This blog celebrates Absurdity because maybe the realest moments we know are when we sit alone in the toilet and make caca. Yet still or should one say because of that the Absorption of Absurdity is a Constant Search for the Truth; a Search for the Real Beauty and the Sublime, hidden behind our Omninarcissistic Ironycurtains and our Glorification of a new God called "Nothing".
Can you hear them? The whisp'ring waves We're in Big Sur - No need for words now We sit in silence The moon's light in our eyes directly And we can see Dark Rivers through the Milky Way We're in them Reflecting - like perfect mirrors
Do you feel them? The hawk's wings vim We watch him flying No need for words now We sit in silence His stern eyes pierce our minds directly And we can see high waters in far mountains' fold We're in them Reflecting: The perfect mirrors
Can you grasp it?
This true momento
How we are (in) it
Fierce wish to scream
Or are we screaming?
Old worn fears
faced here directly
And we can see
blue dolphins
in wild water's waves
We're with them
Hands touching:
My perfect mirrors
Can you freeze it?
The final sunrise
Where all must end
No room for words now
We part in silence
Our soil scents
exchange skins directly
And we can see
tough currents
in the flux of time
We're in them
Shifting
like liquid mirrors
Can you tell me? Those perfect mirrors - What do they show now I am in Berlin I sit in silence The screen's light hits my face directly And I can see white barriers in every window's pane I'm in them Reflected by empty mirrors
Looking up into the sky, different people see different things.
After a whole day spent (not literally) with physicists Stephen W. Hawking and Brian Greene, and biologist Richard Dawkins, one might observe that the arrogance of Science sometimes can be as unjust and stubborn as the arrogance of Religion in its claim of being the Ultimate Truth. And their criticism of people's faith occurs vain and mocking, even arrogant sometimes in its denial of the believers' image of the world.
Now of course the Genesis is not a subject for Biology classes, as gravity's existence is not to be questioned in Ethics. And hell should not be used as a threat, when it could be used more wisely as a metaphor for the pain and anguish a bad consciousness causes. Also, regarding some most important social issues, at least two religious books should definitely be revised. But the story of Noah's Arch for example and the formation history of the Black Sea could and probably should be taught in one class in order to build a bridge between two under normal circumstances isolated towers to connect the fragments of our world. And the idea of Reincarnation is easily combined with the theory of elementary particles: we do stay on earth after our death and we do transform into new life.
So why can there ever so often only exist ONE answer to many big questions? Why can't people notice that quite often believing in their belief to be the one and only true belief, reflecting the one and only true reality, usually only causes conflicts and discussions leading to dead ends and dead people? And why is there so little flexibility and willingness to benefit from each other?
Maybe the String Theory is able to connect the many worlds we've created in order to understand our one world, because - seriously - if there is 11 or even more parallel universes existing at the same time in the same place, who could argument against it then, that more than only one idea should be able, MUST be able, to dwell peacefully next to each other in the same space-time continuum - our experienced world - at every moment of our conscious life?
Religion has killed in huge numbers and Science has as well. So in the end it is not the question of "Science or Religion?" but using either one, and also Politics and Economy, as tools and not weapons, and to focus on consensus rather than difference. Because the answer to most questions cast in the previous paragraphs, the answer to why people can't live next to each other in a decent and moralistic manner, is not because of Science's cold-minded ratio or Religion's conservative ignorance, but because of a few people's hunger for might and power or revenge. And it is those people we have to be cautious about and look out for, because in that sense the Holy Bible is actually right: the devil wears many disguises. And all of us have to exorcise our lives and surroundings once in a while, not to serve our chosen Ultimate Truth, but in order to be true to ourselves.
He entered the Restaurant. A fine looking man in his forties, keeping his prominent chin up and presenting his handsome face resting on an immaculate neck, supported by strong shoulders which filled out a sporty outdoor jacket and led to slender loose-fit jeans legs. Almost six and a half feed tall he had just the perfect height without looking ridiculous or overgrown or having to bend his head when entering a door. His eyes therefore also sat high, beaming into his surroundings and seemingly moving the particles around him, almost making them dance; a double laser-show ready to jump at whatever object it was meeting and radiographing the story of their owner into your biology, a story about a responsibility free life committed only to commitment, a story of happiness.
