeat or an irregular mantra. Be numb"

- Milo Garret, The Counterfifth Detective (by Azarello/Risso)

There's darkness at the break of dawn but noone's really awake at dawn so it doesn't really matter. Kids nowadays haven't really gone to bed, zombie-like in their patterns and motions, opening each and every gift with as few motions as possible, putting everything aside to save for a rainy day, nothing brings a cheer and it's not apathy or not-caring, they're just not thinking which is quite ordinary when people aren't trained to do something from an early age. Conditioning, Alpha-Male to Delta-Male is all crucial. We run a tight ship, you see. We do indeed run a tight ship.

Someone tells me there's hope for the future, that even though it's so bleak, this is the moment when it shines through. When god will lift his head and send something else down to us, something else that's been designed only to let some light in and I've been toying with the thought that Jebus was really the first discordian. He was a heck of a person too, remembering the old rule from Preacher, "Don't be an asshole" but the complexity of his actions, resembling the poems of Whitman and he took a stand. He didn't let them see his weirdness. Stop groaning. It's like the Hunter S. Thompson quote "When the going gets weird, the weird turns pro" and I think it's exactly what jesus did. Everyone thought they'd seen his weirdness and when they thought they were used to that weirdness he took it up a notch and fucked them over real good. He created an army of zombies too, but regarding the fact that 1/10 people in general are ok (yet nothing more) I'd guess the same statistic for religious people are perhaps 1/100 except for buddhists for they get along with fucking everybody.
I originally planned to start a discordian church in norway but after meeting the people that deem themselves discordian, I'd rather sit at home and masturbate with a hand full of razors.

And.

It's christmas. Christmass, Xmas. Elvis faked his own death by the by, he's sitting somewhere he's dubbed new graceland taking amph and eating banana jelly sandwiches. For me to believe any conspiracy, there needs to be a motive. Not a motive embedded deep inside the ass of david icke, but for something to gain. Money. Power. I buy that a hell of a lot easier than the weirdo in his shack up the mountainside or those who already are in too much power as in "a wing of the government shot hunter s thompson". Still, there's the unabomber.

Once, me and a good friend of mine took a heroic dose of mushrooms. We were fucking stupid and probably 19 or something but we put five grams of norwegian mushrooms, socalled "flein" and put it into our stomachs, souls, nervous systems and souls. Flein is interesting because many trippers won't touch the stuff as it goes from high to low and viceversa in seconds. One second you can be orgasming all over your brain and the next you're standing in line and asking the good sir if you can have some more. The third member of the story entered perhaps 3-4 hours after we had eaten, when we sat nice and still upon our plateau, probably listening to pink floyd and saying inane shit like "well, what really IS so funny about peace, love and understanding" but this girl, which I lived with came in, her makeup was all fucked up, she wasn't sober but not really drunk but she was vicious man, she was so fucking vicious. She'd been drinking a few kongepjolters (4-6 cl. cognac, fill the glass with champagne or cava) and her boyfriend had broken up with her because he wanted something new. Understandably so, as they'd been together since they were 13 or another retarded age. She goes onto a rant as we sit there and discuss 2012 and the end of the world and terrence mckenna and buckminster fuller and raw and everything you do when you're 19 and she said

"I really hope the world ends in 2012. I'll be sitting there in december with a fucking cigar, a bottle of cognac and a bottle of champagne, pissed as a fart and high on the most vile chemical substance I can find and I fucking hope my ex comes running over to me because he'll be fucking scared and wants his mommy again and I'll just sit there and smile and laugh and giggle because there's no point in us existing anymore. We're like a perpetual plastic prison (PPP, like any soap that's been going on forever) and the only reason we sustain ourselves is to sustain ourselves. Fuckit. I'm not trying to be goth emo or indie here, I just hope we die. I mean, we've killed off so much shit that we fucking deserve to be culled. Fuck, the dodo was way cooler than any person I've met. I'm gonna be soo disappointed in 2012."

She went on further too, but I lost the thread, yet the concept lingered.
















Jesus died for your sins.

Some hipster magazine wanted me and a photography buddy wanted us to do a piece or thing on a local band called POWPOW.

Images are not taken yet, but this is probably what will be accompanying them:

The locals scream in a language we can't fully fathom, using only parts of
it in our daily routine, cerveza, cheviche, por favor. The locals seem
upset about the english whales that have stranded on the beach, rubbing
their bellies with pina coladas, reminding the tourists why they deep down
inside themselves feel shame.
The neverending destination of chartertourism. The death of credibillity
and originality under the tyranny of aryan masses. Blind idiot gods with
no desire to understand the culture ravage the streets, asking for fish
and chips at the kabob stand before going over to the supermarket to get
themselves a nice sixer of Guinness.
The hotel is dirty but it has charm and a tequila bar in the basement,
where young senoritas serve it from their cinderella shoes, the owner of
the hotel is Enrique, a sleazy old man who sits in the lobby in his cheap
suit with cheap cigarillos bidding every young girl welcome. His son,
Pepe, sits by the counter and the thing that hits after a while, perhaps
while standing in the elevator is that it's the same music, whereever you
go and it fits the mood perfectly, like an old faded polaroid from
sometime in the 70's.
The tunes become our tunes as we mix them with what the senoritas in the
basement sings, slapping kettles and asses for the rhythms and as the day
goes by we become more weary of our charter limbo and everything slides
out of control and we leave the old hotel, we leave the music to add to
the whalesong as we ascend the stairs leading away from it all, a memory
we'll always have an ambivalent relationship to as we climb into the plane
that's here to take us out of this over-civillized world and back to our
own and as we fall asleep on the plane, hungover and filled with soothing
pills we fall asleep to the memories of the muzak.

music can be heard at http://www.myspace.com/powpow2

Here he comes past the Rubicon, wearing soldiers and warriors and god-kings alike. A dream was set in the foundation of the world, to keep it down, to keep it low, to keep it where it is, safe from bodily harm and safe from those who wish to destroy it themselves. The beggars sit still in the streets as soldiers on defense ravage through the city for one final glimpse of victory in the eyes of a dead whore. Mary Magdalene, mother of all pain, we are all your sons.

Crowned with thorns and responsibility we are given the world where it rests at our slumberous feet. To sit upon a throne and see the green pastures like Solomon, king of old and to hear broken hallelujahs coming from the innermost room of the temple. There is so much light in our hearts and souls, there is so much light in our empathy and mitochondrial dna.

Nightmares tear through the sky and all the king's men huddle underneath their roofs, all the brave warriors and heroes remain silent as they see their enemy approaching. For some of them, the piss will rust the metal but most will not live to see another day for Victor Hugo said it and the idea is on the march, building bulwarks and barricades, palisades to match.

The king himself is silent, his philosophers and advicers too. In the cool evening breeze all one hears is a silent harp being played for itself by its' master who wishes the enemy to break down the gates and break the levee. The musician is cursed with understanding and blessed with ignorance, seeing nothing in the squabbles of humans, be they kings or beggars. The lonely harp plays a lament to all that is lost in this hour and all that is gained for there is no difference for the harp player.

There is no right and there is no wrong in his utopian mind because nothing is. Nothing is as we percieve it now he thinks, it is only an oasis in the middle of the desert. They strive for a status quo, they strive for the painters honor, by completion, by creating stability and humans have always had an agenda for stability or the expected.

It is in their stability they denounce the edicts created by their gods. It is for the sake of stability, whether it has been lost or yet to be gained they turn into villains for the roads were created long ago and one simply needs to tread upon them.

He plays his harp and change breaks down the walls.

Modern day hieroglyphs being comics and especially graphical novels, the comic books weird aunt. By the way, it was Alan Moore who compared hieroglyphs with comics.

I read alot of english/american comics. Due to the fact that I live in a shitty country, I read no weeklies or monthlies but there's half a montana shelf in my room here filled with trade paperbacks. There are a few writers that you'll hear namedropped here and other sites which share our view of the world or our love for disinformation amongst other things. Those you'll hopefully see referenced are:

Grant Morrison, Alan Moore, Warren Ellis, Neil Gaiman, Frank Miller, Paul Pope and Brian Azzarello.

The way I see it? Some of these chaps have written some of the more important books the last twentysomething years.

So, let's begin with Grant Morrison: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grant_Morrison

Mr. Morrison has no formal education and has been on the fringe for most of his life. Was straightedge for about the 30 first years of his life, worked crap jobs while playing in a punk band and studying magic, culture, counter-culture etc. A fucking impressive brain. The stuff he's produced ranges from mainstream superhero to Animal Man(a 3rd rate superhero becomes aware of the fact that he's trapped in paper and ink)/The Invisibles(Seven volumes, following a cell of people with a discordianish bent)/The Filth(which reads a bit like david lynch) along with much other incredibly great work.

I advice reading:

Arkham Asylum, his collaboration with Dave McKean of Sandman etc fame. The collected edition features the original manuscript, which is almost as interesting as the story itself.

The Invisibles: Time travel, popmagic, magick, sex, drugs, shaman transvestites, a budding buddha from the most unlikely of places, cthulhu, mind control, oppenheimer, what ufos REALLY are, magic, sex, drugs, voodoo, weird cults and everything you'd want from that intelligent action flick. This is how the matrix should have been done. Punchline: What if every conspiracy theory was true?

We3: Not that discordian in itself, but very beautiful and quite political. Sci-fi in the best definitions of the word. If you haven't changed emotional stance while reading it, you're a rock.

Doom Patrol: Absurdist backwater superheroes revived into an even more absurdist atmostphere. Deals with much of the same the Invisibles does but on a completely different scale. Difficult to explain, but the ideas and concepts in these books seem much more raw.

The Filth: This is like watching any David Lynch movie. Basically. A tour de force through storytelling. Very weird and dense. Reminds me of Gravity's Rainbow or V. by Thomas Pynchon.

I'll add more later.

"Despair, thee mortals. Flee! Godzilla is coming and nothing can stop her fiery breath! The gaze of death will be upon thee. But wait, what is that sound? What are these mighty wings? Is it angels? Is it the heavenly host to kill the manmade demon Godzilla? Or is it .. is it .. its .. MOTHMA!!!"

-Dubbed version of Godzilla vs. Mothma, narrator speaking.


He said it so beautifully. This machine kills fascists. He told us what it was, he made us see something. A little streak of hope perhaps, or just a wee little bit of understanding. Perhaps intellect, perhaps love but most likely hate.

"I am so beastly tired of mankind and the world that nothing can interest me unless it contains a couple of murders on each page or deals with the horrors of unnameable and unaccountable that leer down from the external universes."

- HP Lovecraft

The poet, the pre bob dylan bob dylan, told us that his machine could destroy fascists or rather that culture in all its forms could annihilate fascism. What do you need a fascist-killer for if you have no interest in humanity? If life feels like renderings of The Wasteland, what would you need to keep you on your crutch?

"Then I perceived with horror that I was growing too old for pleasure. Ruthless Time had set its fell claw upon me, and I was seventeen. Big boys do not play in toy houses or mock gardens, so I was obliged to turn over my world in sorrow to another and and younger boy who dwelt  across the lot from me. And since that time I have not delved in the earth or laid out paths and roads. There is too much wistful memory in such procedure, for the fleeting joy of childhoos may never be recaptured. Adulthood is hell."

