Wednesday, June 30, 2004

The Books of Order. Tertio.

Organized alphanumerically, with Boustrophedon entries, this a collection of excerpts to be read randomly over an extremely long period of time, using a complex combination of a dice game and intellectual divination, in order to make its lessons helpful.
Most of the excerpts concern memory. But they are as young shoots of a full blown memory: as must to wine, so these memories are but a promise. It’s in the reader-divinator’s hands to make it bloom into a constructive touching stone, or a mere long-winded, verbigerative brutum fulmen.

MINDQUICKIE VII


Who ironizes the ironists?

(photo of a Michael Joo's video) Posted by Hello

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Megaton Koan Defused 8

Good is an object that, the more you come closer to it, is increasingly smaller.
Evil is an object that is increasingly larger the more you move away from it.

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I SEE A SEA OF EYES


We say our eyes see, but they do not, for
they only see things, their crust and fascinating inexactitude, nothing
else; but there are other eyes, eyes that see other things,
dissimilar, but things nonetheless, and other eyes that see that
which is around, within, filling up, constricting, subduing and raising
things; still others, that also see them, these things, but beyond too,
other realities, colours, sensations, paths, byways of the regard; and,
finally, other eyes, altogether different, that see, really see:
beyond seeing the thing, they are the thing, they are united to it,
they rule it and are ruled by it. From a mountain peak to the other,
there's no need to go down the one and climb up the other;
for these eyes cast filaments of immediacy and awakefulness.
These are truly eyes.  Posted by Hello

MINDQUICKIE VI

What is the negative of copulation?

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NOW NEW MEN WON. (zita)


There are many planets in the world
and everything that was ever imagined was true
and every truth is true,
as well as every lie, which was also true.
There were no paradoxes after all, only more complex
patterns that were not seen by man's gaze
nor understood by man's understanding.
Now they comprehend.
 Posted by Hello

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Quarkquern Coach Mudra. Position 2.


There is the smallest fish eaten by the small fish. There is the small fish eaten by the bigger one. There is the big fish eaten by a much bigger one. There is the much bigger fish eaten by an immense fish. And so on and so forth and so backwards as well.
But none of them may escape the damn lake.
 Posted by Hello

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Megaton Koan Defused 7

Hope is a watercourse whose source and estuary is uncertainty.

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Megaton Koan Defused 6

A difficult death
is the easiest to get.

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H Hλιος κορώνα

Imundong, Seoul, July 31 2003, 13:00
I was walking down the street to the subway, from a sijô class, looking at the crack in the pavement, thinking about something unimportant.
As if my pineal eye (Bataille) commanded me so, an awakening of sorts, I looked directly up: and, lo! Circling the sun, a rainbow. Well, more of a complete circle, therefore I should call it a raincircle – circumiris or circo-íris, cerchiobaleno or circl’en-ciel, ουράνιο κύκλος or perhaps simply Iρις, Regenkreis or regencirrkel, a 원형무지개.
I called a friend to look at it, but the sun was too strong, and then I realised I was wearing shades, and if I took them out it would be invisible. That's why I saw it really well for the first time... I wonder how many times have these things been invisible to the human eye, unaided by a pair of smoked glass bits?
Maybe a 12th of it was broken by white clouds, but it was a visible circle, with the sun for a centre… the crown of Helios.

NOW NEW MEN WON. (épsilon)

The Urutopia arrives: caught between two dysfunctional memory modes, zeigarnik and prosopagnosia, they feign death, they go beyond neanic nature, they go beyond the open seas, they welcome contradiction and ambiguity within their genes: ne plus ultra, they carve in the universe by their sheer existence: as zwitterions, they are eitherpowered.

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Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Story-seed that'll never blossom...

Two people start professional correspondence, but tidbit by tidbit, they exchange some personal information, until they fall in love with one another, always by correspondence only.

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Megaton Koan Defused 5

Obedience is not responsibility
Will is not intelligence
Sentimentality is not emotion

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Quarkquern Coach Mudra. Position 1.


Buy bullshit wholesale. Posted by Hello

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Megaton Koan Defused 4

Death is a labyrinth,
a labyrinth made of one corridor.

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version t.

It is morning, and something moves beneath the surface of the lake. A young boy awakes. He remembers not what he dreamt.

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Wish You Were Here


Whether you come or go. Posted by Hello

MINDQUAKE VI


At long last, the snowrabbit's lingo elucidated: by the means of the Sortes Virgiliane, or trusting upon "Hamulets" & "Faustalismans", resorting whether to right-handed helixes or to the achiral lituus, he rides the pard's back in Pedroguese. A master of Verbonautics, he is Caliban, both before and after learning the tiniest parcel of omniglotic language.
 Posted by Hello

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Eastern Old Friends

An early-bloomed apricot took the heralding spring breezes for the whole flowering season. Its premature colour is like a joyful laughter in the mist of the luxurious yet monochrome green.
However, its glory will be swift and its death will come even before its honeydew taste forms.
Younger people laugh at the permanent snow that rests in my hair but I still worry at their dismissal, my warnings for naught. How many more early-fallen apricots must we see in this eternal-seasoned garden?