You could tell by one look or better to say, were told by one look, that he was the man who always knew the right questions to ask and the proper story to tell, but who could also sit in silence for hours or even days without feeling uncomfortable. As he had scanned the restaurant's interior, screened the wooden tables reflecting the soft lights coming from the cloth-shielded lamps, taken in the minimalist Scandinavian decor at the walls, he now finally turned to me.
"I know what you want", I said.
He smiled. Just and simply smiled. No signs of discomfort by being targeted so directly. He was used to it.
"And what would that be?", he asked, still smiling.
"The buffet of course."
Now he smiled even broader. The patterns of the lines drawing his face spoke of a wide sense of humor, of stormy days outside, but went too deep to not also tell of losses and disappointments. They were telling of a life which is being lived by a man who could value the moment.
"Well, you are right", he said now, "How do you know?"
"Men like you always want everything", I answered.
He chuckled.
I was aware of the fact that I was flirting with a man who could be my father. But I didn't care. I was the waitress, it was my job to entertain my guests. I walked around the desk and stepped out behind the bar. He was standing there still smirking, apparently enjoying the doubled attention of not only the woman, but also the waitress in me.
"Well, just follow me. I'll show you paradise", I said and led him to the buffet banquet in the back of the hotel. There exist men you don't want to walk behind you and men you want to walk behind you. He was neither one of them. He didn't make me aware of me wearing jeans in which my curves would show. I didn't feel his eyes weaving invisible ropes around my legs, which would make me stumble. I just simply didn't notice the fact of him walking behind me. He felt so natural with his steps taking immediately the same rhythm as mine, there was simply no cause for neither worries nor displaying gender games. He was a man to walk with.
"Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Walk beside me and be my friend." Albert Camus
1995: Writing my first love-poem which expressed what I actually meant and led to katharsis.
1996: Seeing the sea for the first time.Touching eternity. Listening to the truth.
1997: Summerrain. Almost bareskinned with as little clothes as possible on my body, the hot asphalt drowning under my feed, heavy raindrops on my outspread hands, the wish to die, now.
1999: Skipping school to go and strawl in the woods, drinking from a
sparkling creek, finding the skull of some animal while a fox stops and stares. Finding a rusty knife laid to my feet, cutting me free from dorny bushes..
1999: Skipping school to go and sit on my favourite log for hours which seem endless, under me the Danube river, listening to music or else singing to myself and the soft swooshing and hissing underneath my dangling feed.
2000: Winternight. Snow. Minusdegrees. I undress in the nearby park until I am all naked and allow the white to grow a bed for me, sofltly melting into its numbness.
2001: My two best friends and me on the top of a hill in a ruin, which is ours. Light my fire, shadowcatching in the dark, Inquisition and the vastness of our misanthropic friendship gleaming in the night
2005: Waking up, my drunk, having sex with a clear nightsky over me and a guy I couldn't remember I liked that much, but who turned out to be just as great as my drunk ingenuity had told me.
2006: My best friend crawling under my skin and leaving me marked, smoothly engraving the eternity of one moment into my flesh where it reminds me of its greatness day after day.
2006: Sweden. No plan, but Love. Great people. Changing clothes in public toilets, never knowing what to do next, searching for love in the crowded streets of Halmstad only to find it in a bloodstained room which released me into freedom.
2006: Another him and the same me discovering that jumping upstairs is much more fun than jumping downstairs.
2007: The sea. My bike. Lonliness. Silence and 760km from Hamburg all the way to Oslo.
2007: The biggest loveencounter of my life in the toilet on the floor with toothpaste still clinging to my lips and all the passion a woman could wish for from a man who knew too much about the destructive power of it.
2008: Reinventing myself in the big blue eyes of a swedish Hobbit, who remains until today my guide to brainfree happiness.
2008: A night full of breaking whiskeyglasses, thickheads and bloodstains on my brain. Meeting yet another person who would teach me that only one point of view is never enough.
2009: Reading this damn fine review in the taz about a book which should change my life forever..