- HP Lovecraft

The machine does not kill fascists, but it creates a powerful  meme, used throughout the decades by various people. keeping our american history 101 updated with coca cola and woody guthrie, sloganized people that survive the coming years and while both are different, their legacies remain.

"Those who love life do not read. Nor do they go to the movies, actually. No matter what might be said, access to the artistic universe is more or less entirely the preserve of those who are a littlefed up with the world."

-Michel Houellebecq

And does the machine suffer? Does the puppeteer suffer as the puppet does? Does the puppet understand something the puppeteer does not? All this time, was it simply a ménage à trois or was it something more? Have you noticed time? Have you noticed time that goes so slow or time that moves so quick that it resembles so slow? How do you feel time? How do you know time without a watch or a sun? How do you know it's really time you're feeling, what if it's something else entirely but you haven't thought about that and we haven't thought about that, developing no senses in time because if we can feel time then we should be able to feel more than just the present now which would open up a whole can of worms when people would actually be able to perceive time differently, distinguishing against both past and present and this time could only be seen through the glass of a delorean.

"When Eris received its official name from the IAU, the moon received the name Dysnomia, after the Greek demon of lawlessness who was Eris' daughter. This was a link with the former nicknames, as the character of Xena was played by Lucy Lawless."

-Wikipedia, article about the dwarf planet Eris

What is the purpose of the Necronomicon? It should seem that the book holds power for those that dare open it and read the incantations. A power to end the world. A machine that kills fascists. Is that it? Is the necronomicon the perfect tool in the creative mind? Is the necronomicon the exact opposite of the bible? What stories would it then contain and what prophets, what is the tale of jesus?

And Mothma, in the form of Itzpapalotl returns to us.

Because you're special. Because you sit inside your mold for all of life and create beautiful works of art and craft. Because each and every one of you have a story to tell and a distinct way to tell it. I hate you because don't seem to learn, do you? If you want to run through that wall you try three times before you quit, just to do the same thing the next day when someone tells you he has already done it.

But most of all, I hate you because every stereotype of the silent majority and every fucker in the street fits so easily. Ants in the hill, cows and sheep with dull grape eyes and cogs in the machine. I hate you because I grow weary of hearing the exact same phrases used again and again spanning probably millennia of human history. I hate you because you quote socrates or one of the other greeks when you say that KIDS NOWADAYS and you can't see the connection between yourself and that quote and I hate YOU YOU FUCKING ASS, SINGING BOB DYLAN ON THE AFTERPARTIES OR GOING INTO RADIOHEAD IF YOU'RE TOO FUCKING DESPO AND YOU SING WORDS THAT RING OUT OF YOUR MOUTH WITH HOLLOW FALSENESS because you haven't even made a fucking effort to understand what the words are about and you pride yourself with never having read a book, seen a movie or play or heard a piece of music that challenged you. You fell asleep as your brain locked down and your will was somewhere else on the floor, wrapped in dead children and latex.

I love you because you're my friends and some of you are so fucking intelligent and we agree on many things but you just spit it out, you've thought about what you're too say but there are so many repeat performances, the perfect testament of your stagnation and you re-use the dreams you used to have as a kid and fit them into the frame of reference you currently possess and you don't see it yourself.

Or you talk about ego-loss, ego-death, reciting tool texts, remembering listening to comfortably numb on acid and you preached for the better part of a year about the necessity of obliterating ones own ego and I was there with ya brah, but I stopped and eventually you stopped when ego was getting daily fellatios and you turned into shit and gold, mud and flame.
Yet, it was okay for you to do both, preach ego death and ego itself and when cornered perhaps quoting pound or whitman, ignoring the voice in the back of your intellect that says fuck I misunderstood, I gotta turn now, this is just wrong. Is that your pride swelling? Your honor?

You didn't listen my darling lsd friend and what baffles me most is how well you managed to turn away. You've read a copy of V for Vendetta to shreds and yet the sentence "It's not what happens before the loud bang that is important, it is how we fill the silence afterwards" managed to escape you. Let me share a piece of information I've been able to gather while I've been here, which is 24 years:

Nothing worthwhile doing is easy and nothing ever stops.

You are the blind, waiting for your one-eyed king to guide you.

I do not know much, but I know this: Arthur Koestler made me do it. It is fitting for it was all his fault that I knew that I wasn't the only to view the world differently. Others told me this too but none told it in the profound sense which Koestler told it.

"Don't let them see your weirdness." - TGRR

Hell is other people he says before he ventures out on Black Friday, joining the hordes of others dressed to kill and be killed downtown there in little Oslo. Still raining with the sounds of clicketyclack everywhere to hear. On their ways, christmas parties for the employees, chopping sprees amongst the bestsellers of paperback and nice price dvds. They report that there has never been sold this many COMPLEAT FRIENDS packages, bundled up in HDREADY for your HDREADY screen you bought with the bonus because you don't want to miss out on anything, like watching the forecast every night and watching the news saying it's important to pay attention, it's important to know what's going on in the world. This is where I roll my eyes and don't even start the discussion unless I'm drunk enough.

One of the secrets of the world, which I must admit I didn't learn from Mr. Koestler but rather from Mr. Crowley is that everything shares the same system. It is in this way that magic is true, it is in this way that one can do changes. A form of illumination one reaches when having pondered on "the penetrator will be the penetrated" for long enough, seeing an ex-alcoholic filling her tumbler with water, adding ice cubes and and a little slice of lime and understanding that the world will end and there are only comic book characters that will remain to sit on the outskirts of some city, watching it burn while chugging a bottle of champagne from the earlier parts of the last century. The world will end. If the shatterer of worlds has a sense of humor, it will indeed happen sometime around christmas. No other holidays will suffice for none other brings out the madness so inherent in each of us.

Everything shares the same system. Everything works within standard parametres. Understanding and knowledge in our society is set with a limit. I personally believe it is the same thing as "a hole in our soul" but it is what registers as civillization or barbary, depending if you like chocolate or vanilla. These are also part of the same system, the same idiot machine with the traditional tugs and cogs.
Magicians say that the war between heaven and hell is a metaphorical one, it's happening inside our own minds and intuitions. See them as an equation, see them as The Architect and The Oracle within the Matrix. See the discussion in the bar, behind the pizza counter, by the burger flipping stands in McDonald's or the place up the street that makes the buns for Pizza Hut.

1 & 0. The two types of people in the world. Every answer can be broken down into Yes and No. 1001 - 2 = 7. Seven seconds away, seven soldiers. 7 is the new 5. 25 is the new 23 and the brain is the new pineal gland. Something in the law changes and if the changes are accepted and popularized, the law is overwritten and the law becomes the law for another generation where one of the clever small dodos will figure out that it was once 5, 23 and pineal gland. He'll then perhaps change it to 69, A and Anus if he's inventive. Yet, does this make the significance, the meaning to change or is it cosmetic?

In 2008, Arnold Schwarzenegger will become the president of the USA. The last solar solar cycle of the last century will begin to fade. Time will begin to seem unreal, glitches first with memories bleeding from one creature to another. No toilets will work in the entire world, all is water and shit and piss watering mother earth. Action is called for, the old propaganda machines set anew in motion, Jehovahs witnesses are no longer alone with predicting the end of the world but they see merely the answer, their faith broken down in 1s and 0s, Yes or No and for them, the world will not end, the skin will grow back.

For others, it will be different. But the end of the world is coming when the truth will still stay hidden but everything will reach an anticlimax and much will be unravelled. Those who dream of terrorism will become true terrorists, those who dream of freedom will become true freedom fighters and those who dream of other things will become other things. But most of the time, nothing will change in the bigger picture for the big picture is always slow, always on three wheels down a bumpy road.

Then perhaps, some day you'll get to think about Jesus Christ. Perhaps you're sober, perhaps you're gathered with your friends, your family, your food, your presents but you'll see him hanging there and you'll understand his desire to become a plastic fruit preserved in plastic like small lemons and peppers and pineapples in the kebab stands and you'll think of him as you run to the new ground zero, downtown Oslo strapped with a homemade neutron bomb, straight from the anarchist's cookbook and there's cops chasing you but they're fat, too many donuts and too much pizza and too many blowjobs and too little fucking and there's terror in every man and womans eyes but not the children, the children smile with glee and hope in their eyes that you'll be able to pull this off and you get some floors between you and the cops and you get up and out on the roof and you set it up and make it failsafe, smiling as the countdown hits the five seconds mark

"Take my hand and I'll show you what was and will be." - Ian Curtis, Joy Division

I steal as I create something myself, I kid the the gloves on vauxhall panes and I keep driving into the golden setting sun with a bottle of tequila in hand heading for one sort of oblivion. I see the names of old dead masters and I recreate their names, I redo their work and drop oneliners from 007 and army of darkness as I sit myself down by the tablet and I draw.

I draw mickey mouse with a hitler stache, I draw calvin klein with manboobs and for every drawing discarded I find my voice. I become less ethereal, more solid and more alive and as I grow they hear my voice and my bewilderment. They drink them you know, they drink old ideas like vintage Vine, collecting the powerful drops of mickey, scrooge, roger rabbit and cthulhu every season before they dilute it in cheap metaphors and images, always readily available from the mainstream market.

By observing the inhabitants for longer periods of time, it seems like they have a burning desire to play ctf. Their laughs are always nervous when speaking about that or democratical votes put out. There is also a lot of fear in their tone when first attempting something they've been studying theoretically for years. The burden of information eats it up and this is all that's left. There are no easier routines and as some of the pigs in the den have said "There is no surrender, only defeat".

Some of the days when I wake up and look out into the yard there are more pigs than humans, everyone has the same colour on their skin, bloated small waterheaded miracles going around doing their duties talking amongst themselves, not how to free one another but rather how and why neurocam does what it does.

who am i/i am i/who is holding me here/i am holding myself here/why don't i escape/convenience

where location location location is the mantra of the moneyhungry suits of the world convenience convenience convenience is the unheard shriek of the dead-dormant masses. Dadaspeak turned into english a long time ago and Orwellian is now only to describe a certain time of nightmare which can also be removed by several therapeutical sessions from a dominatrix.

I feel, in my times here, that I can no longer speak about freedom. The inherited god lets out a small mumble and freedom==slavery, slavery==historical/archaic/useless. It still rings in my ears, like a real shitty punk concert or a bomb in the shopping mall none of which are really favoured: just truths. Freedom does not exist. Freedom is another type of restraintive control. You are not the masters of your own lives, you are not the architects of your own fate.

We would do well to remember that we only are products. We need more information to be handled well, like used cores from hot reactors. The definition of me is encoded in all of you and vice versa. I know myself only when staring at myself through the looking glass of everyone else. I do not know the silence that creeps from the moors, I do not know myself in this silence for I have none to speak to.

The drugs drive us from our barns, put under lock and key by angry farmers sown throughout the landscape like shit from a cows belly and everytime we drive through fields of corn or what seems to be the remains of wheat or similar we hear this distant little sound in the background and we fill our hands and git on up and the sunset is prettier than any sunrise and god has given us a task, we are the holiest of the holy warriors, we are god kings of illumination and there should have been drums but there are no drums theres just this distant little sound, ennio morricone soundtracking us and we hear the drums, beat in rain and then comes the vocals.