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version s.

As a time-origami unfolding...

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Magic obliterates world sins. Seventh Sin.

The whole of my head is crumbling fast, brain flakes are swooped up and down by misty spring winds… the head erodes via chirps, thumps and skwangles. All the books I hold in my hand yellow fast. All I eat is watered down instant noodles and supersodas… Sounds and voices and noises assemble together to melt me into shadows… Sometimes it seems I miss a step and crash against the threshold. What’s wrong with my balance? Do walls move now?

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My Rewritten Books. The Holymen

The partridge may disguise the secret; the stag may hide the secret; the dog may guard the secret. We fear no partridge, no stag, no dog: we’ve come to unveil the secret.
In the shadowlands, I am the edge-cutting sunbeam. In the dreamseas, I am a darkship’s prow. In the greendale, the ox’s plow. We’ve come to end the old mahamanvantara and put the asaka asunder.

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Wholedrake


I am He who devours Sun and moon.
I am She who covers the skies
And swallows the demons along with the fruits of the earth.
The one who drives back the hands of clocks,
showering virginity bestowing forgetfulness upon you.
Disarray is my path, the birth�s cry and the death�s cry my cries,
I hold the thunder and the water jug in my hands,
the fire burning, the water trickling in my palms, united.
I am the one who is of permanent becoming.
 Posted by Hello

Garuda


Graceful as the crane, swift as a swallow, ominous as an eagle, the multicoloured, golden-crowned, long-necked bird sang with the voice of the myriad chimes of the southern-blowing winds and the angel-played harps and the resting waves of all the oceans.
Its name is Garuda, mount of sacred Indra, the blue skinned demigod, that which spilt milk.
 Posted by Hello

Megaton Koan Defused 3

The metonymy of some may be the synecdoche of others.

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My Rewritten Books. Ulysses reductio

My basilisk eyes upinwards Penelope’s unweaved tapestry. There’s no use for the vibroarthro-aberrascope on this one. A lesson in hamstringing the mandrakes as quickly and painfully as possible. paperbuttonpushing up against a slidingdoor.

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My Rewritten Books. Lucifer

Yes, I strive for power. But nothing as base as national, political, influential or gold-cast powers. My actions are averted from these understates of being.
My thirst is for better drives, more life; not immortality, please understand, but a life that is more lived.
I would also like to walk on a perpetual morning, to be a satellite-lover of the sun, living in a never-ending trajectory of fullbright splendor.

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Small stories I’ve learned. The third.

London, East Side, October 1999.

Mrs. Janee Hiptock (born Asgrove) was returning home with her sixteen-year-old daughter, Ann-Margaret, after an ordinary shopping morning at the local market.
As they turned to the roundabout where they were supposed to take the bus home, they heard a megaphone-amplified voice screaming, “Repent! Repent! There’s only one choice for you, sinners!” and then a quite incomprehensible clamor from a heated multitude, but much probably things such as “Aye” and “Praise”, or was it “Case”? A lot of people, actually, and then they realized it was a Jesus Salvation Army gathering, distributing pamphlets, caution warnings, a few screams and some hatred too – perhaps with the hope they could clean up Great Britain of “unworthy” people with sheer lung power…
Mrs. Hiptock and her daughter crossed immediately the street to the other side, and hid behind three Hare Krishnas. White, of course, and all dolled up true to form: shaved head except for the customary ponytail, the orange curtain covering their bodies, the sandals on thick-socked feet, the little praying drums, the burning incense, a few tuppence (“or threeepence, please!”) books with the movement’s history and main beliefs. Two of them bespectacled.
Two meters further down this side of the street, a young punk couple, also in full regalia (Mohawk and worn leather jacket), had the same dull look as the Hare Krishnas, as they all looked across the street to the JSA’s commotion.

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version r.

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New Pantheons. Addenda.

There had been many Gods in the pantheon. It was not a very old one, but its roots stretched back to a time before time was validated, to an era in which words had no firm shape. For many years, it lingered as an easy flow, with a bright burst here and there, all made of clear colors and witty sounds. Minute, tranquil succeeding Springs at a predictable pace.
But there came a time when a boy was born, as wild as a missing link, bringing outward shadows inwards and uprooting interred ones. A dark shadow outspread itself with him, and the Gods trembled with a new kind of cold.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. The son of Kali and Loki.


Caressing were the waves the soft beach boulders as big as hugs. A swift rain of sand woke this shadow god-man up, interrupting a dream, and the crows were no more. Posted by Hello

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New Pantheons. Homage to Alan Moore.

