a future teacher
i am constantly hiding traces
this summer air
makes my brain
melt
sludge
like sex
in the night haze
and no-one suspects a thing
stolen blankets
sucking thumbs
realistically, a suicide mission
my karma
turns me into
mud
blood
fire
drown in the heavy-set
liquid
lungs are concrete
eyes are
misguided
missiles set on flesh
only cadavers sleep/cadavers only sleep
where do i
fit in?
my
father's laugh ricochets inside
my
skull
it's a pale echo
we are our own enemies and we die fighting ourselves, never each other
respectable men perish like dust
Monday, 31 May 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
Do you like Aphex Twin, Stefan?
CIRCUS FREAKS ALL WEEK!
LALOO!
No more lies Stefan. Eve, go easy on the boredom. Smells brand new. Egyptian motifs and middle fingers.
B&W.
LALOO!
No more lies Stefan. Eve, go easy on the boredom. Smells brand new. Egyptian motifs and middle fingers.
B&W.
Wednesday, 10 February 2010
EDWARD NORTON IN THE BATHTUB
A CHILD'S BROKEN LEG. SHE SITS NURSING BRUISES>SHE SITS CURSING NURSES. HER MOTHER WAS A DRUNK, SLURRED PROFANITIES BROKE EARDRUMS AND FINGERS>TEARS MAKING PATHS IN HER MUDDIED FACE. FATHER WORKED. FATHER WEARY AND TIRED/ CAN@T SEE HER PATHS> HER EYES DON'T MEET ANYMORE. A PROPER STANDARD PINOCHET. WILL SHE BE DIGNIFIED? STANDS IN A PLAYGROUND. CENTRAL. EXPOSED. SUN BURNS HOLES IN HER POCKETS> THIS TIME NEXT YEAR MAYBEALITTLEHELP. DREAMS OF HER BROTHER SO FAR AWAY. HE FORGETS SHE EXISTS. SHE MAKES DAISY CHAINS. SHE WISHES SHE COULD BAKE. HER DRESSES ARE RIPPED. ALL THE KIDS WITH BELLS AND WHISTLES, MOTHER SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER SUCKER PUNCH. WHAT FUN AND GAMES. A CLICHED IMAGE OF A BEAR. INSIDE THE BEAR IS A SECRET.
"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! ALPHONSE! Help the fucking girl! Jesus..."
"Colonel, she's dead."
"Shit, Alphonse, that's the third dead child I've seen today ...Right, chin up, we've got to keep moving."
All my pictures have thumbmarks on them.
Twisted ankles, broken bangles, pens.
sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal
they've become letters and the words are just sounds. if you say something over and over it loses all meaning. the same works with thoughts. think the same thing over and over and it becomes a reaction. most probably a reflex, not geniune human nature. we're robotic. chemical. our pens and and the propulsion of ink on paper reflects not individuality but the succumbing of man to his motor and electrical impulses. creation is futile and vain. all the words you write, no matter how innocent you can pretend they are, have ulterior motive. it's just the case with everyone. the inherent exists constantly and man is often treated as mad because sometimes the inherent is obvious. placing man under the spotlight so sharply triggers the defense reflex and any accusations or statements are usually withdrawn or stopped. is there a solution to this? there doesn't need to be. life is chaos, but malleable chaos. my fucking head is all over the shop this morning. attention!
"FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! ALPHONSE! Help the fucking girl! Jesus..."
"Colonel, she's dead."
"Shit, Alphonse, that's the third dead child I've seen today ...Right, chin up, we've got to keep moving."
All my pictures have thumbmarks on them.