Code Select Expand


the car's on fire and there's no driver at the wheel
and the sewers are all muddied with a thousand lonely suicides
and a dark wind blows

the government is corrupt
and we're on so many drugs
with the radio on and the curtains drawn

we're trapped in the belly of this horrible machine
and the machine is bleeding to death

the sun has fallen down
and the billboards are all leering
and the flags are all dead at the top of their poles

it went like this:

the buildings tumbled in on themselves
mothers clutching babies picked through the rubble
and pulled out their hair

the skyline was beautiful on fire
all twisted metal stretching upwards
everything washed in a thin orange haze

i said: "kiss me, you're beautiful -
these are truly the last days"

you grabbed my hand and we fell into it
like a daydream or a fever

we woke up one morning and fell a little further down -
for sure it's the valley of death

i open up my wallet
and it's full of blood


Did we smell the sweet sweet smell of cocaine before we went our separate ways in tearfilled warzaw, with gods rain hammering down. Did we stray, skip, jump and dream into a flux of emotions and thoughts so far far from our own faces? Did we judge, maim love or passion what we held dearly?

Was the chain of command broken? Had the war already ended? The sounds, the sounds of scuttling feet in an abandoned railroad station, military personnell dressed very civillian, the poet in the future was right, here went our brightest minds. Those who were neither good nor evil, simply visionaries who would be treated humane after it had been ended while the audience would cheer to the bread and circus. The chain of command was broken, everything returned to whence it came. rubble. This was where time collapsed, this was where the spiderweb collapsed in upon its' owner and competition and fear drove us further, where there once had been a spectre, there was now a disease and the dirt in the ground hummed for it, the translucent beast of sad memories would sate upon the blood.

The beard fell, the masquerade fell and for a second there was truth in the air when noone knew what to do before everyone was grippen by panic and went back to familiar pastures and lived in fear and terror.

Simplicity; the man said on stage. Simplicity will get you ahead. Do not tarry to over-analyze, know when to stope. The band will play and it is a work of genious, a truly creative force in the name of nihilism and disintegration. Simplicity, will now beat your drums.

We went to the beach on the fifth of november. We were kids still, small and seventeen and we brought beer and pot and port. This artist from somewhere in the old empire was to teach us, entertain us and art us. We'd live in the shade he said as he went up high upon his bonfire, guy fawkes resting uneasily with the duct tape and that deflated football and the fire, the dancing fire.

We'd live in the shade of our ancestors if we did not think ourselves. Our ancestors are not that of flesh nor blood, but those geniouses past who have opened their eyes and seen beyond and created, molded from the cisterns of life. We must remember them, not because it is tradition, but because they sought to break tradition, we must commemorate those of our heroes who have become false christs, cowed by the masses of the ignorant many. We must lift our heads towards the stars and we must create! We MUST build!

Then they burnt guy. I wonder if they had the wicker man in their thoughts, I knew I heard the terrified screams from pigs and sheep, trapped on the inside with what humanity could do without. It's not the bolts themselves that we need to unscrew and remove, it is the walls themselves, the doors. The fire escape.

"And she turned around and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again".

They lit the fireworks, one of those big crates with fake army paint on it, biohazard signs blaring in the front of the scene of the crime and that's when you first notice it, with your head resting on some loved ones chest with the reefer burning in your lungs and the cool beer alleviating the good pain before the fireworks start, you giggle with glee and reflex but grow silent, weary that you cannot speak, that noone can speak that this mirrored dark light opens up the eyes you have not yet seen and you know it's the first time but it's so natural and it's beautiful and you take her by the hand and whisper that you've lost control again.

The memory itself was little. A fire, cold rain, soggy hotdogs, beer, pot and only known parts of life, only regulated pieces of darkness and the form is mild, no jagged edges and it is really a dull memory but all sparks fly high when you recollect, when you talk about it again, when you dream it once more and it's so easy to bow down into it to go back inside it and wallow up, sucking on the umbilical cord once more not because that you're afraid but because that it's so easy. The world is easy, you've grown a degree in understanding, you see connections where there earlier would have been thin air but it stares right back at you, the life, the vibrancy of the trees, the stones, the fire, the sand and her face.

"And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again."

Then she took me by the hand and we went and lost control again. An image little rattled from the cages where all the mice and rats lived on, we caught the bus back in to the city, nearing civillization, pinnacled and passing through the barbary, looking at the hordes of ghengis khan and some place in a different time but with the same emotion, ernest hemingway tries to write a piece sitting on a sidewalk cafe in paris, angered, because he lost his vibe he'd gotten from the coffee and cognac to the poor poet standing in his face, asking questions and he, the great writer, remembers when he himself was his age and ernest hemingway sits with us, drinking beer, watching the bonfire untill someone shouts FIREWORKS! and he stands up, smiles and cheer and cries out: NOT IN THE RAIN

Silence! What joy is there in silence? - Emperor Carthagia of the Centauri

Who smiles of the passing of our brethren? Who asks questions among the cattle and who listens to the wind anymore?

Once, it was made clear that logic and reason should exterminate superstition, a remnant still called upon by artists of various kinds for it is they who benefit from the questions while the SCIENTISTS do not. The easiest way to create a group, to create a cell or to create a civillization is to propose the us versus them. It is easy, it is believable and in a world of science it is faith. It is easier to fear something ethereal, a spectre or a ghost than it is to fear a werewolf, a vampire or the common man in the street. Seldomly we blame men, seldomly we believe that they are responsible if we are agents of compassion and empathy, displaced at that.

There is no intelligence, what is Artificial Intelligence? Where does it merge? Where does science and superstition meet in our utopian society, if all stars should be aligned? What and where is the difference between an artificial chatbot and joe schmoe?

The wind is blowing stronger. Do you feel time speeding up upon itself? Do you feel

time

speeding up?

Do you feel the weather change? The background noise grows far beyond normal static, there is a taint on the world, a seeping idea seething from its cauldron. There are packs of hyenas out on the steppes tearing apart what they can to survive, to live another day and there are packs of toolkids with hoodies sitting in the churchyard smoking low quality pot and singing that they are praying for rain, they are praying for tidal waves. As most religious men, they do not understand the words they preach, they can see nothing beyond the word. Most notably because there is nothing beyond the word. There is only the word, there is only the logo, there is no system, there is no machine and there is no man.

Yet, there are many monsters. Ravenous silent hunters and never have we feared death that much as when we walk through silent graveyards. The silent hunters have been with us for as long as we can remember and we have given them names, we have given them positions in our pantheons because we see silence as we see space, a cold undignified death, bereaved of of our humanity, we know the price of silence, sitting a the first row on our first day at school, a knot in our belly big enough to kill and then, a first contact, a first human touch from someone else than your mother, father or brother and the knot dissolves when you or someone else breaks the silence. Some faiths, fictional or not, puts importance on silence, to know silence. For that knot lives in your stomach for all of your life, no matter how transcendent you become or how high you yourself can scream that silence is of no concern to you.

Indians thought before they answered which a danish anthropologist interpreted them to be inferior. We grow scared when there is a pause in the conversation on a third date and the french say that when such an embarrassing pause happens, an angel walks through the room and we are not scared

we are awed by that beautiful thought and for five seconds we are awed by silence

before we yet again commence our discussions, drunk on expensive port and eating organic licorice with the person you know in your gut you will marry talking about anything that is beautiful and important or selling knowingly beer to someone under the age of eighteen because that's when you yourself started drinking and it'll only do them good to get familiar with their drugs and the weather the politics the end of the world as we know it the latest issue of astonishing x-men where wolverine rips off someones head and takes a crap in the bleeding hole

and we get up to the sound of an alarm, we awake to the sound of our shower, we become less grumpy as we listen to ourselves chew and we curse the world for not understanding us and our needs as we're stuck in the rush on our way to job and we kill someone with a symphony of stamped papers, our bic pens scrawling all over standard forms and we bring someone to life as we drive by the local deli to pick up dinner instead of picking it up at the bigger mart and we find purpose on drugs and beethovens ninth and we find joy and happiness on our television and we find our own confinement through thinking and we become illuminated beings

and we become illuminated beings, kings and gods and in our godhood we thank those who got us there, the holy scribes and prophets and thinkers and doers and we go through learys circles, we understand freud, we see the diamonds in the eyes of mona lisa and we ascend, we learn how to fly, we are all buddhas now

and we get up to the sound of the alarm, we wake to our showers and we become less grumpy when we hear ourselves chew

and we ascend as we feel time speeding up and we propel into the darkness of space, time and mind and as we go we bring the white noise to anyone with a receiver

An AI is created by the company Skynet and there is a nuclear bombardment and there is a war and we get these patches and bumper stickers saying WHO IS JOHN CONNOR and when we die in the war we created using american* tactics and arming those unarmed but mad enough to die we sit in silence and we do not think we do not contemplate

we feel sorry for ourselves



*edit: you know what i mean don't you?

And the man he steps up to the microphone
and says at last just as the timebell rings
Goodnight now it's time to go home then he makes it fast with one more thing
we are the sultans we are the sultans of swing

-M. Knopfler/Dire Straits


Do not interpret. The words are only chosen for their beauty, not their meaning. There is nothing beyond the word, there is no meaning dislodged on the inside. The machine is working.

We are the unhappy labour force. We are those who get up at 8, get to work at 9, get to the shop av 5 30 and home at 6, make dinner at 7, eat at 7 15, fall asleep 2 hours infront of the television get down to the pub at 9 30 and asleep at 11 30. We know we work the machine, the system, the man, the headless conspiracy and we think about 1984, brave new world, darkness at noon and nordal grieg and we know deep inside our hearts that we are heroes. We are like them, they can get our hours we think they can get us to sit and do something we dislike and we feel a burst of freedom as we read something awful at work and we think they have forged these manacles of the mind for us with our names tags

social security numbers

and we consent to let them take our time aslong as they do not take our thoughts because in our minds we think we are free and we despise the 7 11 campaign that says freedom to go but we don't think about those who serve that freedom, that they are like us because they are drones and nothing else without an education and we've already forgotten how ridiculous our grandfathers and grandmothers and fathers and mothers were when we were 19 years of age cut ourselves because we were cool not because it was fashion

when our times comes and we're put on a drip, completely braindead we know we want the next of kin to pull the plug because then our minds are dead

WE DO NOT BELIEVE THAT THE SOUL IS OUTSIDE THE BODY WE DO NOT BELIEVE IN A SYMBIOSIS WE ARE ATHEISTS AND DO NOT BELIEVE

because we are a program. written ten thousand times by different authors, we are the collins novels, we are the goodbye cruel world im leaving part of a listened to death old popsong we are the first word uttered, we are HELLO?

we've always been had at hello. the machine ticks. the system is silent to the human ear and the man


the man writes a post

No. You're wrong, you'll get it right once but you ain't got it right now. Pilgrim. You got the scheme and the gist of it, you've brought yourself through a couple of times, you've proved your mind isn't dead nor decayed and that's the step you get all wrong. Your mind has decayed and it is indeed dying as you said when she left that we're here to live untill we die, that it's just this journey and you figured it out on your own and you felt pride swell your belly when you heard timothy leary, ken kesey and bill hicks say it again. You've already understood that memories is one of the fundamental truths in this world, that it's one of the things every human relies on besides norms and rules and conscience for not committing suicide now. You've read your misogynistic anarchists and you've read the EXIT manifesto and once you sat in your undies, wanking to koestler and smoking a pipe. You've grown certain, you know your tastes, you've developed your ego past the stage of most collegekids and masterdegree students you've met and you used to be baffled by the fact

That they aren't really anything more worth, aren't more intelligent, aren't what you were led to believe but the jade is on and everything you see pass through a glare and dullens as the grape eyes bukowski spoke about which you'll frequently say loud when you've gotten enough courage and enough synthetics to allow you to sway on the barstool

"My shoes are too tight but it doesn't matter, I've forgot how to dance" - Lando of Babylon 5

Your mind, my dear friend have decayed by your own standards, you're locked in tight, you're locked in on the battle, you've turned into the warrior

The warrior that knows that the blade has two edges, both for cutting

The warrior that knows you shall die, but you shan't go alone

The warrior that

You have become. Do you believe in fate? Do you believe in free will? Do you believe there is a difference between the two?