From a lonely, mist-hidden place full of contradictory legends, an island resembling three to five World-Serpents coiled together in an infernal, obscene mingle of bliss and coitus continuous, a coal dark cloud is permanently emerging. It bleeds from the lungs of the terrible beasts, and it blends into and with the entrails of the decaying Mother and the tears of the dying Father.
Many, many men, women, and creatures in-between, and children, whose time of innocence is ever too short, inhabit these lands. Nearly all of them are oblivious to the architectures of time-consuming traps, or of the galloping of recurrent nightmares, their fiery manes shedding light upon art murders, or even of the creatures that walk among them at broad daylight, though hidden in the interstices of the sun beams, buzzing like swarms.
A little few are seers. And a little few are inscribers.
The age came for one of its children to be born under the sign of the tryfolt, the all-encompassing, all-uniting crossbeam of Odin-Wotan. This is a path that frequently leads to madness, sometimes loneliness and occasionally to absurdly dangerous abyss-looking. A sacrifice, certainly, but crucial in the world’s course. At the right age, the little boy fell right down into this invisible pool as a child, burning all his surface skin, traded by a snake’s. Toth’s beak was open, Bragi held high an empty cup, Hermes lost his words, Tenji’s wrist hurt.
Rune-inscriptions, bird auguries, bard-poetry, modeling, coloring, and more… each and all idioms comprised hordes of people striving for remembrance of things past, “the sign of the salmon”, and for heralding things to come, “the sign of the swallow”. But they were not salmons and the strong currents pull them away and far into a sea, which - maybe under this very moon, maybe much, much later, when men feed in sunlight and sea-spiders - will dissolve all and all will be forgotten. And they were not swallows and the future is a storm, and it blows out on us and no one moves.
But the new snake-skinned boy had a plan, a plan that he learned from the shadows he’d seen in the abyss, a new language only he deciphered: to learn a modest part of every skill, to bring them together into a knot, to stew them all in a potion and become a new kind of weaver. Thus he inscribed runes with chocolate-fudge in the surface of music, and sculpted poetry in clay with his eyes, and hummed nursery rhymes about electromagnetic argot, and painted colors that blind men could see with their tongues and draw pain and love and rage and bursts of laughter in the night wind, and planted seeds that turn blue and cross Bifrost back and forth, and made squares and bubbles and made them splash in all the six directions, outward of their little paper prisons, just like a pebble thrown at a lake of implicated realities, ripples producing fish, monsoons, a gentle breeze and an equatorial haze. He broke in, out, away, down, up, forth, through, and with. He scorched paths…a walking, crooning Ragnarok. He was a man now.
Something gave in, eventually, something even stranger… memories of new seeds would wake and no soon said than done, forests would sprout out and cast their new, ripe inebriating fruits, sprite insects and shadows all over the reinvented territory. Some of the fruits looked like women’s secrets. Some other left a taste of blood in your mouth.

Now, he lives with snakes hidden in his beard and hair, much probably a coiled one living in the deep waters of his mind, seldom spying out to the world through his watchful eyes. Even with his mouth shut, he speaks to himself under his breath, his veiled tongue moving.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Image.


They're taking back the space. Posted by Hello

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Eight. meets Magic obliterates world sins. Sixth Sin

An event-tempest is breaking in the future, and its terrible light is cast in all the seven directions, west, east, north, south, down, up, and inside. Walking through the threshold, strolling by the rim of an abyss with an invisible floor, sheltered by spirits, gods, ideas that hold fast our hands and keep us from falling…

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Tuesday, June 29, 2004

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Something that was started but will never be finished...

Tall woman, she was, gold-tinted fingertips, whitest teeth you’ve ever seen. A nightful hair cascading down her back to her hips. Always dressed in black. Looked like a pleatless gown. A shadow that followed her everywhere. Lived alone, up there, after the last of the boulders. Folks say her house looks bigger from the inside that what one would guess from the front yard, secluded by berry bushes. One couldn’t tell. And a weird looking place too. Richer. Her house’s door was nothing but a bundle of woodplanks put together, and the walls merely heaps of stones, no mortar in between. What craft was there to held the stones together, however, none could tell, only surprise at. Dovetailed, perhaps faith.
The few women (no, never men) who went inside it told us tales of vastness within, and every time I’d heard that I’d think of the ballrooms of the Mayor’s down at the city. I’ve been there several times. For work, of course, never pleasure. Wood floor covering, mostly. And that’s what I do: polish them. Mine are simpler, at home.
Hugeness within, then, according to the others, with carpets all over the place, carpets that looked like gardens with fountains and all sort of birds and beasts inside, and that made a person think we were looking down at it from the top of the tallest oak. And rows and rows of dusty books would trap the little sunlight that managed to squeeze in, and objects so rare and odd, no one could start to describe them even if they’d been staring at them for hours and then, eyelids intensely closed, the remaining blot in the inner side of the eyelids would hover above the darkness. Carla swore she saw a foxbabe curled inside a jar. Deborah was enticed by what looked like “ a sparrow’s skull with a black pearl in its beak, but it was not a sparrow, it was not a beak, neither was it a pearl”. Si, Farraw and Anah swore all night long having seen a backwards clock, musicstones, and a moving ocean inside the pages of a book (“as I was standing up there waiting for her, it whispered to me from the shelves, and promised I’d be a happy woman, if only I opened it and become his wife”).
Women have troubles of their own. That’s what I say to the younger folks. Only a natural thing. Leave them be. We couldn’t even be in the same pace of life if we wanted to. Stronger, they are. Babe-carrying makes their bones as steel. Our strength is actually feeble. One-time shows. Sweat and brimstone in youth, and then, after only one little snowflake upon us, gone. Grown old, stubborn, wrinkled and dead.