2009: Jumping from a cliff at the italian coastline in front of the eyes of some really good people!
2010: Learning once more while facing the egyptian desert, being surrounded by the eternity of death, that I cannot run away from myself.
2010: Hobobike and me again. Danish coasts deserted. Boiling rice on a gascooker and burning candles in my tent while reading those books..oh, all those books...and feeling those miles in my body, oh, all those miles.
2010: Allowing the truth to prevail and fighting fire with fire, stepping out of reason and experiencing stupid bravery, gaining trust to myself and losing trust to others. Growing into a lonliness which brings me closer to myself than I've ever been before and leads me away from others, who I do not want to follow me anyway.
2010: Finally. I jumped off a swing at the highest point of flight!
And here the list must stop, because the remaining past is still too much today to be ripe enough to be measured compared to a lifetime.
If only fakeknowledge gets rewarded, neglect the truth.
If money offers life, then without money there is no meaning and without meaning there is no life.
Our Redemption, the way out of our misery, is the wooden Cross which we are willing ourselves to wear until we finally grow into Heaven, where we will hit our Fathers` faces for creating without thinking. Choose Life, they said. Choose Life. But the more we thought about it the heavier it dwelt on our shoulders; deeper and deeper it carved itself into our flesh, until finally it pierced through and here we are now; impaled into a cloudless dead sky, right into the loving eyes of our crying old men..Now, who failed better?
By Fjodor Dostojewski, slightly changed by a Real Fishfäng:
With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for others or themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a person simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. For them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule.
Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, when I observe the retort-made man on the contrary, who is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point.
Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. Well, it won't. Because in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge.
Instead the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it a lot of nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort of fatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for the mouse is to dismiss all that with a wave of its tiny paw, and, with a smile of assumed contempt in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home our insulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold, malignant and, above all, everlasting spite.
It will remember its injury down to the smallest, most ignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself, pretending that those things might happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as it were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito, without believing either in its own right to vengeance, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself.
1. Akira
2. The Face of Another
3. Suspiria
4. Kwaidan
5. Kafka`s A Country Doctor
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
1.Akira (1988) - directed by: Katsuhiro Otomo
Trailer:
Plot:
It is the year 2030, Neo-Tokio still lays in the shadows of WWIII. Its nights are brighter than its days and the commercials all over the city seem realer than its inhabitants. Nothing here has any deeper meaning, it is a city full of crime, violence, drugs and misfortune.
But political corruption does not sleep: Even in such a seemingly anarchic place the money-greedy claws of the politicians never rest and therefore anti-government activists terrorize the streets.
They are unaware though of a much bigger threat, cause even after the nuclear explosion 30 years previous, which led to the World War, science does not stop to joggle with the ultimate power and the idea of showing off to the creator by becoming the creator itself, moral doubts being successfully sacrificed for the "higher ideals".
It is this city the maincharacters of the movie are born into and here it is, where they all have to face their destiny.
Rating:
Fantastic pictures. Never seen before images. A created world as huge and complex as the original Manga for the movie with its more than 2.000 pages must be. You can sense the tremendous work and efforts put into this stream. You are steadily aware of the thought: Man - this is all handmade!! Or even voicemade, when it comes to the rather peculiar soundtrack for the movie. It is a sometimes rather brutal vision of our future - which hopefully never will come true.
You can watch the movie in good quality and with german dubbing on youtube, the original version with english subtitles is also available, but in a much worse quality:
2. The Face of Another (1966) - directed by: Hiroshi Teshigahara
Trailer:
Plot:
Since I haven`t been watching this one to an end yet, I can`t give a plotsummary, but I can say this:
Imagine you were to lose your face in a fire-accident. Imagine you have been reading Rilke`s "Die Aufzeichnungen des Malte Laurids Brigge" or Paul Auster`s "New York Triology" and know about the importance of your face, but also how a mask or masquerade can lead to the loss of yourself. What would you do then, if you`re suddenly given the chance to get a new face, which is kind of, but not and never entirely yours? Think about it: You will feel estranged from yourself. The ones you know will not know you. The life you lead will become the one of somebody else, that somebody else`s who is suddenly looking at you from the other side of the mirror. You would BE, but at the same time NOT-BE. Intriguing. But also scary.