Your sincerest apologies for the human race falls upon dead ears, none of us remain long enough to care for you anymore, high idiot king of apathy, lord sovereign of ego and so many names that we could use to call you like the demon you are. What you were, what you became, your head started spinning once and you stopped it and you told everyone who would listen that you would not serve in heaven, you would not serve and and and and all of this falls down, knives in clandestine, secret murmurs when you thought you slept but even you will not listen anymore, 'cept for the lament of gandalf your landlord sings every night in elvish

You can feel your belly swelling and you grow old, you grow old enough to realize your life has become the dream sequence at the end of the 25th hour and you've gotten old enough to fast forward through it and in bitter bile and spite you peer through the curtain and you know you're too old, you know you've ignored the voices for so long, for far too long

and you die in your bathtub, trying to die young, ignoring everything you ever learned when understanding how your prison worked, when the meals were served, how the library could be used, how to carve and how to weld and you've always known it, the little secret tugging at the heart of your empire and you keep the toaster raised untill the white rabbit peaks and you drop it and you expect a clean death with acid colours going through impossible directions, perhaps you hoped for hassan i sabbah, brion gysin, william burroughs to lead you through the life you had passing through your eyes

your body is dead but your brain begins to hum. slowly, first, building momentum before it terrifies you, before it blows you away and you want to back out of the crooked little deal, you want out of this crooked little vein but there are some words that you remember now, the choir falling silent, a drugdealer you shot heroin with once and only once just to see if you could see something more to life and you hear his voice crisp and clear as a slice of lime on first springs day

"When it's gotten in, you can't get it out"

the momentum catches on again, builds up further and now you hear every symphony you've composed in the shower, every book you wrote when you sat hungover and coming down shitting frenzied and every poem, every note you made washing dishes, every play you planned in your head while your teacher stood before you, every fate you've seen, serving them beer




we descend into you mother, iron and lung, cancer and arthritis, metal go clang

You wake up and you know that today features the work of david lynch on your life, directing every possible angle and situation. You've felt it before from other masters, picking your tie, picking your boxers, picking your cereal, picking espresso before coffee, picking your nose with cocaine to get up and picking a fight on the bus. You identified yourself with madmax yesterday, a stranger comes to town with nothing to lose and everything to prove and you do want to prove something, you want the world to see you for who you are, you want them to see your burdens and pains, your grace and finesse as easily as you yourself would everytime you wake up and stare into the mirror, too tired for rational thought and too skewered on the kebab of life to draw conclusions like these, almost high, asking yourself what is the point of the perpetuality and you find that your warm bed holds as many answers as the journey ahead of you. You nonchalantly accept that life is just survival untill you die.

The coffee brings you up because you love coffee and love things that taste something, has a meaning, does something to you the second you've done it and the bread tastes stale and the peanutbutter is without flavour and you do all you can to shrug the sleep off, today is important so you grab a ginseng, you pour a glass of carbonated water and you wish you could just shut off the thinking abilities of your brain, go into hibernation for a period of a bachelor's degree and wake up with it. You always dreamt you'd be superman when you were a wee kid, that one day it'd all work out, you'd become a vampire/superhuman and you could live outside the structures made of man. You would truly be free, free to roam the world and do whatever you wanted, free to think and ponder the machinations of societies, free to wish you were nothing but a number.

You want to sleep and the pain, anxiety and fear to end. Not because you freely selected it, which is when you could have walked out that door anytime you'd like. Your hate for authorities began early on and you've kept that hate with you, sometimes as a friend, other times as an enemy when your self-consciousness whispers to you and you know you have failed on more than one level. You failed yourself because you begun an education and a job you hate and you failed your oldest authoritive figures, ma, pa and bro when you let them down, whined and couldn't finish your education properly, ending up as a bartender in a brown saloon.

You spent much time being angry when you were young and you blinded yourself for far too long. You became paranoid and jaded at an early stage, you became lifeless before your life had begun and got burnt out before you ever did any work. You were the most glorious of all I knew, you lived thousand lives inside your head and it was all pain to you, your personas either only knowing pain or knowing nothing of it. In the end, you left an empty husk for all to see, gave in to your own breaches of moral, caved in inside of yourself and fixed your visage on far beyond reality for reality itself was what taxed you mostly, not the lives you lived.

Your story doesn't end but your fear consumed you, your angst and selfloathe got the better of you, sitting in a classroom with dull cow's eyes, grapes in your sockets and you always said you were here at the wrong time, the wrong place and that you wished you were born into an early tribe that put you out a winter morning to snuff out the life you could have had.
You got tired from proving yourself because noone could see it, noone would see it, your head filled with dead men and dreamless spectres.

You reach into the back of your closet, donning the tie you used when you were crust as fuck and you step outside and out of your world and into theirs to the sound of thousand screaming infants. You step outside and as the sun shine and the birds twitter and flicker through the change of realities you are again true to yourself, you remember your face and you step boldly out infront of the first suv you see.

You know it won't kill you but you won't feel numb when it hits.

The technique is flawless. Life is not, life is hiding under a rock. They are wonderful, they are fearsome. They are the ninjas when you sleep and dream of them, our warriors born from subconscious dreams dreams and in the distance we hear aleister crowley rubbing his hands with glee while we sit and eat mac and cheese and watch singin' in the rain, misunderstanding the meta and the mirror someone holds up for us and we want to blow our brains out when we see the fake time on the screen because we're vulnerable, we're hungover and high and we need someones hand to hold us because that hand walked out earlier, before breakfast, eggs and bacon.

The taste is off like food left too long in the fridge and a repressed memory someone gave us at some time, probably and their smiles are fake but these ones are something of a different breed than what is now, their smiles are fake but they know it, they know it's just a job, it ain't a lifestyle sold to us by any corporate but only Kathy that wants a little of our time and they're blowing our brains out because someone on acid told us yesterday that anything you can think can become reality so we assume the dream for this life and we want to stand there, dancing, bowing, singing and going home in the rain not worrying and with no chips on our shoulders.

The police cross the lines and break the chains as they break their promises as they break the bones.

On Broadway you always smile.

We forgot the vaudeville, we thought too much inside the box and then too much outside the box untill there were no boxes and everyone thought that the words of hassan i sabbah rang true without interpretation and we need a break, a day after sunday to get up and do the job, one day of lazy to simply understand this shit, the life they created on the outside world, not the life they created so we could dream our way away from this prison. Soma darlings soma, bullies, cocaine and jazz and a burlesque evening,  tapdancing bastards. jesus christ is a beautiful blonde woman because HITLER HAD THE RIGHT IDEA HE WAS JUST AN UNDERACHIEVER, KILL THEM ALL ADOLF KILL THEM ALL.

and the world was built on deceit

the world was built on a lie

the world was built on the truth of a mad man

the world was built by you

the world was built by us

the world was built by me

Start your engines. PUHlease. Crumple up the tinfoil and get ready to freebase, look out the window for the last few seconds of SUN.

Entrance left: An animated man with with a bottle of vodka in his hand singing in something he percieves as russian, badly disguised english and a badly disguised excuse for a man.

Drunk man: Oh would it be succhh like this, my gentle gramps, that I am alive and you are dead and now we celebrate you because you are dead OI PUT ON SOME MORE GOGOL BORDELLO IM LOOSING MY BUZZ

Drunk man exits.

Entrance right: A philosopher dressed up as part of the old roman senate with a cup of something radioactive green in one of his hands. Whispered voices go through the audience and they conclude in their wisdom that it's supposed to be wormwood.

Philosopher: We celebrate today on this day of death. Gramps Frank they called him because he always sung on Franks wild years and did indeed drive a nail through his wifes head. What tickles me on this carnivale of the damned is that we celebrate and mourn them as they pass. We celebrate the memories they embedded into our thick skulls and we mourn that they won't conceptualize further memories. We never do this to the living ones, we never do this to those we truly love, shyed away by what might happen. In life, there is an aye or it is a nay. Say that out loud, fast. Hoho. It seems that when those we care for dies, a gulf or a chasm is being opened up into a world we never want to pass into as everyone wants to go to heaven but noone wants to die and the onslaught of -- (voice trails away as the philosopher leaves the stage leaving the audience bewildered as he did not drink the wormwood)

EXTERIOR: Backyard

And then there's this girl right, this lovely little lass and she's got these nice tits, you know the tits you haven't seen unpackaged but you see them now in their package and you still want to fondle them up and down and you'd like for her to say something outrageous that would tickle your fancy and you engage in a hot talk, swiping sweeping swords of words and mad utterances none of you going twentythree skiddoo but heightening the whole fucking thing to epic proportions and you both think about that segment in sandman with the oldest game but it's not, it doesn't matter anymore it's way too tacky for you because you ooze and smell and feel so fucking cool and you are fucking cool, people namedrop you as they pass your table and pass the bar and pass the street and there's this rockstar up in the air in a boeing 7something7 that tell your tale as he passes by drunk on gin and pepsi max and the last thing he remembers before he crashes down into obllivion is that nice set of round, perky delightfully esthetic tits that noone knows how boggle and juggle but she's going low on ammo and she knows it backfires but it's what she has left and she quotes bill hicks and then you counter it with some good old fashioned gysonic hate and she sighs and let go and says "all my heroes are dead" and there's the president of united states, cut in with cut ups holding onto that red telephone of his sighing while a monkey jumps off his back and he says "Don't worry gentlemen. They lost their cool, no need to liberate them".

You choke on something that's not really there but more powerful than anything you've had in your mouth lately and she's on the brink of tears and she ages ten twenty years in a couple of seconds and her tits droop, fall beneath her belly and they slouch outwards with their small eyes, those small beady little eyes burning icecold coal into a heaven that was lost long ago now eventhough it was merely ten twenty seconds but it's gone now and it won't be back again. She regains composure, doublesits on the back of twenty beasts, hurtling towards a disaster waiting to happen to seal it off within and inside an empty shell, a throne of husks, happiness is slavery in the world of qlippoth and she's. She's just there, within the sleight of a hand, a magician bouncing on top of the tvset and this is is is is

INTERIOR: Stage

Entrance left: A jester.

Jester: And so my merrily wobbily, so goes the tale of exceeded tragedy. Two that should have been the lovers of our age, neophytes born again as bonnie&clyde deluding themselves into a vicarious position where they drank their nectar with hobos. Oh, isn't this fate in it's most sickly deluded smile. You see, reality is breaking up and my words need no longer contain anything than what I myself agrees to. You see, this IS reality. and. it. is. breaking. up.