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Magic obliterates world sins. Fifth Sin

The serpent was huge and erect; its face almost human, crowned by light and with long, black hair pouring down its elongated, distorted neck. A young man, with a, despite unkempt, brilliant, black beard and hair, almost similar to the snake he held with his hands.

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Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Butterflies

I hate fucking butterflies! What do people see in them anyway? Pretty colours? An interesting collection of insectoid corpses? What makes me go off is that highly irregular, exasperating flight of the fucking critters, the kind going-this-no-that-way. Can’t they fly straight? And why should I like them? Some of them are poisonous, some of them (if in huge floating clusters) can even kill people, you know? I can’t stand them.

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My Rewritten Books. The Metamorphosis

In the morning, looking at himself at the mirror, and stretching the skin of his face to check if he should or not shave, Lumbrin noticed a dark spot in his cheek that was not there the night before.
As he washed his teeth, and he pulled the toothbrush under the running tap water, he noticed a very small winged insect stuck between the brush hairs. As far as he knew, it came from within his mouth. How distinctively awestruck and disgusted he was at the same time!

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Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Thursday man

No, I’m not kidding! At exactly the same hour, in the exact same spot! I have no idea when he started that. Maybe he was doing it way long before I even noticed it. Who will know now?
You wouldn’t expect a thing like this happening to you. I mean, if you were a movie star, a popular singer or something of that kind, you know what it means to mix up the boundaries of personal and public life, right? But then again, you would still have a right to personal life. Real private moments. Whatever.
Now that I think of it, I guess I had already seen him somewhere before, maybe two or three times, I’m not sure; I guess it’s just one of those familiar faces from the same familiar spaces you cross every day.
A bouquet of flowers arrived May the 5th. A Thursday. No card, no name, no client name, no message. Just a plain, ordinary rose bouquet – actually, extremely ordinary, as if it was possible to make an effort to be ordinary. I remember thinking that the guy who’d sent me this was a cheap and tasteless bastard.

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My Rewritten Books. Leviticus

Nothing could emcumber Death from riding down these skies and smite every single one of you.

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Monday, June 28, 2004

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version q.

.

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version p.

_______________________________________________

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version o.

-----------------------------------------------

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version n.

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

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Magic obliterates world sins. Fourth Sin.

The Hall of Masks was huge. Huge to a point that moisture would gather on the ceiling – if there was a visible ceiling, so high it was you could not see it – and turn into private, interior clouds. Sometimes it would rain, but the water that fell from those clouds was tepid, sometimes even warm. Confusing, but pleasurable rain. And hovering some feet above the ground, the huge masks would gaze upon you. There were the paperwhite faces, smooth and smiling with red-tinted lips; there were the papier-mâché ones, faces of old men and women; the translucent, reflecting your own body and flickering lights. But all of them, all of them had hollow eyes.

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version m.

OOOOOooooooooommmmmmmmhh...

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version l.

Plop, splash, kerplunk, wow.

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Magic obliterates world sins. Third Sin.

A woman in her bedroom faces the mirror in the morning. She would comb her fiery hair with fire-fingers, a brilliant and disturbing dance of flames that would not mingle betwixt them, casting two lights on everything, giving shadows to birth out of everything. Behind her back, perhaps her lover, perhaps her son, perhaps both, a young man, standing naked from his waist up. The man was humming an almost inaudible song, for his head was being swallowed by a huge snake that he himself held in his arms as one would a baby. The movements did not allow the viewer to understand if it was the boy pushing inside the snake's mouth his own head, or if the snake was swallowing him or if a third presence was invisibly superseding every other stroke.

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MINDQUICKIE V


Flock of geese caught in space-floating particle accelerator: QUARK!
 Posted by Hello

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Eight.


What was old turned new renew itself once more, by retaking the old names. For reasons that escape the analytical reason of researchers, experts and intellectuals that have devoted their life to these cultural issues, all the old, pagan rituals that sooner or later were Christianised or Muslimised or changed by newer faiths, returned to the languages bare of theology and openly, directly embracing fruition of immediacy. The tall stones, the hardly accessible places, the dark houses, the dense woods, the stripped hills, all watercourses, the promontories, the deep abysses, the cracks in the stonewalls: all new temples, new pilgrimships.  Posted by Hello

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Magic obliterates world sins. Second Sin.

Across a line that no ones sees or could think of, at the other extreme of the howl, spreads one of the many landscapes of a planet. The whole of the landscape is covered by needle-mountains, in top of which only small birds perch, and briefly. If there were humans, perhaps ballerinas, equilibrists and fakirs would stand barely on one foot and balance their bodies to the forces of the cyanide wind.

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version k.

Drop. Roe. Void. All-awareness.

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Magic obliterates the world sins. First Sin.

At the beach, the last four stripes of sun are dissolving in the immense ocean. A so-far disengaged group of people gathers at the skerry. None of them knew each other - or almost, save a neighborly acquaintance, a couple of young lovers, and the guy from the beach’s popsicle stand, who knew them all by face. They all wet their feet in the thin film of salt and dissipating water of the most far-reaching dying waves, the part that leaves a trail of bubbling sand and new holes, abysses of air.
They all stand looking at the sun. They all stand howling at the ocean.