Twisted ankles, broken bangles, pens.
sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal sex scandal
they've become letters and the words are just sounds. if you say something over and over it loses all meaning. the same works with thoughts. think the same thing over and over and it becomes a reaction. most probably a reflex, not geniune human nature. we're robotic. chemical. our pens and and the propulsion of ink on paper reflects not individuality but the succumbing of man to his motor and electrical impulses. creation is futile and vain. all the words you write, no matter how innocent you can pretend they are, have ulterior motive. it's just the case with everyone. the inherent exists constantly and man is often treated as mad because sometimes the inherent is obvious. placing man under the spotlight so sharply triggers the defense reflex and any accusations or statements are usually withdrawn or stopped. is there a solution to this? there doesn't need to be. life is chaos, but malleable chaos. my fucking head is all over the shop this morning. attention!
Monday, 1 February 2010
RIPLEY'S RIGHT HAND
The next story will be about a sex scandal. Maybe it will involve Zachali, the character from an unfinished story. That cheeky old loverboy. What a fox. Maybe Munroe Fox. Maybe it will involve the Colonel from the other story I am plotting based on certain visual experience? Maybe seventeen sons all with bullet wounds between the eyes. Maybe Ripley's Right Hand. I think I'm feeling a lot better. Bright colours. Tennis players from Alabama. Tails, 50ft tall, long-legged. Who knows? Have some pictures.
Wednesday, 27 January 2010
Tuesday, 26 January 2010
E A R P L U G S
I've never had such blissful sleep as I did whilst having these beautiful pieces of expanding rubber pushed deep into my ears. When you've blocked out the sound of unnoticeable, invisible things it becomes clear how loud they really are. Water running through a pipe. A red fox's pawsteps in the loud air, along the creaking earth. The bricks your house is built from, rubbing against the cement, against each other. At the same time, the growling hum of the fridge, the clunking of the washing machine, pipes stretching themselves, stretching their metal arms to ensure they are useful when the sun rises. The handles of cupboards, loudly aching to be pulled or twisted, like the audible desire of downtrodden housewives, opressed by the jealous patriarch. Convulsing electronics, unsure when to keep quiet. The cause of an unpredictable life. Lightbulbs dancing to the loud, evening music of the breeze and sleeping birds. An unbearable cacophony of silence.
All gone once I've filled my ears. I become aware of my breathing, the hard beating of my heart that seems like it's resonating from miles off, a pounding of Thor's hammer against the bare earth, when my breath increases and I'm aware of the images inside my mind. Images of skin. Afterwards, while turning over, a wheezing sound tells me the air has been pushed out of my lungs. So liberating. I become aware of the blood inside my veins. Each individual cell. They are bustling like the women of my past life at the market place, queuing for meat and vegetables, queuing to feed their families. Pushing against each other, anxious to get something decent, worn down from the early rises and the late nights and brave face that is eating into their real one. Worn down to acceptance. Worn like rags. My bones creak. It runs in the family. I imagine a road and it's completely silent: so beautiful. This place I'm in right now, it's the best place in the world. Complete solitude. No worry, no chemical reactions filtering my reactions and thoughts. Darkness and silence. I can finally think clearly, devoid of the shouts from girls and boys interested in "culture". I'm trying to avoid using the words "fad" and "craze" and "latest trend" because it's all one trend. It's always been one, fluid trend. There are those who want to be part of the trend; they are accepted. There are those who are hypocrites. I am a hypocrite. I hate the trend, but it loves me so much I accept it. It makes me hate myself sometimes. Velvet is ugly, but people buy it. The trend doesn't care, it's not real. People care and they shouldn't and this is what I fortunately forget when the earplugs are in and all I can hear is my body living.