EXTERIOR: Backyard, rain

Someone keeps singing nick cave and singin' in the rain, people are smiling because they're drunk but they tell all the pretty girls and boys that they weep in their hearts, they are men but men with emotions and they can cook too but this is a bleak black day because HE/SHE/IT is dead and there's a man with an ayn rand tshirt selling tshirts with HESHEIT images in the front and on the back in stencil-graphitti lettering ANOTHER DEAD HERO exclaiming that something had happened, here, and it was so profound. We celebrate HE SHEIT NOW that death has claimed and we're getting so drunk because that was what it would want. It doesn't matter who it was, what they stood for and then there's people with bill hicks and john lennon and jimi hendrix tshirts and everyone catches on it and the guy with the old wornout hendrix gets all the pussy and cock he could desire because hey, he's gotta be authentic and there's a discussion-

Man: Remember that party when hicks died? damn that was awesome
Wo: Yeah, i really respect him for what he said he should have been now not then
Man: yeah, i know what you mean

Man steps onto the bar holding his bottle of budweiser and says TO BILL HICKS, TO JIMI HENDRIX AND BOBA FETT, TO ALL OUR DEAD HEROES and the bar jumps in and they salute their dead heroes

Because now their dead and the silent majority grows the balls to drop their lines, play like they did because a saint was born, a martyr was born for the ignorant masses never desiring to do anything except talk and it doesn't matter because they're so filled with the best intentions and the road is paved gold and it is so wide and so beautiful and all along the road in the lamp posts do they hang as the yuppie fucks sing and dance underneath them and salutes them and takes a piss at them because it's all the same, because they'll go home to do whatever they did before someone died but one night every ten years they walk on that golden road and there's no wind, the air is still and you can only hear the creaking of leather and the sighs of all the dead heroes.

"Ding!" is what you type when you level your character in a game, preferrably an online one. If you're among 1337 d00ds in wow you can simply say "Ding 2" to reference the fact you're getting new spells and shit(every 2nd level) or "Ding 10" to signify lots of spells and other upgrades.

This is dedicated to those who can keep their hate up in their writing and still go with a flow because for me it's fucking exhausting. Some long paragraphs but I felt that fit.

(Written pre-BC)


We'll pass the joint to those we never liked,
we'll drink epiphanies to those we long ago preserved,
image image image dream with a laughter, a snicker
and
haha from the bully in simpsons
before someone runs up to the camera and screams, violently, loudly «KICK EM IN THE NADS, THE NADS»

Hi. I've been thinking and drinking but mostly thinking. The grace of what we are, those who we have been or will be. The anecdotes of old, some would say our forefathers and some would deny them but as far as we know they lived anyhow, proudhon, kropotkin, trotskij, che guevara, castro and pancho villa. Those who gave me the most important spiritual (in the sense of something learned to you but which one cannot within the existing system satisfiably put an A, C or F on) lesson I ever learned: Disobedience. I won't lie and I won't cloak and I could tell you my dream. It is the girl of my dreams which I just recently met and we sit on the outskirts of any big city, on a hill, drinking champagne and watching destruction as it pass us by. A revolution is nothing but a fad, I'm more up for what happens next. It won't be as black and white as we hope, it won't be V for Vendetta, it'll be V for Vendetta and the latest scene in 1984, there WILL be sycamore trees in my revolution, there will be betrayers and betrayals, there will be emotions that turn the best logic into shit and there will still be rotting broccolis in the fridge when you get back from looting. Solomon said it for some reason I have no idea but Quasimoto said it so much funnier in his rapsmurf tone, there is nothing new under the sun. We can bicker and argue and my point is, what seperates us from the romans or from the lost city of atlantis or fucking pick one I don't care, pick any INFERIOR RELIGION, pick christianity, pick judaism, discordianism, pick what the fuck you want and when you've selected carefully as you carefully select what kinda donut you want when you're too high to live then ask yourself, what's the difference of that to what we have now?

Objects that are being viewed, observed or seen by subjects will ultimately turn to subjects. I thought this up and I stroke my ego with this because I see it as an illusion but I keep it up, I keep playing the good fucking dog WOOF WOOF, what the fuck changes? Circular logics at its' best and let's try to break up the circle now, COME OUT OF THE SIR-KUHLL, anyhow. What's there to be afraid of, what's there to think of this tentacled beast humanity? They're just humans, right, from your grid of observance and experience, simply random interpretations your brain does, we've all done this before, you've taken the acid, you've taken  that heroic dose and even though you're aware, there's still a circle. There's only thusfar neurolingustic programming can take you before you invalidate Leary's concepts of, exactly, circles (or circuits for the pedant non metaphorical bastard).

We see the guy who doesn't have the che tshirt in red, he's the guy with green or perhaps even burberry. We notice the girl who quotes Descartes and say I think therefore I am. I once said to a girl who said this and she was pretty and I would have liked to have sex/intercourse/love with her but she was being straight to me so I was straight to her and I said I am therefore I'm a copout.

And her mind boggled. She was trying to grasp a completely new concept, one unheard of but in our herd really not and I saw her and I wanted to dig into her brain, open up something new to her and give her that experience and then go happily home and wank but the sad part of the story was we went home to her and shagged for hours to godspeed and I sadistically smiled and thought We're all alone, in our minds, in our revolutions but (SOMETIMES) sex, hallucinogens or fighting as most primate instincts makes us feel what we lack, makes us feel connected, makes us, you know this already, alive.
Now you think solipsism, that's what the bugger thinks about, fuck him and yeah, please do, but I'm not. It's not about solipsism. It's about reality, it's about a barstool experiment and it's what my mind told me the other day ¬´You can't even comprehend what you are¬ª.  You can't say I am because we can't grasp it. I am. Minus I. Am. Am. Am. This should be reverbarating through your skull now. You can't even start to define yourself if you don't do anything.

I must admit, it takes time. It takes time to build anything, all must be prepared beforehand and you can't assign these tasks to anyone else. Think of it as a game. This is just a personal recommendation as when you think of it as a game, there is room for both competition and play. It must be treated as important as it should be treated with joy and amusement because there is room in our minds for both. We can hold as many angels and as many demons as our minds require and there will still be room for everyone elses. We're all a-cold in the streets we walk, filled with guilt because we have a home to return to and we don't have to sleep underneath a bridge and we fill ourselves with hate for ourselves returning home from work or school with a frozen pizza and a bottle of coca cola. We have so short memories, when the year turns and we watch the cavalcades on the telly or in the tabloids we remember what date the nude shot of britney spears was launched yet we have no idea who went into cabinet last month and all we can concur on is that tom cruise is mad and so we watch our celebrities and wish we could be there with hagen dazs in our mouths and peanutbutter on the remote feeling that sweet sensation of saccharine as we drink our skittles but a thought occurrs to you on your fifth joint that morning or on your third shot of vodka before you turn on the telly for that glorious daytime and you know what you gotta do so you shape up, read up on the atkins diet and you think about what you eat in the same way you think you gotta take a piss or a shit but you're going, it's an exhilirating feeling, you've gotten up, you've started to smile and one day you get the answer to your prayers in the mailbox and you know you've done it and they have accepted you and in the distance you hear the blitzes flashing, a halfways known band playing your intro and you step outside and you go to where you feel the sensation of being home, you go into your box, your daytimetv and everyone's watching you now and you know your mummy would be proud if she saw you, now, on tv, entering survivor, entering and they close the doors and you feel at home.

Some men say that all things repeat themselves on all scales and there are sacred words attached: as above, so below. So, dear lad. Do you feel at home? Do you feel at ease? Does comfort creep upon you like the bored beast it is? Can you feel its sluggish fingernails taking their toll upon your heart or is it already too late? Can you distinguish your own heartbeat through a choir of a thousand others? Can you feel it?

Or are you sitting comfortably?

A general rule seems to be if something is hard or long work and it can be avoided, it will be avoided. Who would want to walk five hundred miles for no possible reward whatsoever when you can walk fifty meters to the nearest burger king and get a double whopper bacon cheese, large fries and a gallon of coke light? Not only is it stupidity, it shows a lack of taste and it also shows me that you're sitting too comfortably, watching apocalypses happening in joel silver productions with cheesy endings and you're discussing what you'd do when the zombies get here and you talk about it over vent as everyone uses the repairbot in naxxramas, the next biggest things in their and your life is the coming expansion pack and you're part of the buzzing hive, you're discussing lore with your friends over the internet, stealing time from work when you really should have been debugging the latest myspace page for paris hilton but you know work is an illusion so you play the lottery hoping to win and you talk about it every friday when you and your workmates get obscenely drunk because you're still in the belief that being drunk works almost as good as dipping your body in  aphrodisiacs and you talk about how you're going to quit work and make the world's best guild when you cash in those millions and you dream about getting to seventy and the day you join your brothers in arms to kill illidan and it's begun to snow and there's no buses going home and you left the car at home because you didn't sleep at home you slept on a couch somewhere by work where your coworker and only friend in the real world so you begin to walk to the railwaystation, just a few blocks and you're thinking glory, you're dreaming that you'll one day have power in the world that matters, you'll feel great and grand and be remembered as the guy who delivered the first killing blow to gruul but it's so far away now and before you can get home, before you can make yourself at ease, there's a guy on the sidewalk and you think you know him because he used to be your brother.

and/or: Rant 5

Prologue:

You already did it. You already think that thought even if you are aware of it or not. You're expecting something special now, something different. 5. Something's gonna happen, it's in the numbers. You think it as an occultist thinks something's gonna happen when someone writes 666. Significant numbers, you might even stretch to magic, magick if you're one of them fancypants, chaosmagick if you're not quite right in the head or mahadjique if you're one of the frequenters here. I know you don't believe it and I know you diss people that believe in it unless they've just recently been initiatied where you simply ignore them for 6 months untill they tire of 23, 5, fnord, skidoo, Hail Eris!, IWANNABELIEKHAGBARDCELINEWHEN[INSERT] and then perhaps there's something there. A fresh skin, the smell of a bloody mary between the tits of a beautiful woman saturday morning. You already thought of five and the the machines in your mind have already begun, your subconsciousness picks up numerology again and it's back. It's back again.

The unknown ceiling:

You know you did it. You no longer think you did it, every fibre in your body tells you you did it and you listen to them. At the point you are at now, there is no POINT to tell you that you might be wrong. I hope you'll understand that anyhow, a little later down the road. You're thinking about it now, every waking giggling moment. You want to fuck the president in the ass while he sings Happy birthday to you, marilyn monroe style and you want to fondle his cup D tits at the same time [The Filth, Grant Morrison]. What you're actually feeling is a rare gift and comes at random times. You feel chaos^TM and you're trying to relate to it. You're interpreting and your head is trying to find the metaphor, the image or the allegory that fits what you feel like what now and the things that appear are things you wouldn't think would fit with this. Take the advice the Doors gave you back when you were 14 and ride it. Be swept away by the flood and drink of it. Do not be afraid.

I must admit I came late. I think I was 19 when I read the Illuminatus! for the first time and that moment of awakening called forth a scene from the anime Neon Genesis Evangelion. One of the first episodes where Ikari Shinji wakes up and sees an unknown ceiling and says something like "There have been many unknown ceilings lately". ish. I was like you then, spouting fnord, 23, HAIL ERIS and all the other catchphrases and hell, most people probably does that unless they've got a very nice grip over themselves.