Rating:
Highly philosophical topics in the esthetics of the 60ies, seeming to have influenced David Lynch`s "The Elephant Man" with furthermore a cult german soundtrack (see youtube-link) while being a book-adoption of the homonymous novel by a guy called Kōbō Abe? Hell yes..I am in!!
Trailer: (do not mind the "look, how greatly we remastered the original"-comments)
Plot:
Easy: Danceacademy in Munich, lots of beautiful young teenanger-women, mysterious murders, ankward looking creeps and lots of occult witchcraft!
Rating:
Isn`t it great to have your own dark imagination as the maintranslator of the horrid things happening there on the screen again? Isn`t it fun to get scared by your own anxieties instead of being only shocked and outraged by all the blood, splatter and rudness being shown blankly to you? Well, I think it is.
After watching this movie alone in a dark apartment I got not only scared of the curtains, but also of my own reflection in the mirror and for the first time in years I started thinking about the dark creatures who could be there lurking in the shadows underneath my bed again. Was great to welcome them back after such a long time.
And Goblin doing the soundtrack..well, that is just wonderful. I think I knew it from a thousand BM-albums before already. Which kind of makes this entry also meaningless. Guess you all experienced Suspiria yourself already.
Kwaidan means translated Ghost Stories and tells four japanese folktales from Lafcadio Hearn`s collection, who is probably to compare with the german Grimm-brothers.
The first story, The Black Hair, is the story of a young man, who leaves his first wife in favour of another, who`s family is very wealthy and rich. It takes him only months to discover though that love has a higher value than money, but unfortunately years before he finally returns back home to his first wife. Where he finds her not be quite in the same estate as when he left her, even though it first seems so.
The second story, The Woman of the Snow, tells about a young woodcutter, who has an unpleasant encounter with a rather beautiful, light woman one night out in the woods, which leads to his comrad`s death. Ten years later he has to regret that he did`t listen more closely to what she had been telling him that night.
The third story, Hoichi the Earless, tells about a blind young monch, who can play the biwa so beautifully, that it does not only attract the living.
The fourth story at last, In a Cup of Tea, tells about what can happen, if you swallow a soul or, if you are a writor, get swallowed by your own tellings.
Rating:
This portmanteau film won at Cannés back then. I can´t believe neither that Cannés is that old already, nor that a movie from ´64 can have the looks Kwaidan actually has. The dreamlike scenery with its ghostly layers is incredibly intense and simply beautiful.
I watch it and I think of modern movies as von Trier`s Antichrist or of course The Ring. The fact that the japanese female spirits correspond furthermore with the european wicca-cult and have the same vampiristic touch to them with their pale skin, their supernatural beauty and their immense hunger for life, once again makes me thoughtful about how it is possible, that the dark side of feminin power is portraited in such similar patterns all over the world ever since Lilith, Isis or Kali (Diamond Head would put these wonderings into two sentences: Am I Evil? - Yes, I am).
Listing those movies makes it quite apparent now, doesn`t it, how I could actually have a nightmare, which made my guts turn around (= puke!).
This is how I recollect the dream (and not a Luther King-parody):
"I had a dream..I was dreaming that people had to finally see that moral is no longer dwelling on this planet.
I was dreaming of a bright light dominated by the idea of flesh, the postmodern thought of a white, gleaming, supermechanical and ultracomplex city being absorbed by the pure biology of flesh and the weakness of our bodies. Everyhing collapsed, but then again didn`t. It was more like...a fusion.
And people were despairing..but without being afraid of it. I was dreaming, that people weren`t anxious about anxiety anymore, but surrendered to it instead. Noone was willing to hold on to love..or let it even be money..anymore. Noone was willing to hold on to anything..and then..everyone..was all alone by himself.
Arms reaching for heaven into nothing everywhere. I see this picture all the time. They were there. Everywhere.
And I was caught in the middle. And it felt...as if I was falling, deep. And my guts were at a sudden above me, outside of my body, while I still kept on falling and being sucked right into this fusion until I finally woke up at last."