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NEW CONSTELLATION: Jah Trílio

Jah Trílio was the supreme monarch of all Agirtalândia. It comprehended the whole of the Central Continent, as well as the Isles Belt and all the northern archipelagos (Molk, Virsius, Fasques and Testio).
Jah Trílio was the king of just about the entire known world. The forbidden frontiers, Amerilindia, the Poles and the Jugular country was not his to command, but all reason was against any thought of annexing, conquering or even offering a protectorate status to those petty soils.
Jah Trílio was then the king of the whole world. He had access to, power over and right to all his desires: sandals made of the tanned leather from the Slim Mountain she-goats, dried tamers or fresh watermelons, Samarkanda’s silks and hunting caps, the glass cup that predicted the future, ebony women and red-haired boys, Abdera’s horses: all was within reach of Trílio’s hands, Khan-Father, Annexator Supreme (from the last boundaries of the Continent to the Floating Provinces) and Third Emperor of Agirtalândia.
Jah Trílio had everything, he could have everything. But because he had everything, he could not have anything else.
He did receive a last thing: the terrorizing grief of feeling fulfilled, complete, and thus, dead.
The gods took pity on the mighty lord and made him The Big Hole that lingers between the Seven Sisters of Wrath and the Cat-and-Fish stars. Even on the clearest night, you won’t see anything there. A corner filled with emptiness.

MINDQUAKE V

A heterotopia of silences. Walls of nothing, continental 1:1 maps emerging from thin air, covering our so-called reality with a juxtaposition of its image, more real for the reason that it represents…

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MINDQUICKIE IV


Flat pyons-5 marked these madder sanguine forests.
 Posted by Hello

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The woman who was married with Death

Like the tiny wings of a moth beating inside and against the glass walls of a cup. There was no other way to describe it.
She married him almost six years ago. He came to her small village near the mountain, helped in the construction of the new bridge, lend a hand at the salmon fishing and seemed to care for her, silently, but truthfully. They didn’t talk much, not even to get to know each other in a more profound way, as you would expect of a married couple. Not even when they made love. He came into her life, and she accepted him, as he was given unto her by fate, mysterious, silent, but respectful.
He worked. Somehow, he worked, he had a job. There was enough money coming by the post office proving that he had a regular income, and he seemed to have care and devotion and pride in whatever he did. Every single morning, sometimes even before the sun appeared from behind the mountains and warmed up as little as it could these high places, he would get up from bed, walk across the backyard, where peonies and daisies and an array of edible vegetables grew all year, and sat at his rough-cut wooden desk inside the shed he called, for appearances at least, for legitimacy, office. He rested his hands on the top of the table; fingers stretched apart and after a symmetrical fashion. Then closed his eyes, gently. Sometimes he opened them up, but for the briefest of moments, as if falling asleep. She would see him occasionally during the day when she brought in a tray with foodstuff or tea or warm honeydew, but would not interrupt him with questions. She just set down the tray, mutter a here you are, I hope you enjoy it, or something innocuous like that, and leave, closing the door behind.
When he opened his eyes, he always looked beyond the window in front of him, towards the ocean down below, which could be seen from up here, a mere trimming of it coming into view from between the tall pines. But somehow, she knew that he was looking farther still. Much, much farther. There was no human distance in that glance. And she could swear that she would hear an odd sound every time he was working there. A fluttering of some kind. She used to say it sounded like tiny wings of a moth beating inside and against the glass walls of a cup, like she used to do when she was a child.

The supercalifragilisticexpialidocious adventures of TYPEFACE!!

:→)
Typeface is delighted.
:→(
Typeface is cheerless.
:→∫
Typeface is undecided.
│:→
Typeface thinks you're brainless.

Wish You Were Here


(picture taken inside Hong Kong taxi, in high-speed down the hill) Posted by Hello

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version j.

Fall. Fish. Empty. Enlightenment. Awake.

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Seven.


Chernominemata here, Chernominemata there, Chernominemata everywhere. Posted by Hello

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Six.

Truth to be said, every single creature took pleasure from the fact that in one step of his, her or its own evolution, while a phoetus, lived an all-female phase.

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Question to Mr. Gaspard-Gustave Coriolis...


Dear Mr. Coriolis, I would like to ask you what the consequences of the Coriolis Effect are to a man who shaves across the globe?
 Posted by Hello

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version i.

Autumn.
Fishing.
Emptiness.
Enlightenment.

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Fountain

This side of the mirror, there are no bottles filled with all-absolving solutions. The youngsters feed that expectation on a daily basis; to the extent it effaces them from this side of life. They end up smelling like shadows that cut free from their original owners.

Twins

A man or a woman with no fears at all is a man or a woman with no dimension at all. A man or a woman who are afflicted with their fears as vines with downy mildew, its little furry toe tips all around the body, have too many, mutually-annulling dimensions. A man or a woman who find in another man or woman the matching, canceling out fright, are the most complete of men and women.

