Flashfinger Licks

MINDQUICKIE XIV

2008-07-22T03:57:00.001-07:00

Time must move forward so that we can remember backwards in time.

My rewritten books: La collaboration entre André Gide et Eugène Atget.

2008-02-22T15:11:00.000-08:00

LA FAUX TO GRAPHIE.

MINDQUICKIE XIII

2007-09-06T08:41:00.000-07:00

A "secret" is something that you have to share with someone faster than you do with unsecret knowledge.

MINDQUICKIE XII

2007-02-17T14:16:00.000-08:00

Obedience is not responsibility.
Duty is not intelligence.
Sentimentalism is not emotion.

Megaton Koan Defused 19

2006-12-23T13:30:00.000-08:00

In constant change, only change is constant.

My rewritten books: Cocteau vs. MacLuhan.

2006-10-13T13:38:00.000-07:00

La Belle est la Bête.

Megaton Koan Defused 18

2006-09-22T02:22:00.000-07:00

How can inevitability be desirable?

MINDQUICKIE XI

2006-06-16T02:32:00.000-07:00

Pain is selfish.

My rewritten books: Paradises Never Gone.

2006-06-16T02:27:00.000-07:00

According to Milton,
Hopelessness begets Fearless nature;
and having no Fear, one abandons Remorse:
hélas!, flourishingly are the doors of the horizon open
to all Evil. Hell is loose. Good is no more.
But Milton was blind and Milton's God nothing but a poor literary character.
Yet, this blindman did unroot the following truth:
morality is such a fiction, as religions' broad, unbound tales.

Castor and Pollux

2006-02-15T05:58:00.000-08:00

As I sit down in Bojo’s table,
and he shuffles the pack of Serbian cards, he tells me
“Such and such will be your destiny”
as well as the rules of this strange game.
I notice the paradox of using the future tense referring to fate,
and can’t help but remember that Crowley had said this before,
even though on a quite different but also easily-toppled castle
- “you’re nothing but just another bunch of cards”, you could add -
that these are only possible paths to pursue, a set of ideals, and not
as many half-wit trendy shadow-mongers pretend:
dictators of happenings and will-binding.

The rules, then:
dispose the 36 plastic-wrapped squares on the table, facedown.
It’ll draw up a bigger map-whole of 6 x 6. Now turn them over.
As you can see, each individual square has four half-images,
from well-known North Hemisphere constellations to Christian symbols, from these to other
omens, pleasant realities, and portents.

Check now to see if there’s already any connected image.

If not, try again, up to three tries.
You can’t manage to link anything?
Don’t worry, it’s just not your moment:
you are not ready for the cards, the cards are not ready for you.
You can cut your ties to the past that would rule you,
but not the opposite. It shall not quit from its grip on us, these Pasts.

If there are connected, complete images, then try to connect even more images, by turning the single cards on themselves
in order to make one particular piece a whole.
Now, turn on to the explanation sheet (in Serb…translate it to me, will you, Bojo?).
4 modes: upwards, downwards, leftwards and rightwards, each a subtle nuance of the other,
the same undertow of grievance or victory.
You can read the images in the boardmap as you wish,
orderly or not, as westerners read or as the Japanese do,
- I’ll stick to boustrophedon, for a obscure-loving (and presumptuously) quality of mine –
and then add up the results (or, Crowley-like for that matter, "goals-to-achieve").

From what I read,
long life, new responsibilities and to-dos, some shortcomings, but not that fatal,
some self-shaping achievements

“You know how many people that I’ve done this to,
explaining the inner rhythms of their own life and paths,
disclosing the mysteries with the cards,
proposed the unveiling of tomorrow
in the past thirty-five years
- and I’ll tell you that there was an incredible lot o’them –
I have failed?”
Asking me this, he waits for no reply,
answering his own thoughts by putting his thumb and forefinger together
in a big, round, hollow figure
and smacking also his lips together
producing a loud, unnerving sound.