Well, as watching movies obviously turns my guts around, I turn back to what I can digest best: books.
A quick check on google told me where I had to go to in Copenhagen to find some new food for my brain since all my brought novels were already resting in my stomach.
Haruki Murakami ("Sputnik Sweetheart") had been a low-fat, very light starter for my travels: No heavy words there, no complicated emotions, no abysses of the human mind, just the pure and simple essence of being an anyone on this planet. Quite delicious, very much a brainmeal for the summer.
Philip Roth afterwards in Copenhagen then was tasty, but not at all - how do you say so very fitting - "rich in content". The good and solid kitchen Roth enters to create his brainfood has smoked ham and eggs as the speciality on the menue and is all in all rather "preserved". Vitamins and carbon hydrats are missing, the whole creation put in front of you on the table looks pretty brownish and boring, like you were eating in an old-fashion restaurant in Prague. Well, sure, he`s been writing about how it is to get old in "Exit Ghost", obviously that is not a fun-thing to do. Still, I learned nothing new from this book and his proudly presented oh-so-authentic-71-year-old thoughts, which could as well be the ones of a 25 year old like me. Which is in my conclusion the best part of this book after all: It shows that things will never change! Roth`s protagonist seems to have quite romantic views upon being young and forgets, that life "back then" was not at all much better than "later on" and also confuses the awareness of death with the fear of death in my opinion and therefore preaches of the last one, which is a mindly trap, instead of holding up the first one, which leads to acceptance. Besides, that stupid Roth stole my idea of using a fictitious dialogue written by the maincharacter as a literary instrument to show the protagonist`s true inner desires. Damnit!
And to top it all (the more I write the more I notice how much I actually dislike the Bohemian kitchen) that Roth-dude claims George Orwell to have been a loser because he went voluntarily into poverty at some point of hos career as a writor and was living on the streets. This defamation is so completely off the road, that I had to shut the book for a moment in perplex disbelief when I first read it. But the second time I read it, it was still there. And Roth therefore became my (for his consistency in style and flux in words respected) enemy.
I was also reading Peter Handke, but won`t get deeper into that for now, because today I - as I said - went out to find new brainfood after those literary and more or less digestive reconnaissances from above (jesus, what a word, I didn`t even know until just now about its existance and still don`t now how to pronounce it).
So, here is the new Baby:
"Shantaram" by Gregory David Roberts
It should interest quite a few of you, if not for its content, then for the fact that it is being transformed into a movie right now and of course, whenever Hollywood is doing a (hopefully) good book-adaption, Johnny Depp is playing the maincharacter.
Before I am going to quote you the first sentences of this book now, which will give you a much better impressions of its content than all the plotsummaries in the world, here is the story of how I had first heard about it:
Once upon a time there was this guy called Kalle entering my life. He was a young Swede who looked like a fisherman in his yellow windjacket and with the woolen hat on his shoulderlong dark hair, and was selling Berlin for no-natives (or whatever that only in the english language published culturemagazine was called) in my local cafebar. I somehow mistook him for an Aussie and that is how we started talking: I was sitting there reading - I think it was Ludger Lütkehaus with "Nichts" (german for "nothing") - and took the offered zine thankfully as a welcomed change to Lütkehaus`neverending philosophical varieties of the word "nothing". So I asked the fisherman: "Hey, you write for that zine?", which I took for granted since I - as already mentioned - took him for a Dude and from what my charactersensores were telling me, he also definitely seemed to be some kind of free-thinker or an artist with his headstrong way of clothing, which was screaming "I DON`T CARE WHAT YOU ARE THINKING" into the world around him in a charming way. But he answered: "No. I am just the lousy seller. But is there something you want to know about it?" "No, not really", I said a bit disappointed and asked him right away and just to prove my nationalitysensors were at least still working: "You`re from Australia, aren`t you?", but he said: "Actually no. I am from Sweden. Used to live in Australia once though." I was baffled! I had been so sure. The way he looked and his dialect, the dark full voice and the fitness all around him, his tallnes. That guy should be a Swede? "No shit...!?", was all I uttered while staring at him in disbelief. "Yeah", he said, apparently completely misunderstanding my sudden interest, because he went on:" I was living in Sydney for.." "No no no, that is not what I meant", I interrupted him:" I believe you were living in Australia, that`s not the point, but, you know, I usually always can tell when there is a Swede standing in front of me and you seem so totally not swedish at all!" He was laughing and obviously developing an interest himself now in the the selfproclaimed ultimate Swede-detector sitting there in front of him because he said: "You know what? It is time I took a break anyway. Can I join you for a while?"