Pudding (aprés Pocinho)


She picked an object and called it tolok. Then another one, and called it tolok. Another, tolok. Then a fourth. She hesitated, but after a while, called it molak. After that, she picked many objects, calling these tolok and those molak. Suddenly she found a new object, made of indecision: was it tolok? or molak? perhaps talak, malok, something altogether different? She compared tolok and molak objects, weighting them, smelling them, watching them with eyes closed. Finally she said, "I'll call you tolok, but also molak when I need to".
(after António Pocinho's text Tolok)
 Posted by Hello

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version h.

Tsung-Hiam.10
Autumn.
Hetsé fishing.
Empty basket.
Enlightenment .

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Agora

One by one, in his dream, the elder fisherman remembered every single bait he ever used in his long, draining livelihood: he was obsessed about leaving the town, but something held him there; perhaps their memory. The bus stopped, the driver came out and woke up the old man, who was sleeping on the bus stop bench. Soon after, they left.

Tempest

Its greatest wish was to become as the great sea ox, the hippocampus, the griffin, the Lernean Hydra, the basilisk, any of those wonderful, mixed and fabled creatures. But its tiny little wings prevented it from the high skies, and so it was pleased enough between its batch of eggs and the pineapple galls.

Completion

“Hir” was [more]/[less] than human: as if it was possible to have an equivalent to a verb radical in the human sphere, with no traces of time and mood, number, genre or function, and that revealed the most bare of etymologies, the most basic and primordial of sounds: and it was “hir” who was under and behind us all, prompting the rest unto triumph.

GHOST PARADE 2


Unfathomable self, unrecognized myself
reflected, inverted, invented unceasingly everyday
the everyday self, diverse and legion
through different people, different language and
new, unrequited gestures, neither one or self;
unseen, unheard, is self? Or infinite undone? Posted by Hello

(yes, after reading Samuel Beckett's words for Morton Feldman's Neither opera)

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version g.

Tsung-Hiam dynasty. 10th year. Autumn.
Young Tsiat Hetsé fishes. Nothing.
Looks at empty basket.
Awakes.

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Five.

They’ve taken back cordiality, rituals, colours.
Some people, retracting to the back of their minds, started to recognise each other by smell, like dogs.
Hybrids - sons and daughters to sin, under any light -, they walked with their heads held high, mingling with the crowd. The limbic smiles returned.
The reptilian nightmares were just around the corner.

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"We are many sisters" Posted by Hello

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version f.

In an autumn morning of the tenth year of the Tsung-Hiam dynasty, young Tsiat Hetsé was fishing down the river. However, he fished nothing.
He then walked back home and met a monk that asked him, "What did you fish?"
Tsiat did not answer, for he had awakened.

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Megaton Koan Reloaded. version e.

The Tsung-Hiam dynasty entered its tenth year. By that time, Tsiat Hetsé was merely a young man, who often enjoyed merry mornings fishing down the river. So far this autumn season, he had fished nothing.
As he walked back home, thinking of other chores and things, he came across a monk, who asked, "What have you fished?"
Tsiat stopped in his tracks and looked into the empty basket. Then, he became enlightened.

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Four.

The problem is that no one event precedes of follows another. There is no cause and consequence, action and reaction. The notion of motor subsided. Everything is admitted in the worldly, phenomenological screen. Only our words and thoughts glue things together, creating a reassuring illusion of the causality principle. The interaction of events, the continuity of reality is nothing more than an aspect of collective paranoia.
And I want answers, not hesitations. The scrutiny, however, was counterproductive. As I dusted the ground looking for clues and guiding lines, I erased the few that were left.

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Oneiros goes ahead; gimel.

A woman comes out of the house, through the backdoor to the yard, where a van is parked. She’s smoking a grass joint and approaches the wall, where another woman is sitting. Her lover. It’s a sundusky afternoon and the smoke is almost invisible in the light. In the presence of one another, they hesitate. Then they hug and walk up to the van, entering. They cry together.
Not a word was spoken so far.

A cat’s simplicity


One cat
Another cat
Yet another cat
Still one other cat

One cat is Maltese
Another cat is Siamese
Yet another cat is Persian
Still one other cat is Mix-Breed

The Maltese cat is blue
The Siamese cat is brown
The Persian cat is orange
The Mix-Breed cat is black

The blue cat sleeps
The brown cat purrs
The orange cat meows
The black cat yawns

The sleeping cat is also dreaming
The purring car is also humming
The meowing cat is also reflecting
The yawning cat is also praying

The cat that also dreams is not brown
The cat that also hums is not blue
The cat that also reflects is not black
The cat that also prays is not orange

The cat that is not brown never meows
The cat that is not blue never yawns
The cat that is not black never purrs
The cat that is not orange never sleeps

The cat that never meows dreams sometimes
The cat that never yawns hums sometimes
The cat that never purrs prays sometimes
The cat that never sleeps reflects sometimes

The cat that sometimes dreams is not orange
The cat that sometimes hums is not black
The cat that sometimes prays is not brown
The cat that sometimes reflects is not blue

The cat that is neither orange nor brown is blue
The cat that is neither black nor blue is brown
The cat that is neither brown nor black is orange
The cat that is neither blue nor orange is black