Then you progress. You dig a little deeper, see a few more signs and you feel you aren't alone in the world and you begin to read buddhism perhaps or a subgenious book or pamphlet, you read grant morrison or alan moore and whatnot. You read and you think you've found a cure because you deem yourself ill and you see yourself objectively from your own mind and you see you are an outcast from society, but you're smarter, aren't you? You see goth as nothing but an extension of the mainstream culture they wanted to separate themselves from, you see the mechanisms at work. You don't see yourself as special because you've read Fight Club too many times and you know you're not a snowflake but somewhere, you know you are. You're a part of a conspiracy now and your daydreams revolve around the illuminatus! or the invisibles.

You wake up the morning after and you smile. You can feel your own teeth and instead of quoting bill hicks when you eat breakfast you're humming on singing in the rain. You're smiling to the sky and the stupid blonde bitch across the way down in good ol' suburbia. You head to school and you're cheerful all the way and you think that this must be that death&rebirth kinda thang, this is karma giving you a snort of mdma. You pay attention in class and you bicker the teacher about your newfound ways, you're an asshole but hey, that's okay because you're an asshole against the_man^TM, the_system^TM and the_world^TM. You're headed somewhere and when one of your friends say they want to be a doctor, more specifically a neural surgeon you say nonchalantly "Specialization is for insects" and you pout your lips when everybody doesn't agree, when everybody doesn't cheer you up and here the first lesson begins.

You are alone in your own head.
You'll never know this truer than when you partake in what many people think is a ritual you must undertake while "turning discordian", hallucinogens. Acid, shrooms etc. You probably know the list better than me.

This is the foundation from which you can build. You're starting to see it now, aren't you? There is no cure(and noone promised you one). Life isn't simple(like your grandaddy told you). In life, you must take some very hard choices(like your daddy told you after you tracked him down 15 years after he bailed). There is nothing special here. No great secret, no great nothing. You might even find this duller than the life you knew before you read a book and found the name for your condition. We or this new thing demands more of you. You have to be more of a human than you used to be. Take responsibility. Think. Meta-think. Feel. Meta-feel.

Someone on these boards say something along the lines of "You are alone in your own revolution" [Badly paraphrased but I can't seem to remember what thread that was and who said it] and they're truer than the acidheads. You don't just wake up one morning, grab your bbgun and make barricades and start yelling slogans. A revolution takes time. It demands work. Revolutionists, the smarter kind, think if this is so important that it has to be revolutionized for. Dynamite has to be bought, guns have to be stolen and people rallied and in the end noone can truthfully say that this revolution will make something out of that or that or make the world the anarchistic utopia you think it might be. Thinking and doing are two very different things. That is all that can be offered.


-----
It started out as a thing for older people but become something for the younger ones. Or something, I'm not sure. This was stream of consciousnessed so it needs an edit in the holidays. That's it for the moment, have a nice holiday folks.

--
edited a few spelling errors but didn't touch much. This'll need a part 2 though.

and: Rant4


He tried to improve his sight. ¬®LISTEN. Stop the competition. Stop the braincells scuttering onward to your pineal gland, soul, aura or wherever your holiness lies. Stop the gibberish. Stop the words, stop the planning. You've seen too long and listened too little. Sit down. Light that joint. Open that beer or that gallon of fuel. Talk about Eris. See? Now you're thinking of a member of the Simpsons family or you're thinking about that highschool crush, sixteen years old and masturbating to Illuminatus! And next day you wake up and you're smiling because your pineal gland, soul, aura, brain, liver or glass of champagne had sex with itself for the first time and you think you've seen something and you will interpret it. Do not operate heavy machinery. 

They will sell you. You will be sold and bought like anyone else. You are not where you think you are untill you do it, untill you break those bars of your selfinclined black iron prison, your imagination is where you are. You are in the prison, do not operate heavy machinery, you may bend or break some bars. It's not really bad that the black iron prison exists as a metaphor or as reality, but it can tend to blinden some because there are so many prisons to break through. There is no nirvana when you get your first revealation or as such will you probably talk about it because it fits best and is most natural to the mix of knowledge from subconsciousness and consciousness. You thought you broke free when you swallowed that red pill, was this vacation time, was this, hey, I did it atleast, I broke free from the pack of sheep and you're this little misunderstood emogirl, sitting in the rain next to a statue, with converse and hot topic surrounding you and she listens to tool and she thinks she's so great because she can do SOMETHING about maynards incoherent and uninteresting blabbering about SOMETHING and she can separate herself from her pack. And be eaten.

It is when you begin to stray that it all begins and you've probably been there, all those sad sad victimized poor people who is the lesser in one or several aspects.  They don't even have a name, the shit underneath your heel, mashed chewing gum and stickers from a rally, still visible are the words usa usa how many kids did you kill today and then you stop just outside a starbucks because that logo reminds you of someone, someone great, one of those who wrote history, one of those who made it. You think about the trials of Galilei and the awkward silence that followed da Vinci around.You're getting there, but getting there slow so you think about those words that have echoed sometimes in your skull, as above so below, you apply it to your reasoning and you think. What if it's just the same? What shit did Einstein have to put up with? What shit did Hendrix have to put up with? Everything changes except the bars to your prison and those who came to visit you to tell you there were other ways die as you grow old. It spoke to you of changing directions but you kept hearing them as laudible voices so you shut it out. You didn't want anyone to know you were hearing this but every day and night they called your name, in the beginning it sounded like the words from your love and soon you were left with echoes of a longlost marriage and you felt the desperation rasp up your spine like someone indeed walked over your grave and in the end, before you go to sleep you hear their ghastly voices of the roads you never walked upon.
Everything sits there in your shelves, stocked away and reduced to trinkets. Ibsen, Orwell, Steinbeck, Django Reinhart, 1001 Nights, the Crass, Klangstabil, the Beatles, PJ Harvey, the collected Marx Brothers, 28 days later, Charlie's Angels 2: Full Throttle and Stalker all had something to say to you but all you saw were pretty pictures. So what the fuck are you going to do now? Accept that the struggle has gone on for eternity and it's not really your struggle? Kick back and wait for that ding from the microwave?

It's going to turn shit real soon. Sour like only milk can be. It's like your house, you remember still when you bought it, the smell of professional cleaners and a floorwaxer and you live there, you get cats, dogs, children, spouses, those little cups you for some reason collected when you were a kid, the donald duck stickers, mickey mouse, animated in plastic and chrome singing happy birthday marilyn style and you still got that nice little zapruper replica where you could swing that wheel and see the president get shot with all possible angles from all possible killers and you grow old, you wear white socks inside your sandals, your skin is a wee bit paler than your khaki pants and your black leather belt which was a gift from your son and a tired old t-shirt you got when you were hunting for polarbears in the streets of Helsinki. You're still paying off your mortgage but you're at the end soon, you'll have it done by next year and you're feeling kinda swell and mighty proud. You're proud of your kids, your wife, your dog Rufus and your cat Snowball 5 and your rabbit, which you named after a forumgoer to a forum you frequented way back and this is a good day, you can feel it in the marrow of your bones, you feel like all the tarot cards in the deck, you feel grand and you put on the sacred chao necklace you have by the window in the kitchen and you walk out and you see Eris and she says «Welcome to the black iron prison».

And you mutter: «but...but..initiaion never ends..!»

"It's better to live in fear than not at all"

Eat. Eat your meat, eat your tofu. Eat your tunasteaks with creme fraiche, eat your carrots fresh from the dirt and with the dirt, get some more of that b12. Eat your love, take that whole tit in your mouth, you want to feel it don't you? Yeah, you do. You're a little spider, you want to devour her. Now, chew off. Bite it off. Sever the milkline between mother and child. Savour the taste of fresh blood and the way the pudgy meat hangs in your mouth and remember the nipple as it caresses your uvula(?).

She'll scream but it'll be over in an instant, like a soldier reacting to the first bullet he'll ever take in his life, she copes, her mind breaks into more personalities and she develops her defence.

The fear subsides leaving a can of worms open on the table and you put your hand in there to explain love to your children and you hold a worm up between your fingers and you pause like they do on wednesday nights in the movies. "Love is a fickle thing you say and love, like any other thing can be commanded to yield" and fifteen years in the future the egg you planted has hatched and there's there's something there to feel to touch

We gave you a dream but then you woke up and you wondered what layer of the dream you were, you were thinking meta and the magician clapped his hands twice and you woke up yet another time.

You were in the dream along with me and we were standing under the moon, some frozen and vast tundra, a political rally or the plateau of Leng and there were wolves in the background and we were talking about champagne and i said it was better to drink one bottle of champagne than it was drinking three bottles of cava. You smiled at me, seeing something hidden in my eyes and between the lines and you said Jump. I was partly frozen in fear because I was being arrested at this basic state of life when we had been discussing quantum physics earlier but I saw what you meant I just couldn't grasp it. I was tired of life I thought and you knew it and you said you're an introvert. You came to our table a little too late, we had already drunk a bottle of champagne each when you found your way but one day you'll outshine us when we sit in our thirties talk about cars, politics and things we do to spicen up our lovelife.

Then you said Jump because if you do it once you'll have learned that there is nothing to fear and that esoteric wisdom is called wisdom because it is esoteric. You have to do your own interpretations and I wish I could have smartened up that last sentence but hey, that's how it is. The birds are singing as I walk down the street, it's rain and I'm excited about it and I go to that twentyfour seven noodle place and I pretend it's somewhere else, it's blade runner and I see Deckard over there, slouching and drinking noodles and he has a miso soup and a kirin and some sake even though it's more of a thai place but for a second there I'm there and I'm home and then it stops and dysoptics doesn't live here anymore and I'm back to my drab and I want to find a manual on how to jump.

I contemplate my life while I watch lost in translation, eat tom ka kai tofu with tagliatelle and it feels like I kill an italian with each bite but I relapse and I'm back to my life again and I gather plans for the future filled with uncertainty, like drinking beer on an empty stomach with friends you haven't seen for a while and you have to stay and try to stomach but I don't know anything. I can quote whatever shakespeare or ibsen you desire, talk about lovecraft for hours to no end and I know so much about this shit, this airplane magazine shit, these crutches I have for life but I know so little about it and this perplexes me to no end. Why the death of ego when I built it up again with this? Was there a loss of ego or was it simply another [indirect] method of control? How can I survive doing what I love? Playacting in someone elses drama, the talented mr.ripley with no talent for jumping.

These are the threads and none come to completion. Is it satisfactory? Is it a smile to put on your face on a rainy day deep down in oslo with a red umbrella coveting the kabuki mask and why the fuck does the rain sound like godspeed on these days?

(This might be more interesting for my norwegian compadres but there might be something for everyone in here. Spelling errors and typos and bad sentences is due to little sleep and fuckloads of exams)


The shoetrend this summer in norway was converse and vans offthewall sneakers. The hipsters carried them for two years prior but the majority of norwegian humanity embraced the shit quality cloth shoes earlier this spring. To them, they still appear hip and seeing as global warming has gotten off it's fat ass and delivered, there's no snow and it's at least +5 celsius outside. Hipness, especially in clothing and physical acessories is something I easily understand, like I understand the good old multiplication table I learned when I was ten or something and to me, these things are on the same level.

You are a tool.