That is how I met Kalle. And it turned out Kalle was also a writor. A writor like me, who hadn`t written anything big yet.
We`ve had some great, but unfortunately very few days coming up there afterwards. Until he vanished. Just like that. I missed his last calls when I was riding my bike to the very same cafebar where we first had met and where we wanted to meet again. My cellphone showed four calls in absence from an unkown number, which had to be his, four calls within only fifteen minutes. Four, the magic number, cause it was also supposed to be our fourth date. On one of these previous dates we had been talking about how much a favourite book or writor can tell about his reader`s personality. We therefore went to a bookstore together and I urged him to buy David Foster Wallace with Infinite Jest, while he urged me to read Henry Miller`s Sexus. But he had to think a bit first to decide, whether it should be really that or if Gregory David Robert`s Shantaram wouldn't be even better.
Proof: Kalle actually existed not only in my head - it is his handwriting in my notebook
So that is why I bought this book today. And I will think of Kalle while reading it, whereever he might be. Because after these last four unanswered calls I was up until today unable to call him back or get hold of him.
And here`s the first sentences:
"It took me a long time and most of the world to learn what I know about love and fate and the choices we make, but the heart of it came to me in an instant, while I was chained to a wall and being tortured. I realised, somehow, through the screaming in my mind, that even in that shackled, bloody helplessness, I was still free: free to hate the men who were torturing me, or to forgive them. It doesn`t sound like much, I know. But in the flinch and bite of the chain, when it`s all you`ve got, that freedom is a universe of possibility. And the choice you make, between hating and forgiving, can become the story of your life.
In my case, it`s a long story, and a crowded one. I was a revolutionary who lost his ideals in heroin, a philosopher who lost his integrity in crime, and a poet who lost his soul in a maximum-security prison."
...and his story is a true story...a magic-story. A suck-me-in-story.
"So we think that the use of these empty spaces is to merely let things pass through."
I don't get it. But it sounds great.
(Six minutes later) Hmmmm.......this could be a possible way of interpretation: Physics!
"The answer is, we know empty space isn't empty, because it's full of these virtual particles that pop in and out of existence, and we know that because if you try and calculate the energy level in a hydrogen atom, and you don't include those virtual particles, you get a wrong answer." (Source: http://www.edge.org/)
(Eight minutes later) Oh, this is fun, let's disabstract the whole thing a bit and put new words into it, then the sentence gets again another meaning:
"The answer is, we know Life isn't empty, because it's full of these little vital creatures called humans that pop in and out of existence, and we know that because if you try and calculate the energy level of the planet earth, and you don't include those little vital creatures, you get a wrong answer."
(Fifteen minutes later) Yeah, that's two ways of interpretation, but now when I come to think of it, the sentence "So we think that the use..." etc. reminds me also of the philosophy of Philipp Mainländer who thought that the world was only created by God to make "not-being" possible, which means in his sense: Life itself is a senseless (and therefore kind of empty) space, only existing to let things, namely humans, pass through to become nothing.
So, yeah, the point of this blog: Now you have an idea how I do entertain myself throughout the day sometimes, but the best thing about it is, that this Blue Bord is actually part of a pedestrian underpass, so the whole myth is probably nothing more than a stupid, but rather clever joke and my mind just a fool, who fell for it.
To reach your intra- and outrapersonal wholeness, just pick one of the
two following guidelines. Both were provided by two of the greatest
thinkers of our modern and postmodern world and both should lead you to
a higher cosmic understanding of yourself and your connections to your
outer world.
Each guideline is seperated into
three chronical steps, which we kindly ask you to follow strictly in the given order.