Yet again and again I tell myself
and anyone who really cares, that I don’t believe in all this.
Yet again… a strange thing occurs:
a conundrum of beliefs awaken by even stranger coincidences.

The card(s): Castor and Pollux.
Bojo: “You have a friend, or better still you had a friend.
Something happened. You don’t talk anymore.
Nevertheless, you are the one who kept the best part,
(- am I? -)
in the end, the gain’s on you.”
Castor and Pollux.
One mortal, immortal the other,
Two hands grasping their fingers tightly in each other's, brother’s wrist.
You can almost feel the trembling beneath the grip.
One is pulling the other up from oblivion, disgrace, a hell,
something that deadly bounds them
to the beginning, perhaps a goose silvery feather, perhaps…

Castor and Pollux.
Brave heroes, divine brothers, post-mortem stars,
prevailers of the Holy father’s heritage.
A friend who was a friend but from whose friendship,
I am told,
I kept the best part.
Prevailing, winning.
Is it true?
Losing the friend, I can’t see where’s the gain... what’s the catch here?

Dear sir, poor sir, only and last sir,
do you believe in God?
Probably less than then. Do I?
Probably so, for I can glimpse new strokes emerging from the slate I’ve erased before.
Thus, detours and swervings to fulfill the so-called kismet plan?
Doubt it.
Forget about losing face and admit you miss me.
I do.

An origin myth.

2006-02-10T07:17:00.000-08:00

There was a mystical virgin princess (we were not sure what was mystical in the beginning, if the princess herself or her virginity) to whom an angel made of blazing sun glory fire with a string stringing his guts together descended upon her and said: “truly you are the mother of the gods”, to which she replied, passionatelessly, “I’m a virgin”. The angel, vexed, fled back. A small bell made a sound and swallowed its victory over the pretty young ladies the most holy of the lords owned. Terrors went through surgery but never recovered, so the princess took up her wings and faced the storm that brewed under the snow. That was the beginning.
As for ourselves: the small metal bell kept the sounds of ringing tones over our heads, even though we had no heads (no bodies for that matter). Stoop as low as you might, you’ll never catch a glimpse of these characters.
We went back to the future inside an ark, but ended up falling in an aquarium of living poetry, which fluttered about like butterflies made of words, half-understandable, half-gibberish, making thus gibberish only. Then we proceeded to the ritual of focusing on the princess’ image to return home, but we couldn’t, because the whole path was flanked by bark trolls and they moved a little to the sides and changed places and grinned in our backs, and the path we had committed to memory was no more. So we put up our killer-becoming masks and sculpted a rod made out of wind. We fell asleep, the princess found us in the hospital and we returned.
This is how the light of stars only reaches us after years of travelling.
She did not gave up her virginity (both the mystical, we found out, and the fleshy one).

My rewritten books.Finnegans Wake.

2005-07-24T08:23:00.000-07:00

"quirk begets quark"

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. An object.

2005-07-10T23:47:00.000-07:00

A small object, which may be strange to one person and quite banal to an other, or exotic to both or the most ordinary of items for everyone, is carried all over the world, stopping at cities, stopping at towns, drawing a very peculiar kind of energy at each and every station. Slowly, the object is transformed within its very form, that is to say, its form gains new boundaries of meaning, and in the end it becomes, not a symbol, but the form itself of a mixed feeling: one of belonging, the happiness of homecoming, of embracing the familiar, and the anguish of leaving loved ones and of beginning anew.

MINDQUICKIE X

2005-07-10T23:07:00.000-07:00

To think is to walk through an apparent desert and put up obstacles in front of our own steps, endlessly.

MINDQUICKIE IX

2005-07-10T23:06:00.000-07:00

The Absolute is the absolute absurdity.
The Absurd is an absurde absolutility.

Megaton Koan Defused 17

2005-06-25T15:15:00.000-07:00

The opposite of insight is not outsight, offsight, or outlook... neither is any other neologism or twisted word or whatever: it is sheer blindness.

