27 April 2011


daylight has brought along two kids inspired by the beat generation to boast about having learned how to climb the ladder of love up to the point of loving wisdom. with an intoxicating passion inherited from rather drunken gods, the two have been speaking about how they feel themselves true only when focusing on the one thing which enables them to be true for themselves - writing.

“after having suffered a writer's block, again, and, again, healing it with a glass of red, I understood some valuable things about inhibitions and what they reveal about the nature of writing.”
“writing is the very equal of taking a walk in the park, naked. there's nothing to use as a cover for the nudity of one's very own character, no matter how skilled one grows to be in twisting the words and mixing the scenes.”
“well. earlier today I wrote down a note for myself, which I really needed to capslock and shit, for I really am for this and that's why I am for the beats. I wrote,


“oh yes, and then there were the italians, you remember them italians, who in their old wisdom spoke about in vino veritas. if you speak bullshit when drunk, you're bullshit. hypocritical bullshit.”

amongst the biggest quantitative concentration of the brightest minds of this city one sits and reads words by an inspiring mind channeling from a decade lived through long ago. ironically enough, the following words read are from pages 32 and 33 of the romantic manifesto.

“I am referring here to romantic love, in the serious meaning of that term - as distinguished from the superficial infatuations of those whose sense of life is devoid of any consistent values, i.e., of any lasting emotions other than fear. love is a response to values. it is with a person's sense of life that one falls in love - with that essential sum, that fundamental stand or way of facing existence, which is the essence of a personality. one falls in love with the embodiment of the values that formed a person's character, which are reflected in his widest goals and smallest gestures, which create the style of his soul - the individual style of an unique, unrepeatable, irreplaceable consciousness. it is one's own sense of life that acts as the selectro, and responds to what it recognizes as one's own basic values in the person of another. it is not a matter of professed convictions (though these are not irrelevant); it is a matter of much more profound, conscious and subconscious harmony.

many errors and tragic disillusionments are possible in this process of emotional recognition, since a sense of life, by itself, is not a reliable cognitive guide. and if there are degrees of evil, then one of the most evil consequences of mysticism - in therms of human suffering - is the belief that love is a matter of “the heart,” not the mind, that love is an emotion independent of reason, that love is blind and impervious to the power of philosophy. love is the expression of philosophy - of a subconscious philosophical sum - and, perhaps, no other aspect of human existence needs the conscious power of philosophy quite so desperately. when that power is called upon to verify and support an emotional appraisal, when love is a conscious integration of reason and emotion, of mind and values, then - and only then - it is the greatest rewards of man's life.”

finally, at night, one solved the riddle in an instant, though it's no wonder for having been so long into trying to understand the metaphysical value judgments guiding our dear freemasons. the old man spins his consciousness to a variety of perspectives while observing the divine logic do its magic in the radiant minds of those wandering in the darkness of a maze made out of a variety of dear sufferings is what one sees and agrees.

the best part is, that the old man really isn't going to fight for anyone. it is up to the dear individual to grow and become the ultimate in one of two opposing senses of divinity, the one passive or the one active. the prize, the realization, the light, the whatever, is the same in the end of two opposing paths. equal until the very end, bitch.

19 April 2011

Together we were for a day

True story bro

“coffee. yeah with milk.” it is half past two inside the biggest gay club in scandinavia, and the woman dressed in all black desires milk in her filter coffee. fuck,
“we should get a cab.”
“I want to drink my coffee. what's the matter, aren't you into human watching tonight?”