The blue cat is Maltese
The brown cat is Siamese
The orange cat is Persian
The black cat is Mix-Breed

The Maltese cat is one cat
The Siamese cat is another cat
The Persian cat is yet another cat
The Mix-Breed cat is still one other cat Posted by Hello

Oneiros goes ahead; beth. (for Craig Thompson)

Trimmer, trimmer, trimmer. That’s all she could think of. And prunes. The lovely, more purple than anything else in the whole world, with its sour aftertaste, prunes from her grandmother’s orchard. Not much else to occupy her mind with. One-sided. Padded square room. Picabia wrote that heads are round so we can change our minds, our thoughts, new directions. Not Patty: trimmer and prunes. Not much time left for anything else, anyway. The sun will come up one last time and she’ll be gone forever. From the orchards. And from Earth. Maybe even from Life itself.

Oneiros goes ahead; aleph.

Flaming Horses. That’s what he couldn’t stop thinking of. Flaming horses.
The first instance he had seen them. Or that he thought he had seen one, or imagined. Something like that. It was also the first time he set eyes (and feet) on the merry-go-round of the eucalyptus-laden park. But the park, the carousel and its mechanical organ music don’t exist anymore. Only the thought of flaming horses.

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. Sand dunes

“Tell me you love me”, said the voice of the boy, in the beach. His lover, the other boy, was not listening.

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Three.

An empire is born from the fallen bricks of another empire. The little Mussolinis guaranteed that from the ruins of the last fallen empires nothing more would last except for, precisely, ruins. And the dust of bricks is not enough to assemble a single new brick. In increasingly smaller fragments, there’s no structure left, even if symbolical. Power… what are flags, stars, fire or dirt under the nails good for? The words of order multiplied to such an extent that they don’t fit the larynxes. And the huge clouds that float above do not mirror the fences and ink-traced lines in the ground. Mammals mark territory with excrements. Mammals with a few more brain circumvolutions mark territory with ink-and-paper shit, not a lesser stench.
Divide to conquer. In less than seventy years, with so many divisions and sub-divisions, there was nothing left to carve up. The blood of cowards was shed with the blood of the brave, one amalgamation covering the maps.
Sebek. He who incessantly bites his own tail, he who devours himself, and is born within and from himself.
The ulterior wars to the Rekonquista, commandeered by the interests of the Paisans, became a single panfagic war, leaving no new hopes for Phoenix’ hatchings.

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Wish You Were Here


(picture taken at Malaysia's Pulao Tioman beach) Posted by Hello

As strong and sharp and pliable as water.  Posted by Hello

To stones.

A stoon no thyng ne felith Thomas Hoccleve, The Regiment of Princes v. 1805.; ca. 1412)

There a specular stone, there a corner-stone,
or coping-stone, they also say. Further down, a hoarstone,
marking, and a gravestone, in grief, caveats! bestowing.
From there yonder, the marriage sound between the wheth-
And the sleekstone. Around them all, the clashing of stonewares,
the throwing game stone clashing, the merry-making game of the
merry numbers wedding. The stones that lie within fruits, and the
hailstones that follow and fall. The loadstone may guide us, but the spell is cast by the sex-ridden flowers known as dogstones or foxstones.
In our bodies, one may avert the gallstone within, but there also others,
in pairs, that make men men and women belligerent. Respect them all,
I pray and pry in your not-as-free-as-you’d-like life, scolding you again
and caution to cast your first and not stumble upon the last.
We may be drunk, crazy, dead, cold, hard, mad and blind as one;
raw as the age that bears its name, and as animals not yet stone-cut,
but even being stone-eyed and stone-faced and stony-hearted, look and behold!,
and make out the stone that we are.

NOW NEW MEN WON. (delta)

There used to be wolves here. Not much else. No joyful and easily fruitful land, no hills to shield us from these wind that seem more like gelid knives, no rivers, no human-trod paths. A desert filled with creeping, half-dead plants with no sap, no veins, no imagination. What reasons made men put stones over stones and call them homes, in these sceneries under godless skies, I know not, but reasons they were. They remained here, forgetful of the rest of the world. They care not if we live in a wider Europe, or that there are new democracies, or that we’ve become a Republic, or that kings are dead now, or that the lands have been conquered by more recent nobles in the name of the Christ, or older nobles in the name of Mahomet, or even older ones in the name of Wotan and Thor, or by soldiers of an immense Empire, that put up markets with people from other distant lands and seas, for they were but passengers of the vast trails from the far-flung mountains. Forgetful for centuries. Almost pre-human. No need to carry weapons, nothing to protect, nothing to guard, nothing to crave. No weapons arisen here. As shadows, dissolved in deeper shadows or outlined in the sunlight, yet invisible at all times.

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Into the gleaming future. Episode Two.