Megaton Koan Defused 16

2005-06-19T16:15:00.000-07:00

One should never ask about oneself. Everything one learns is construed as seen from a non-mirror's surface, and one cannot bear but one's mirror reflection. Nothing else.

Megaton Koan Defused 15

2005-06-19T16:12:00.000-07:00

God is both inexhaustible and incomprehensible: depending on which plate you pick, God is seen either through half-empty either half-full glasses.

Megaton Koan Defused 14

2005-05-16T12:07:00.000-07:00

I do not believe in earthly Paradise, and even less in a divine one, for all the Love I have to give shall be distributed within the present.

Megaton Koan Defused 13

2005-05-16T12:04:00.000-07:00

Find your own limits, before the world imposes its limits on you.

My rewritten books. Sidereus Logico-Philosophicus Nuncius

2005-04-10T07:28:00.000-07:00

Up in the black horizon, arisen are the twelve tribal beasts, tinted are the nightskies in its diadema of fangs and blood and expression, to wit: the fox and the war horse and the bull and the tamed lion and the whale and the ass and the snake and the hungry ram and the lamb and the stag and the onager and the wolf.
(Image: scribble by L. Wittgenstein)

Fragments that won’t find a place anywhere else. The church.

2005-04-10T07:15:00.000-07:00

The façade of the church was too overwhelming. Not for its height, easily surpassed by any other we had seen in the adjoining cities, but for its surface, uninterruptedly covered with detailed bas-reliefs, in such a way that there was no visible empty space anywhere. It was also impossible to discern a clear picture of it all: flower-crowned bulls, men and women with fishtails, dogs fighting over human bones, pillars of salt in seas of reeds, cocks and hens, toads, pearls, from five to nine-pointed stars, geometric and baroque shapes, the eyes of the beholder nervously spiraling all over its makeup, not stopping, too much movement, over-informed brain, collapse after a minute of watching.

MINDQUICKIE VIII

2005-04-10T07:07:00.000-07:00

In Heaven, there is no Hope.

Megaton Koan Defused 12

2005-04-10T06:53:00.000-07:00

Ils veulent trouver la solution là où tout n'est qu'énigme. ("They want to advance a solution in that which is but an enigma") Pascal
(photo of Shirin Neshat's "Turbulent" video)

Small stories I’ve learned. The fourth.

2005-04-10T06:48:00.000-07:00

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 of Portugal, or the Guardian of Korea?. Nourishment (parequeets 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 from the sedentary. The frequency and tones of their flight, movement, songs. 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 periqueet. Their strength. From the docile to the aquiline. Intelligence: from the chicken to the gavion. A separate pamphlet, only for birds that invade other bird's nest and throw away the eggs they find there, as the cuckoo. Birds that have no problem in embracing others than their own chicks.

Quarkquern Coach Mudra. Position 3.

2005-04-10T05:26:00.000-07:00

A little act of resistance
a day
against your own greatest enemy
keeps the fear away:
contradict yourself.

My rewritten Books. The Unbearable Lightness of Being Earnest.

2004-07-29T05:03:00.000-07:00

We tend trying to escape our own obligations towards ourselves, by wearing masks and bestowing blame upon all others, and making up excuses after excuses for not being ourselves. There is no escape, though, in the end. In the end, we will be visited by Azrael, and what is supposed to happen, will happen, despite our unfaithfulness towards Faite itself, as she bears her double real name.
It is said that only if you live in the shadow of the angel of death you may pass over the valley of death and not be called upon your own death. To live in the shadow of the angel of death is not to be alive, not to be dead. As you escape death, you escape yourself, you escape life and all it entails. One must come to terms with oneself, and one’s own death, in order to truly live, while one’s living. Peeling yourself of all masks, a human onion as it were, would you reveal your true self? Or yet another persona, devoid of trickstery, to be sure, but yet a white paper mask that begs to be colored? Is there death to those who are truly themselves? Or only a truer, more complete death?