I look into her sober eyes reflecting neon lights, and direct them to the smallest midget I've seen. wearing a skimpy black dress she is leaning to the backrest of her small but well elevated electric wheelchair, while holding a drink in her hand and talking to two bald men in armani suits. when I return my gaze to her face, she goes on to say,

“I love it. if I were a midget there'd be no chance in hell I would try to normalize myself into the lie of being just like everyone else, working in a cubicle or filling up shelves in suburban libraries, na-ah, not when having been born to be in the showbiz.”
“meaning where dwarf-celine's skills and passion meet the world's needs.”
“hell yes. I am already an attention seeking loony as I am now so why would I pass the chance to make people laugh and get laid if possessing a body of a little person.”

while she finishes her coffee, I can't but wonder what drives people into a lair such as this. if the simplest answer is often true, then I'd have to vote for sex. too bad I really cannot claim to know what this sex thing is about atm when there's a woman dancing a couple of feet from me, rocking, among other things, her ass implants.

on the backseat of the taxi I read through my emails while celine is mindfucking two drunken guys who offered to pay the ride if she showed them the party. I don't know what to call her, so I will go for a secret admirer here, so, a secret admirer had sent me a long email.

I was sitting in the bus today with eyes blinded by the sun, sitting next to a young russian man who was looking over his young beautiful wife and their small baby, and even I felt his pride when I saw how the wife kissed the cheek of the giggling infant on his first summery day ever, kissed his cheek and mumbled parts of the narrative that he will grow to embrace as his first view of the workings of this maze, in russian of course. those tender kisses on his cheek must make him so whole with the essence of things, if the essence of things really is love.

I am not sure anymore about what I hold in my heart as the definition of love. a couple of years back I found a good enough analysis on love by ayn rand. I know she didn't, apparently, quite live up to her own high moral standards, but still I saw some truth in her view about love at first glance being possible because one is able to see from the eyes and the overall presence of another being that "that stranger has the same sense of life as I do." 

it is just like I had when I saw behind your narrative, the story you put out. I want you to come and visit me again, if you need I can send you...

“give me that,” says celine and takes my phone from me, and calls to someone who needs directions. I listen to her talk as if she owned the world, and I guess she does. as an old goth, she has sucked the life out of life so effectively that her individualism is overbearing at times. she is like the black hole of attention, getting it all wherever she goes without ever making any fucking sense to anyone.

maybe I am just stoned, but I could swear myself to be right when this sense of life thing feels to tie into her narcissistic void, making it all feel nothing but wrong to me. If I were to see myself running wild in the body of a woman, would I go and grab the thing and bring it home, just for us to come to the conclusion that our souls match and because of that we are to overcome death in a state of everlasting bliss?

the taxi pulls over by an abandoned warehouse area. from the inside courtyard of this officially nonexistent event I find an old colleague and a man so beautiful he shouldn't exist at all, both tripping.

“nothing exists except that which you perceive, don't you get it, like just now you came here and before that you were nonexistent,” says the beauty with his perfect smile making everyone but celine willing to believe that he has reached some ultimate truth via nothing but a shortcut.
“you have to acknowledge the existence of other dimensions. I come from another dimension.”
“don't try to mindfuck me celine, you don't know what I know.”
“yes, I know everything you think you know, and fuck you for trying to deny the existence of my consciousness.”

I leave celine performing with the suggestible ones to go inside and walk through a hall filled with people moving in the rhythm of scurry, bathing myself in neon lights before passing a heavy curtain dividing the area to the so called backstage.

a single table is placed on the concrete floor, with two intertwined rows of chairs by it. I sit down, and notice a sofa in the corner of the room, with someone passed out on it. a party where you can pass out in peace is my kind of party.

the bassline comes on heavy from the huge speakers not far from my back, making my spine quake with its continuous tautness. my hands shake as does my whole body, but I manage to roll a joint and light it. on the other side of the table, a pair of eyes is locked onto me, and as our eyes meet, mine... stop. everything appears to stop, and I ask myself once and repeat the question twice, should I redirect my gaze and look at the back wall or something?

the owner of the eyes sits next to me, and it doesn't take long for me to go ballistic due to having found someone who laughs at the products of my idiotic sense of humor.

“well could you have imagined it otherwise, the great soviet union not being able to control every single living thing into doing whatever father lenin wanted them to do for the whole? of course bears played ice hockey. and after the fall of cccp they have degenerated to stealing cars.”

through 3G I surf to youtube, and prove my point with a video of a russian bear committing grand theft auto. and so, after a brief aerobics session on the other side of the curtain, a thick sense of irony overcomes me as I score with the most unlikely of all random declarations possible,

“I want to see the world finally give a chance to laissez-faire capitalism.”