The frontiers the inhabitants of the beginning of the second Millennium CE (we) established between technology and life, science and magic, mechanics and biology, anumal and rational, intuitive and organised, have totally dissipated. The interval between natural and artificial makes no sense at all anymore.
Computer’s inner circuits complemented silicon with vegetable veins, in which sap served as thermo-electrical information conductor, with living tissue and blood veins and nerves and true synapses. Quantum leap transfers, particle accelerators and enchantments assured the energetic transport from bio-ordenative module to module.
Hydraulic pumps breathed and steam engines and clockwatch-machines vibrated inside amniotic liquids, and thoughts curved the space in electrical schools.
People no longer understood rationally how things worked. No one wanted to know. The conservation and recovery silos, as well as the half-mechanical, half-alive production centrals, controlled by biological programmes, emerged in the horizon as if moved by fascinating, unknown magic.
This situation’s seed was the very language of each particular branch of knowledge: so specific, complex and hermetic that, by augmenting in geometrical proportion the gap in between them, collapsed. A marine biologist no longer understood a palaeontologist, who did not comprehend a nuclear engineer, who would not know what a mathematician was saying. And none could talk to the common citizen anymore.
The very existence of categories and frontiers met its final entropy. Science was allowed everything. Moreover, everything was possible. Fiction became ex-fiction became scientific laws. Medieval bestiaries came to life. Myths became flesh. Will was power enough to realize, and “absurd”, “aberrant”, “incongruous”, were liquified into blinding “possibility”.

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NOW NEW MEN WON. (gamma)

In as an equal distance in the time-fabric that, as perceived by us, separates us from the coelacanth, in the opposite direction, still another human-bound perception, lie new men, with bluish-green skins, that breathe sunlight and feed on sea-bugs, limes and tiny dust-speckles caught in mid-air.

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The Books of Order. Secondo.

A catalogue with all the several species of unicorns, one for every occasion.

The Books of Order. Primo.

I would like to organize a compendium on birds, but I have no idea on how to do it. Alphabetically is not an option.
What are the perfect criteria?
Origins. Sizes (of the beak? the wingspan? height?). Number of colours or colour-pattern? Types of colour (hot, cold, bright, in relation to colour spectrum physical measurements?) Symbolically? But then again, is the cock the National Symbol of France, the Redemptive one of Portugal, or the Guardian of Korea? Nourishment (parakeet eats insects, owls and eagles raw meat, parrots fruit, vultures and secretaries rotten meat). Popularity. Rareness (the Dodo) or Abundance (pigeons)? The way they stroke their beaks together in, as it were, a kiss, or the way they feed their chicks. Maybe the seduction rituals or the mating dance. Separating the ones that migrate and the sedentary ones. The real, the existent, the imaginary birds, such as the Phoenix, the Simurgh, Arjuna’s bird, the Barcelos’ cockerel. The beak curvature: from the eagle to the parakeet. Strength? From the docile to the aquiline. Intelligence: from the chicken to the falcon. A separate leaflet for birds who occupy other bird’s nests and throw away their eggs, as the cuckoo. Birds who have no problem in caressing offspring not their own.

My Rewritten Books. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

He wanted his whole body to obey simple automatisms, as it happens to smaller parts of the body: as when the mouth yawns, cold raises goosebumps in the skin, hairs on the back of the neck stand on end with fear, the stomach rumbles with hunger, the retina dilates or contracts to adjust to light… the greater body knots such as the head, the trunk, the members, are all too deeply immersed in reason.
He wanted to strip off of reason, to free his body of the intellect to become only body, pure body automatisms: his drive, as powerful and occult as the riptide, was to become Hyde

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MINDQUICKIE III

Smells like cartoons.

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Imagefeed for thought


Earth shies may not be repeated anywhere else in the Universe. A Martian Homer, if you imagine one, would speak of a "leadlarkspur-fingered dawn" and we would all be delighted by "dazzling heliotrope days". Posted by Hello

Small stories I’ve learned. The second.

In the year 2806 of the Creation of the World, the rightful monarch of Lusitania garbed himself with the name of Górgoris, he who has invented Honey, and he was also called Melicolas. Invented in the etymological sense of invenio, Old Latim for “I find”.
Górgoris had a daughter, whose name has been lost, who grew infatuated with a man of low fortune. They kept their love affair fairly secret, but denunciation surfaced by a simple but sound, visible proof: pregnancy.
As Fate commands it, she gave birth, but the now Grandfather shed no tears of joy for the infant’s life. Quite the contrary: he ordered the newborn to be exposed to the wild beasts.
However, these did not eat the child. So it came to be that he was put in a wooden carrycot and left on the unreturning stream of the wide, long and forgetful river Tage. The child was being carried away towards the sea, but it was caught against the banks of what is known today as the City of Santarém.
Now, at first it was adopted and breastfed by a doe, but later the kid was taken care of by humans. These gave him the name of Ábidis, and the place were he was fed by the doe was named “Foodstuff of Ábidis”, or in the Old Languages, Esca Abis. Time and again, these words met further corruption, be it language-, fact- or credulity-wise, until it became Scalabis in the time of the Romans and Santarém, the time we now tread our lives.

MINDQUICKIE II

What do your eyebrows smell of today?

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Small stories I’ve learned. The first.

In the tenth century, Abdul Kassem Ismael, the great-vizier of Persia, would never grow apart of his 117 thousand book collection. They were all carried by a flock of 400 camels, trained to walk in alphabetical order.

A lion's pride is underlined by solitude Posted by Hello