At least I know what I'm not.

2004-07-02T12:51:00.000-07:00

I am not the same here and there.
I am not the same now and then.
I am not the same withal or moreover or nevertheless.
I am not the same with you or with other..
I am not the same whether or neither either nor not but too.
I am not balance.

My Rewritten Books. Waiting for Godot in the Human Voice.

2004-07-02T12:42:00.000-07:00

- Hello?
- Yes.
- Hello. Is Godot there?
- Godot?
- Yes, is he there?
- Godot.
- Yes. May I speak to him?
- Yes. You may speak to him.
- …
- …
- Aren’t you going to call him?
- Call him?
- Is it you? Are you Godot?
- Who’s asking?
- Oh. I just… Godot? Is it really you? Can I talk to you for a second?
- Yes...?
(The sound of rain pours through the holes of the phone’s earpiece)

Megaton Koan Defused 11

2004-07-02T12:34:00.000-07:00

If unrepeatability is transitority and transitority is peripathetic, and consequently peripatheticity unrepeated, what is a circus or a cloister good for?

Megaton Koan Defused 10

2004-07-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

According to Deleuze, what is the opposite to a treehouse?

Solutio: a rhizome open-space under modifying wheather.

Megaton Koan Defused 10

2004-07-02T11:19:00.000-07:00

How is “breaking the box” compatible with “non-aggressiveness”?

Megaton Koan Defused 9

2004-07-02T11:16:00.000-07:00

The only perpetual feature of memory is change.

Under the shadow of the sun.

2004-07-01T05:56:00.000-07:00

The famous Angel of History that Walter Benjamin talked about has white wings, for the sunlight reflects upon them. But because the Angel is being blown backwards into the future a little above the ground, he casts a huge shadow upon the earth.
He who chases the Angel, that is to say, he who pursues History consciously, attempting to keep up the same pace and project himself upon it, ends up running underneath the shadow. Only the ones who are aware that such pursuit is unattainable will opt for other paths, whatever they may be, wherever they may lead. Only they will stride illuminated by the Sun.

The Books of Order. Tertio.

2004-06-30T15:46:00.000-07:00

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

2004-06-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Who ironizes the ironists?

(photo of a Michael Joo's video)

Megaton Koan Defused 8

2004-06-30T14:00:00.000-07:00

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.

I SEE A SEA OF EYES

2004-06-30T13:51:00.000-07:00

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.

MINDQUICKIE VI

2004-06-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

What is the negative of copulation?

NOW NEW MEN WON. (zita)

2004-06-30T13:22:00.000-07:00

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.

Quarkquern Coach Mudra. Position 2.

2004-06-30T13:16:00.000-07:00

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.

Megaton Koan Defused 7

2004-06-30T13:05:00.000-07:00

Hope is a watercourse whose source and estuary is uncertainty.

Megaton Koan Defused 6

2004-06-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

A difficult death
is the easiest to get.

H Hλιος κορώνα

2004-06-30T12:21:00.000-07:00

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)

2004-06-30T11:40:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2004-06-30T09:55:00.001-07:00

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.

Megaton Koan Defused 5

2004-06-30T09:43:00.000-07:00

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

Quarkquern Coach Mudra. Position 1.

2004-06-30T09:40:00.000-07:00

Buy bullshit wholesale.

Megaton Koan Defused 4

2004-06-30T09:38:00.000-07:00

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

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version t.

2004-06-30T08:06:00.000-07:00

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

Wish You Were Here

2004-06-30T08:03:00.000-07:00

Whether you come or go.

MINDQUAKE VI

2004-06-30T08:01:00.000-07:00

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.

Eastern Old Friends

2004-06-30T07:58:00.000-07:00

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.

2004-06-30T07:37:00.000-07:00

As a time-origami unfolding...