In nine times out of ten, if you're wearing either said converse or vans or a noname spinoff, I won't initiate conversation with you unless my intuition says go because I've talked to you before, I've listened to your problems, I've made you laugh and I've made a seamless lie to you that fit into your worldview and how you percieve me. Arrogantly enough, I read you like an open book but you're not in the habit of opening books, are you? I've talked to you about it before and you giggle lightly, covering your mouth and saying that you've always been interested in books and you feel it's important to keep up your reading skills so you read gossipmagazines which you hide underneath your bed in a box but not the one with your dildo, your vibe, strapon and condoms. You keep having Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Bj??rneboe and the crying of lot 49 next to your bed, collecting dust, making it easier to when cleaning out and sometimes when you're alone in your four foot four room, white ikea zen fashion and sometimes when it's been a good day you think about your new friends at university, how you'd really like to get to know them but how they're reserved, treating it like it's a job and keeping more friends on the side and when it's been bad you just lie there, gently comforting yourself and it almost sounds like someone calls you but you don't keep your cell on silent, do you?

You are a tool.

You know you won't get far but you want that fuzzy fine feeling on the inside, like you're on the side of life that's got butter on it, you are. As always, a man manifests inside your head and you see him open the door, it's the pretty lecturer in Socialanthropology and you want to ask him about the last assignment but he's suddenly nude and smiling and he's tearing up your cupboard and as he put a stack of books on the floor he says moaningly "I've always wanted to fuck on paulo coelho" and you oblige, you give in, an insecure smile of submissiveness but this reminds you of home, the warm fuzzy feeling when you still lived home and rode a sled in the snow and went home to find a big jug of hot cocoa waiting there for you and your mom played beth cassidy and he licks you in the neck and you think it's dirty and all that's left of the fuzzy feeling of secure insecurity evaporates slowly and calmly as your instrument goes downward in power and then just sits there between your thighs, a dead machine.

You are a tool.

You are a product. You're still physically a human being. A can of baked beans in tomato sauce is still a can of baked beans in tomato sauce even if it says S&W or Heinz on the outside. Accept that you are a product, an empty slate you give or sell to adapt to a world whose norms you see and recognize but will never understand. You sit and nod in Buddhism101 and agree when you discuss it over a beer afterwards with your friends but you know that it's a lie. You know you don't agree. You don't think over it, you don't try to understand it, you accept it as a universal truth, like black holes, anti-matter and gravity. In your world, there's a mystic haze and you ignore it because your intuition says it won't go away and you feel the sensation of drudgery if you were ever to poke inside it. Thusly, you no longer understand the gravity of the situation you no longer feel the iron bars with your hands and you don't even remember them, but you do remember that thing you were going to do today, speed dating at B??lgen&Moi and you hope it's going to go all right and you find a man and how your friends found men through this service and when you put on your H&M makeup and bathe yourself in the vile shit you dare to call perfume you feel the smell of cocoa and your mother stands behind you, touching your hair saying "You're the best in the world".

You are mistaken.

And you cry and scream and weep and howl and you're a little girl of 12, no more, miles of miles away from home and you don't want this you just want your mommy and you want to scream to mommy, call her but you know mommy see you as more of a sister than a daughter and you bottle it up, keep it in cold cryo storage where it will be untill you have a child of your own and sleep depriviation and exhaustion opens up bottle number 22.

You are a tool.

You haste and dry yourself up, make yourself comfortable, run down to the subway and it's going to be okay, you don't have to focus anymore and you're still even horny, you feel after a tom collins and a strawbery margaquiri you're gonna be a-ok and he's gonna be there, the man who'll find coelho and smile and love you even more for the one you are, not the student you act out to be and you sit through it for three hours noting down about people compressing their lives into 3minute boxes and you feel like you're good at taking notes, you've learned something academic after all and there's a nice man there, newly shaven and a nice suit and he drinks tom collins just like you and you sit for longer than three minutes and you're both disqualified so you move to another section of the restaurant and he orders tequila sunrises and you order two shots of bourbon and you talk and talk and talk and you can already hear the music and you've chosen to go with pure white, not eggwhite as Mari did three months ago and you're looking forward to being pregnant and the bourbon kicks in and you begin to get naughty, for the first time in your life you feel the reins flying free in the wind and there's wind in your hair and you're bathing naked in refreshing saltwater and you head for a nearby club you haven't been at before after you've drunk up and you want to order but he whispers "I LOVE YOU" loudly enough for you to hear over the noise from the speakers and he gropes you and you push your tongue down his mouth and you feel like you're riding down a mountain in snowy snowy snowy and you're gonna go home and get some cocoa, oh mom, but then you let yourself be dragged towards the handicap toilet and you feel like you've been in the matrix and you ate a very special cake and you kiss him and he kisses you and under his breath he mumbles that he's been searching for you all life and he's in love with you and you moan loudly for the first time in your life and it's not fake and you smile up at him but then he sortof flinches and he cracks your head hard in the porcelain and it breaks and it's all hazy but you've watched enought star trek to know that resistance is futile so there you are and you accept it as you accept gravity and you've seen on pacific blue that this is how to do it and you're ear is against the floor and it sounds like it's your cell calling but you never have it on silent and then you notice the blood and you think you see it, you know you see it.

You are a tool.

You regress into yourself, folding the bad memories inside themselves and you're careful now, you know as an acidhead knows that the world has nothing more to offer and you move home and you begin to clean the local doctor's office and you keep your converse and you talk about what happened the day you opened up and lost control.

(or: Behind enemy lines - the nerdreich)

It's a rainy day in Oslo and they're building the new institute for informaticks just beside the old one, where we linger and those of us who are new to this lifestyle sit and curse at a computer with the full knowledge of drudgery that is in our immediate future to learn languages we don't even want to learn or grasp. Then a sweeping silence hit the room, every nerd or nerdette slouches their shoulders and look more intensely at their screens, bubbles of sweat forming on their foreheads alttabing away from 4chan and hentai dumpsites over to more respectable sites reporting on britney spears, the mother of two children who has been spotted on several occasions without underwear.

It's in the paperversion aswell and as I read it while eating a b??rek with spinach, canned mushrooms and peppers and there's an interview with an old lady, 68 years old and it covers two full pages with a picture of her holding a britney spears cd over a trashcan and she says she has been betrayed, she put her trust in britney and she says, she says "It's like a knife stabbed from the back into my kidneys and then twisted around".

Universitas, the brilliant student driven paper reports that the "board of directors" (sorry, don't have a dictionary handy) has decided that from the autumn of 2007, bachelor degrees where the traditional population has been 90% of one sex shall be reduced to 50% of each sex and the goal will be 60/40 as a min/max regarding everything offered at the university of oslo.

On a side note, suicideattempts by psychology students have dropped with 30% after they no longer have the right to get a student appartment above 2nd floor.

She seems almost as bewildered as those that sit around, when she asks the one I've always been annoyed over because his voice is loud and droning and everything that comes out of it revolves around the last time he was in the swedish woods LARPing and his new found obsession with BDSM (BDSM is the new LARP in nerdland btw) but now he's silent and when she asks if it that computer is free, he almost wets himself because in this room, she appears as an angel filled of the holiest light of life. She sits down, calmly, and there are so many sexual fantasies that are being churned through all the heads in the room and someone writes a program in lisp about it, someone takes a sneakshot with their phonecam and posts it on their myspace under the heading ZOMG.

When I was a young'un I read hackerlore from cdc about how the nerds eventually would cause a revolution and take over the world, because in the new world, information would be power and the malcontents would always be malcontents and assimilation into 'the man system' would not occurr. I believe the cdc at that time believed literally what they read in their scifi books and they acted like a friend of mine did after taking acid he said "I've seen the world end and I spoke to god and it was myself". They had seen the future and the future was flat and 2d.

As many has said before me, there will be no revolution. There will be no fat fuckups standing on the barricades with mountain dew coloured teeth shouting about information INFORMATION INFORMATION because bill hicks was so very right in two things, one where his scope should have been extended, namely the rednecks down south crying "evolution evolution evolution" and the perfect sentence "Adolf hitler had the right idea, he was just an underachiever, kill them all, kill them all adolf".

It seems I was deceived when I was a child and didn't think about it untill I was confronted with reality.

The nerd, the classic nerd, the neonerd are the perfect examples of new and improved robots. To put it in an easily understandable conspiracy setting, THEY created NERDS so they could have people that didnt REBEL(or rather, rebelled within controlled and confined areas).
But that's far from it. Nerds are people who have a fetishistic interest in one definitive area. Nerds are the end of 1984, the blue and depressing end, I betrayed you, you betrayed me underneath the sycamore (ispell) tree.

She's still sitting there and she's taken off her sweater due to the fact that computers generate lots of heat when clustered together in a room without aircondition and due to the fact that the room is almost full and everyone is drooling.

What happened to britney spears? Suiciding psych students? the revolution?

The revolution is here, now, in this room but noone will ever understand it. The unpleasantness is to touch and feel, the silence is deafening and the mix of fear for contact and the sensation of that last grand adventure is sitting here, in this room, now. Everyone touching the air is now a potential buddha, everyone is transcended, everyone has been illuminated and if anyone ripped their thoughts away from denied pussy, they might see it.

LONG EA_R_S FLOIPPING BY


Grim reaper, take my soul for my destiny is to die, he said, wanking furiously on miuntr rushmore. Diluted dream orchestras to swing in a waltz and oih so sazd and is this marvellous and everything is once and im on acid man and I know everything and we´re all just children in a world of god and bill hicks was right rtherefore i quote him every time i can, not for you, beecause i don´t care what other people says because I have people that undertasstand me and i´m special, i´m not a cog in a machine bcoz *I listen to greenday and i+m smart because I read books


In comes an inspector, nicely dressed, adresses the child in black and asks him what kind of books he reads.

I read books that can only be read to beethovens 9th because it´s so black and so dark yet with hope, with meaning, with substance but uhm I rfead loads of you know books about important things in fairytale worlds because I connect with them better there because i like rand because i feel there´s a bond between us, i would have understood him and when I listen to tool my heart blackens and i try to read some lovecraft but i always end up wuith derleth and sometimes i put on a hawaii shirt, khakis and have a sig and a completely WHACKO glasses like you know read man and then i listen to william shatner reading kublai kanh because theres soooo much emotion in his voice and captain kirk understood me

the inspector inquires about the music taste and why?

I listen to alot of tool but that´s because they really understand me and what it´s like being me and i´m a member of toolarmy and once i got this signed autprpograph of maynard, he´s god you know, and i sent him a mail and told him he was god and what i´d gotten in the mail and they i said id die for him in any instance but then he just phoned me up and laughed but then i understood what a sensitive guy he really is and he laughed with me to bring me up from my desperate and dank dark depression, like.

the inspector notices that there is no ashtray in his room but there´s loads of cardboardboxes that once housed pizzas without meat to he inquires about potential vegetarianism and health issues.

You know man, sigarettes are bad for ya, you and the country, i mean, you gotta pay your taxes and shit so you can?•¬¥t affect in any other way than voting and thats every four years the government sucks man its an illusion and they tell lies and theres this marlboro president that says smoking is reserved the poor the stupid the lame the blind and then i like says gods away gods away gods away on buisness and then everyoine else arouind me is like, man, youre deep. and its like that with vegetarianism because you know meat kinda sucks since the prod cows and let them live in cages  man and vegetarianism is because it¬¥s a state,ment like sxes and it¬¥s important.