13 April 2011

Ponder pounder

questions pound the insides of my mind in the morning sun. could I jump out from here, escape maybe from the ear? walking down the street as the sun shines from the east I wish to could just switch to someone else and head south.

yet the sun reassures everyone of the presence of spring, while the dust scraped off the streets by studded tires flies through the air, filling ignorant lungs surrounding hearts awoken to the will to find the nearest beer garden. later, as I stand queuing to use my last cash for the cheapest vegetables in the city a girl of thirteen or fourteen walks by wearing the smallest and tightest possible skirt. today ignorance is a bliss.

when I was eleven I met death for the first time. it was april fools' day and what I initially thought was a joke turned out to be the hand of the reaper inside the frontal lobe of a loved one. a mind too young to handle it all took the body out of the situation, and in a back room had its knees hit the marble floor. 

today I remembered that life tried to make up for what happened to my knees some months later, the next summer I guess. I had gotten a pair of rollerblades form a girl whose backbone had grown to form an S, and was trying them out on the street in front of our house when I began falling down. in the second or so before my knees hit the ground a voice inside of me had enough time to say this is going to hurt

but boy was I surprised when all I felt was a soft blow to my knees, thanks to pads I had forgotten I was wearing. 

a body wiser than mind probably tried to teach me something that day, and maybe from there on that something which had died and gone to heaven decided to try to live again. and it all was well again by the time I was thirteen or fourteen, having had just found buddhism and had had my first trip. ignorance was a bliss.

in these past days my knees have dreamed about hitting the streets covered with leftover sand. why? what the fuck do they know?

in a darkened living room two women aged 22 drink whiskey. born on the opposite sides of the planet, these two came together in the most decayed city there is - rome.

“I saw your boyfriend. twice this week.”
“in trastevere, begging for money.”

sitting on a black futon lost in time, sharing the space with only a squirrel in a cage by the window, the one with the blue eyes feels a sting in her tear ducts and goes on to ask,

“did he see you?”
“one time, yes. I said hello as I was walking past. then he took a few minutes to work it out I guess, because he started calling my name. but I was with a bunch of people and didn't really feel like stopping and having a chat.”
“how did he look?”
“I don't get it why he hasn't just left rome.”

the blue eyed one gets up, walks to the kitchen to split a pink grapefruit in half, and uses a fork to dig out the juice and the meat of the fruit into two tall glasses. back in the living room, she mixes in some poor lauders. 

“he is so weird,” says the woman from sydney and sips the fresh drink in her hand, her eyes burning with the sort of strength one can only imagine stemming from years of hard work and hot sand, “I mean, like just disappearing all the time. days at end. and not coming to meet you and not getting into contact. I don't know how you do it. I need a man I can depend on.”

her pondering blue eyes stare into the empty space between here and nowhere, and from that sphere they appear to derive her ever so quirky remarks.

“I have this one friend from africa who's thirty-eight I guess. we've known each others since last summer and have become really good friends. a week ago I went to see him and we smoked and stuff and I asked him what does he think about this situation of mine, honestly,” she pauses, takes a sip and focuses her eyes on the green pair of her nine eleven born soul mate, “and it took him a while but he admitted that he had done the same with his ex wife like a decade ago, when he had had issues with his visa. he didn't take contact to her or anyone for like ten days because he wanted to sort the shit out himself.”

the squirrel comes out of its small artificial nest and stares at the women on the other side of the room. the small living room in the middle of a big apartment has nothing in it that fits the building itself. instead there's japanese furniture, old playboy magazines from the states, two foreign women and a pet squirrel who knows this is not the place for political correctness.

“it is hard to understand the logic of niggers but well, I respect people for rolling in different ways. I used to think I need a man I can depend on, too, but that's bull. it just makes me dull if I have a wall by my side who provides for me and shit. if I have a douche who loves me I am more proud of myself than when I have a tool who loves me. and are there any other kind of men, really?”