Guideline no. 1 to your intra- and outrapersonal wholeness, provided by Arthur Schopenhauer:
Guideline no. 2 to your intra- and outrapersonal wholeness, provided by David Foster Wallace:
1. Overcome your omninarcissisitic neediness
2. Internalize empathy
3. Reach freedom In case there should be questions, ask your local genius/madman for further informations.
We wish you a happy and fulfilled life.
Der
Glaube ist die Schöpfungskraft der Menschen und ihr Werkzeug, um sich
eine Existenzberechtigung zu bauen. Dabei ist es egal, woran sie
glauben. Sei es an die heilige Dreifaltigkeit von dir zu mir zu uns,
sei es an die Macht klingender Tasten und schwingender Saiten, sei es
an die Sprache, sei es an das Höchste und Abstrakteste aller Wesen, die
Arbeit oder das Adrenalin.
(You make this all go away)
Sogar die, die ans Nichtglauben glauben, können um den Preis des Alleinseins vollkommen werden.
(I just want something I can never have)
Dekonstruiere also deinen Willen
(This thing is slowly taking me apart)
und kreiere dich selbst, sonst besiegt dich ein Wille
(I'm down to just one thing)
und du hast verloren.
To
William S. Burroughs and his last journal-entry which to me is worth as
much as one of those days, empty and rotten due to 'the most natural
painkiller':
„Love? What is it? Most natural painkiller what there is. LOVE.“
Most Natural Paininflicter
You
The Heartripper
I salute you
while salty confessions
run down my red scratched cheeks
You
I was calling You
Your name like the Saviour's on my lips
I knew You'd answer
at first
Only to run away
when recognition would finally dawn upon Me
Or was it actually coming onto You?
You
Maskwearer
You
Selfdenier
Allowing Yourself to drown in amber liquid
A Mosquito in a yellow stone
Liquids swirling around
Frozen to a picture of misery for eternity
But still stinging and sharp
Your weapon of ignorance
Against the world outside of Your prison
I
Caught up in the same old picture
Frame's the same,
only the colours have changed
Walking down some empty streets
Smoking and spitting
Until all Your poison
Is nothing
But an invisible trace
Left behind Me
And ahead of Me
Always guiding Me...
The
dead language! A weird tongue some silly guys were speaking ages ago
who were afraid of the Gallians. The spoken words of a dying religion.
The uncomprehensive babbling of some old wise-looking men with long
white beards. Now why would anyone care to talk such a language? Well,
how about this:
1. To some it might be impressive if one can
sing along, let's say all WuTanClan lyrics (impressive indeed!). But
how cool is it if you can sing along Mozart's 'Requiem' instead? Now
that does not happen all too often presumably. And it's really great
lyrics, actually!
2. Mayhem a legend, ey? They might be indeed. But the lyrics of 'De Mysteriis Dom Sathanas' are still just a hypocritical rubbish that doesn't make any sense at all. Really, Mayhem talks a crentus latin, I can tell you. Crel to every Roman's ear...ehm, meant to say cruel of course!
3.
You can remember some of the Harry Potter spells much better, if you
actually know what they mean. And you can read the book 'Harrius Potter et Philosophi Lapis'. Coolus!
4. If you think that Killer Whale is already an evil name for the Orca, then try to find out the meaning of his academic name: orcinus orca. To give you a clue: orcus is the name for the place where the dead are dwelling, the underworld.
5. Ha, look at that!! Now we also now why the goth-zine 'Orkus' is called 'Orkus'!
6. Ever thought about what melancholy actually means? The word melancholicus actually also is a latin word, has its origin in the greek language though: mélas means 'black' and cholé
is the name of the bile acids (you know, that green-yellowish glibber
stuff in your intestines fighting a lonely battle against McDonald's
and Donuts). This once used to be the name not for an emotonal status,
but for a disease: In the Antics menhood believed the status of
depression was caused by black bile acids in your stomach, while they
usually should have the already stated colours of yellow and green. If
you were 'only' angry on the other side the doctors of the greek empire
thought you've had too much of the yet right-coloured acids whirling
around in your stomach...then the medical diagnosis stated: You are choleric!
Interesting, isn't it?
...to be continued..for now ego nos absolvo from all this smart-ass talk