The gun begins a gunpoint. The essence of a gun is only valid when it have been pointed at you. The same goes for a knife or even a fork. You and your wife a ,Äúdiscussion,Äù and she pulls the fork at you. You don't think oh my fucking god that thing can kill me, quite painfully too. How do I make her see it MY way? Because I can compromise, but really, I know I'm right.

The fork can kill you.

Everything he touches, fades. The apple fades. The vase fades. Doors seems to go transparent when he walks through them. Idiots run after him, only to stop by the door. The locklight is enchanced to give full detail.

There is a man and a woman. They are in their house. Their two children are sleeping in their own bedrooms. The dog is in his house. The lawnmower is where it should be. In their bedroom, the man and the woman have oral sex, anal sex and they are also using artificial phallic symbols. Outside, there is a man. The man sits in his car, except it isn't his, they give it to him so he can sit where he sits. The man and the woman have paid for his car. He sits up front in his vehicle. A box labelled Dunkin' Donuts is on the shotgun side of the car. The man is masturbating with the donuts. Occasionally, he briefly brushes his hot cup of coffee against the head of his cock, brushing back skin which was left by his priest. He bites his lip. His mind is there, in the vehicle. It's with a girl named Lucky, she said she had a motto and it churns over and over in his head and then she's there by the shotgun side saying 'you're lucky if you don't catch anything'. His mind returns and he sees out of the window. The man in the car eats the top donut. He flips on the surveillance system and he hears the man and the woman having sex. The man is being deepthroated by the woman whilst the man licks the woman at the spot where he thinks the clitoris is (he is a bit off, though). The woman has a cucumber in her hand which she penetrates her husband's anal opening with. The man in the vehicle has started to masturbate again. He is spitting at his penis, repeatedly. The dog is still silent. The man in the vehicle is breathing heavily. He finishes, smudging the vanilla even more before he puts them back in the box. He takes a grip at the steering wheel, closing his eyes and bending his head towards his legs. 'I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away. I mustn't run away.' The man in the house ejaculates and hits the clitoris for the first time as his wife moans. The man stops. 'That was good wasn't it, darling? Give us a fag please.' She nods, smiles, and cries on the inside. Her tears have reached the stomach and it is burning her from the inside. The woman starts shaking. The man next to her hears a fizzleish type of sound coming from her. The room is starting to smell with burning skin. It becomes hot to the touch and he thinks he can see a fire in her stomach. The man with the dog and the children panics. She grabs him 'the cucumber is the freezer. The atom is only alive when under attack. Stasis is the destroyer of rebirth itself. The icecream man will want to sell his van, buy it.' The man in the vehice is outside it, repeating his mantra before jerking upward and making a megaphone with his hands and he starts to scream 'Prying open my third eye. Prying open my third eye. Prying open my third eye. Prying open my third eye.' The man in the vehicle leaves with the vehicle.


The machine isn't. It also represents what you thought it didn't. The sound of one hand clapping is the sound of a tree falling in the woods or the sound of yuppies discussing if dolce&gabbana is too gay to wear or not. Then they listen to radiohead. Then they play Creep with mimicked voices and mimicked passion. One dame falls. She stops just before them and falls. The doctors told her parents that she died from a brain malfunction. It couldn't handle anymore crapshitcocksuckingmotherfuckinglovelickingcellularphonehonking great music performed by fuckeheads who wouldn't know the backside of a book even it it came running after him with pies, cookies and his mother's buttplugs. She was lucky said the doctor. Not everyone of us gets to die from crappy music. The doctor thinks about the case and reasons that it must have been put there by the government so that the mpaa can make money. He posts it on the internet and two days later the country is brought down by unknown shocktroops, all the uniforms are ostriches. They have crowns on their heads and they sing old russian drinking songs. The insurrectors kills everything in sight and fucks everyone with a pulse in the white house. They then proceed to buttfuck all living men of power with nuclear warheads. Then the firstborns of the revolution eats it and dies fat and rich. Haliburton rebuilds the country.

http://www.salon.com/books/int/2004/07/22/moore/


(yea, you gotta watch a commercial before they let you in but it's worth it.)

Dreams are energies that beam sexrays at the darkside of the moon to distort the musick of pink floyd.


The cellular phones vibrate at 0000000000000000000000000000001 hz more than dreams.


Neon genesis was right. Everyone is surrounded by an at field. the field is a part of the soul (which resides in the pineal gland ofcoz) which is missing, hencely, turd and his emofriends fill their holes with dope.
I think the atfield can also be described as a elctromagnetic field which resonates on lower vibrations than what ordinary emp can influence us on.


The snapple bottle talks to me when i empty it.


the mouse fills with dirt. then it dies.

do you replace the mouse or the dirt?

do you live for the shit other people replace?



Why isn't technical support technical?

Is it the snapple bottle?

Where are you?


Is this a nokia tune i'm hearing?

will god realize that not all stories have endings?

but they do, they do.

and some day baby. we do too. (refused)

(blasphemy for turd and the likeminded follows)


the lawnmower was outside the janitor called to me
I, sitting on a bench
ya just have to fill the gas the janitor almost screamed
I, smoking a fag
You know, it's easy to start, you just have to pull this string
oh yeah I said, still smoking
Yeah really he said continuing with and then you see the patterns
and i said, no you don't, still smoking
Yeah, it's really easy he said
and I said yeah, how
well, look at me do this and then he mowed the lawn for me.

it was a dream, i was headed up the mountains, a slope sortof, and i was running, and the freaky thing was that i couldn't look back, because i knew what was following me and at the same time i didn't.

then i was here and there was a conversation.
turd said: you know, really, i'm trying to rebel against the poetic nature of discordianism in itself and especially what was written in the illuminatus!
then hotsuma said: I feel the same thing.
then turd said: wow.. i though i was all alone in this world.
then horab said: GO GTEA FUKCIGN ROOOM!

and they did.

then roger appeared and he said something that was halfways witty, yet it still made sense and it was not annoying. then chef arrived and everyone thought jesus christ how do we ban him? this is the kind of person that ought to end up at some kinda cs forum.

and then


i woke up.

still bella was mellow and sweet. still hoshiko was far too intelligent and a fukcing genious. still aini wasn't fully respected. still



the world itself was looking more and more like the board or the other way around. still

the world itself was ridiculed. as the inhabitants lingered and agreed in silence whilst making an attempt at a discordian jake. then

i thought it didn't matter.



and i woke up.


no, not as you think you see it. i didn't wake up. not in that way.

because

if this is just another fad with intelligent people.

i'd rather stay away.

he said: i'd rather stay away.

then he came after me yelling at me because i had fallen asleep. he claimed he already had mowed every lawn. and i said

really

and he said

yea that was your job wasnt it

and i said yea

and he said well you gotta do something for me

and i said

the classics never got a style.

My girlfriend walks up to me:

sez:

we're all going to die alone

she pauses
then leaves

putting things in her purse like only women know. arranging her scarf like only women know. disappearing the way only women know.

we can't say anything. we're guys. this is her prerogative. not ours.

REWIND/FASTFORWARD

we're sitting at the same bar, talking about things that don't really concern us but for this evening, they do. it's an expensive place with cheap heineken and the sambucca was pissed in yesterday.

THE COFFEE THERE NEVER ATE A DOG.

now i'm alone. did i ever have a girlfriend? what is this thinking?


and i'm thinking: the only reason i have 95% of my friends is because i grew up with them. no, i never had that girlfriend. i want that girlfriend now. i want to tell her, after a cup of lazy tea: let's run away. let US live in the clich?©. and she would understand and feel not necessarily the same as me yet. she would see the validation in running away. disappear.


There is only you and me.


There is only you and me.


No family, no ties, no history but the one we create ourselves.

And we will think: This is the seed. We are the seed.
We will reread V for Vendetta yet again. and we will wonder: are we the bombers?


The suit enters. He calls us to the carpet. This is the end. This is not going anyway. Perhaps, he sez, you are the seed.
But, he says, it doesn't matter. we have created the seed. we have created the new dna for the new capitalism, ah, he sez, aren't we the bombers?

Who are you wondergirl? Let's run away from the suit aswell. Let's run. There's nothing here if we stay anyhow. But our friend says. but our family says.


Tradition they say. norms they say. the future they say.


It comes to pass that i believe the sisters of mercy.

give me your love

or


give me your gun

and i'm thinking, contemplating:

in your vacuum cleaners
your homevideos
your suicide attempts and successes
not really interested in your scientific explanations to why there is no god
or why the soul really is an at-field
you study the nature for an answer to a question you long since ever cared about
you no longer stop and think about the mechanics driving you or those around you

you're breathing, aren't you?
YOU ARE LIVING!
You're walking the pastures of green in the weekends with your lovely wife and you're german shepherd.
You've borrowed a cabin from a friend too where you can have time for a short romance with your loved one. You feel that the weekends should be used for recreation. You're a christian even though you aren't part of any sect at all.
You sit at your desk, emotionless. You don't have time to feel depressed or hate your job. You got a job, it pays good, it pays your mortgages. It will give you a cabin of your own in a few years.
Is that the plan?

Live
then
Work (be a husband)
then
Retire
then
Live
then
Tell your children and grandchildren a story with a moral you've adapted yourself so that you can tell this particular story. And you sacrificed so much for that story, didn't you? All those years of work, endless toil to pay the mortgages and the cabin.

Where you and your wife still think that it's romantic.

Is this you?

Will you ever again take a look at yourself? Or was that a highschool fling. A summerflirt.
The dame you should have married with.

Or should you?

Is this tormenting you?

Are there any questions in your life?

Or is it filled with semicolons, exclamationmarks and dots?

Is this a question in itself?

But,
as I was saying
we're not really interesting
we're not hiring

I think, personally, you should join something else.

Seeing as I haven't done this I do it now.


The infant child it lies
dreaming infant dreams and cries out in it's waking dream:
Hotsuma! Hotsuma!
The toddler of dreams does not think
yet percieves all sins and dirty thoughts

it cries:
Hotsuma! Hotsuma!

When will the blunderbuss become the DJ of dreams yet again?

Wearily the mother had the shortest straw staggering into the childs room all painted in babyblue

Hotsuma withdraws to the shadows thinking:
why these colours? why these colours for the innocent infants?

the mother sshes her little babyboy and lifts him up says poor boy was it a bad dream

Hotsuma the baby cries but is drowned in wail
Hotsuma come for me
Hotsuma, where is blunderbuss and the dj of dreams?

And Hotsuma, in the shadows think: The children are marked from an early age. Their conditioning begins the minute knowledge of pregnancy is born. They are damned thrice when introduced to their babyblue rooms. This is their prison aswell as it was mine.

Sssshh goes the mother
Hotsumaaaaaaaaaa! goes the toddler as the scream reaches the pineal gland
Hotsuma sees hope in the activation yet knows he fails in this most important task
Ssssh goes the mother and the child cries for Hotsuma now more

The Blunderbuss, the dj of dreams walks solemly through the shadows of this world that holds us. Hotsuma he hears Hotsuma cries the infants begging for release from their prisons.


And Hotsuma, the Blunderbuss of dreams for the dj walks.

I don't know why, but this tarkovsky piece is brilliant. So brilliant that it made me write this.

Just bought the sc. colours look good.

anyone?