12 April 2011

Nigger Latin

perché desidero ardentemente
qui é undici immagini vecchi da me

non fui contento tra le tue braccia
tranne quando trovavo esso di una bottiglia

sei mesi a trastevere con ciottolato strade
trovavo molti spinelli tra le pietre

adesso vivo senza loro
ciao ciao, bello

baci, baci
dio aiutaci

06 April 2011

50 centimeters

a russian stripper sitting next to me goes on and on about her imprisoned husband who she has finally seen after a month of separation.

“and you know what? he has grown so much! arnold schwarzenegger used to have a circumference of 54 centimeters here,” she says and swings her right hand around her left shoulder. “and now menelik has 50!”
“50 centimeters? where? are you serious?”
“yes! his body is so important to him. he says he has special protection too. he has these cuts in his arm, right here on the wrist, and they are there for his protection.”
“yeah the tribe he belongs to has those marks, and you've seen he also has cuts here on his face, like I have these here representing another tribe. like this we always, anywhere, recognize who is from which tribe,” adds a friend of mine and walks over to his bookshelf to pick up a file.

“hey, stripper girl, you know there is a tribe that mutilates the genitals of its male members? if west africans have been mutilated in the purposes of recognizing each others when meeting face to face, so to say, what do you think the mutilated genitals are supposed to communicate? and to who?”
“I guess they are to show those genitals to each others? I don't know?”
“yeah you wouldn't' know.”
“look, girls, it is not all just fun and games. look at this picture. this guy had gone to visit a mambo, a vodou priestess, and for whatever he asked for she had asked him to bring her the head of his daughter, as a sacrifice, you understand? this picture is taken by a friend of mine who was a journalist, long ago. she got killed for bringing stuff like this out from where it happened to a broader audience.”

being famous for stupid questions, I ask many, but each of them leads to the dead end of “you are not able to understand vodou, because you do not understand the cultural context it stems from.” this leaves me to imagine reasons myself, through a method of guessing motives. what would a mambo do, and why?

a guy comes to my vodou practice, willing to do anything to grant himself a life of wealth and luxury. I, the best mambo there is, know my role in the order of things is to help people become whatever they want to be. I understand the rules of human psyche in and out, but call these rules in my verbal output as the workings of spirits and such. I have to, otherwise these dupes would figure the trick out.

so, back to the timid greedy little guy who wants wealth and luxury. he needs something done to him that would make him completely oblivious to the effects of his actions giving him ruthlessness needed in the world of business, and a hands on experience when it comes to death, naturally. he needs to not to trust no one, but to keep his eyes open at all times because he has experienced himself how something vulnerable can be destroyed by the one who is thought to be the protector. he needs to be traumatized, so that he will spend the rest of his days compensating for it. I know,

“bring me the head of your youngest daughter.”

02 April 2011


three girls have spent three evenings in the company of james. especially around the 60s he was portrayed as such an embodiment of male chauvinism, that our girls really did hit the bull's eye when choosing him to serve as an outsourced object of their discontent stemming from real life assholes. just a moment ago, catharsis was finally reached when during the climax of thunderballs james went about his licensed killings while wearing a red rubber body suit thought to have inspired a whole generation of german fags.

“if souls can be conversing in some other sphere then I do hope ours are having the argument of their lives about what the hell these bodies are supposed to be doing,” she said to herself while focusing intensively on trying not to show her distressed state in a variety of compulsive gestures. together with her in the backroom of a private club some people were discussing silver as an investment, among them a man listening intently, a man who had just some days before realized her.

she could not pick any of her usual shields to hide behind, feeling more naked than she had felt when swimming nude in a pool resting within a building representing nordic classism. and all because of that damned man.

on some level she was sure about having slipped into a parallel existence, a place defined by the wills of others and not her own. nothing sinister there, by definition, just an uncomfortable sense of helplessness demanding appropriate attention.

later, when hugging her bag in a tram a man of sixty saw the most vulnerable look in her eyes, and said to himself, “god, if I were younger I'd take the hand of that amenable woman and do whatever would be needed to make her eyes shine valiantly.”

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