Magic obliterates world sins. Seventh Sin.

2004-06-30T07:12:00.000-07:00

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?

My Rewritten Books. The Holymen

2004-06-30T06:31:00.000-07:00

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.

Wholedrake

2004-06-30T05:46:00.000-07:00

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.

Garuda

2004-06-30T05:21:00.000-07:00

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.

Megaton Koan Defused 3

2004-06-30T04:57:00.000-07:00

The metonymy of some may be the synecdoche of others.

My Rewritten Books. Ulysses reductio

2004-06-30T04:39:00.000-07:00

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.

My Rewritten Books. Lucifer

2004-06-30T04:27:00.000-07:00

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.

Small stories I’ve learned. The third.

2004-06-30T03:51:00.000-07:00

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.

2004-06-30T02:58:00.000-07:00

New Pantheons. Addenda.

2004-06-30T02:56:00.000-07:00

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.

2004-06-30T02:53:00.000-07:00

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.

New Pantheons. Homage to Alan Moore.

2004-06-30T02:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2004-06-30T02:41:00.000-07:00

They're taking back the space.

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

2004-06-30T02:36:00.000-07:00

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…

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

2004-06-29T14:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Magic obliterates world sins. Fifth Sin

2004-06-29T14:33:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2004-06-29T14:28:00.000-07:00

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.

My Rewritten Books. The Metamorphosis

2004-06-29T14:26:00.000-07:00

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!

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

2004-06-29T13:25:00.000-07:00

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.

My Rewritten Books. Leviticus

2004-06-29T13:22:00.000-07:00

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

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version q.

2004-06-28T15:14:00.000-07:00

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version p.

2004-06-28T15:09:00.000-07:00

_______________________________________________

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version o.

2004-06-28T15:07:00.000-07:00

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

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version n.

2004-06-28T15:06:00.000-07:00

mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...

Magic obliterates world sins. Fourth Sin.

2004-06-28T15:04:00.000-07:00

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.

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version m.

2004-06-28T15:02:00.000-07:00

OOOOOooooooooommmmmmmmhh...

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version l.

2004-06-28T14:52:00.000-07:00

Plop, splash, kerplunk, wow.

Magic obliterates world sins. Third Sin.

2004-06-28T14:45:00.000-07:00

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.

MINDQUICKIE V

2004-06-28T14:44:00.000-07:00

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

Into the gleaming future. Episode Eight.

2004-06-28T14:42:00.000-07:00

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.

Magic obliterates world sins. Second Sin.

2004-06-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version k.

2004-06-28T14:26:00.000-07:00

Drop. Roe. Void. All-awareness.

Magic obliterates the world sins. First Sin.

2004-06-28T14:23:00.000-07:00

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.

NEW CONSTELLATION: Jah Trílio

2004-06-28T14:20:00.000-07:00

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

2004-06-28T14:18:00.000-07:00

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…

MINDQUICKIE IV

2004-06-28T14:16:00.000-07:00

Flat pyons-5 marked these madder sanguine forests.

The woman who was married with Death

2004-06-28T14:10:00.000-07:00

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!!

2004-06-28T13:47:00.000-07:00

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

Wish You Were Here

2004-06-28T12:50:00.000-07:00

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

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version j.

2004-06-28T12:42:00.000-07:00

Fall. Fish. Empty. Enlightenment. Awake.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Seven.

2004-06-28T12:40:00.000-07:00

Chernominemata here, Chernominemata there, Chernominemata everywhere.

Into the gleaming future. Episode Six.

2004-06-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

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.

Question to Mr. Gaspard-Gustave Coriolis...

2004-06-28T12:27:00.000-07:00

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?

Megaton Koan Reloaded. version i.

2004-06-28T12:19:00.000-07:00

Autumn.
Fishing.
Emptiness.
Enlightenment.

Fountain

2004-06-28T12:18:00.000-07:00

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

2004-06-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

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.