All gone once I've filled my ears. I become aware of my breathing, the hard beating of my heart that seems like it's resonating from miles off, a pounding of Thor's hammer against the bare earth, when my breath increases and I'm aware of the images inside my mind. Images of skin. Afterwards, while turning over, a wheezing sound tells me the air has been pushed out of my lungs. So liberating. I become aware of the blood inside my veins. Each individual cell. They are bustling like the women of my past life at the market place, queuing for meat and vegetables, queuing to feed their families. Pushing against each other, anxious to get something decent, worn down from the early rises and the late nights and brave face that is eating into their real one. Worn down to acceptance. Worn like rags. My bones creak. It runs in the family. I imagine a road and it's completely silent: so beautiful. This place I'm in right now, it's the best place in the world. Complete solitude. No worry, no chemical reactions filtering my reactions and thoughts. Darkness and silence. I can finally think clearly, devoid of the shouts from girls and boys interested in "culture". I'm trying to avoid using the words "fad" and "craze" and "latest trend" because it's all one trend. It's always been one, fluid trend. There are those who want to be part of the trend; they are accepted. There are those who are hypocrites. I am a hypocrite. I hate the trend, but it loves me so much I accept it. It makes me hate myself sometimes. Velvet is ugly, but people buy it. The trend doesn't care, it's not real. People care and they shouldn't and this is what I fortunately forget when the earplugs are in and all I can hear is my body living.
Monday, 18 January 2010
TIMBACA/RUSLATIVER
PART 3:
A brown gooze flowed into the rhinocerous's eyes. Trembling, opening the paper sog with her cardboard fooves and twinkling her nose, she looked anxious. I tried to picture the rhinocerous as she looked before, in my nightstories, but all I could see in my memory was the image before me. Having been alone for such a long time now, I don't think I could have stopped myself from going over.
"Hello."
A silence stabbed at the air, clutching.
Not awkward however.
"Do you need a hand with that?"
"OH! Crikey, I didn't see you there. I, uh, am just trying to open this bloody sog, but my fooves are too bloody big," the rhinocerous coyly replied (cheeky).
"Sorry, don't you mean box and hooves?" I was perplexed. It seemed inbetween all the "self-exploration" and thinking I was doing, I realised I hardly ever stated anything. I needed to stop asking questions and start asserting myself but first, this puzzle.
"Ah, no no. I see you've only just arrived and made me. I knew I was going to exist soon, but I didn't realise that you'd given me birth. As I imagine when you were a human, you didn't remember your birth. As for my fooves," her hooves melted into strange rectangular brown fingers, "I can choose between fingers and hooves whenever I want, so this is a simple and efficient way of describing my limbs. And clearly, this isn't a box, it's far too wet, wouldn't you agree?"
Stumped, I nodded my head sheepishly. Clearly, I still had much to learn about this strange metaphysical reality, if that even is the correct terminology. If terminology is even relevant. If anything is even relevant.
"I want to know what I have to do here," I tried to assert. It's difficult not to ask questions when you don't know what is going on at all.
"If the trees line-up and the birds sing songs in an open space, can I paint my face?" was the ridiculous reply. She had sung it in a strange, strained way like something filled her body and control was lost. Nothing seemed to be making sense and it was so frustrating, so difficult to maintain logic and contact with any real thought. Bubbles formed out of the brown gooze that was still flowing into the rhinocerous and formed letters above me, forcing me to strain my neck looking up.
B E N I C E T O Y O U R F R I E N D S A N D
D O
N O T B E A F
R A I D T
O
D A N C E
The brown bubbles blupped and popped back into the fabric of nature and life and out of physical existence. Looking at the shy, clearly sad rhinocerous, I realised something extremely important.
"I'm sorry, let me help you with that." I said, offering her, (I assumed it was a her as she had a high pitched voice, red lipstick and beautiful ornate, pencil eyelashes, like the curls on exotic wallpaper, a hand with the brown sog. She handed it over with no fight and the wet paper fell apart in my hands, reminding me of a bad dance teacher who can't keep a class in check. Fell apart. Suddenly, I had a flashback to when I was alive (I had stopped questioning the xylophone, I was clearly dead and he was right) and a beautiful girl, with big gentle eyes and curly red hair wearing a denim dress with no sleeves and a thin belt, held my face. She then dissolved into sand and annoyingly, the flashback was over. Nothing seemed to last more than a fucking second in this damn place. I remembered who she was though, and a massive warthm came over me, just like when I had first woken up here. I vouched to be nice to the rhinocerous and not let jealousy or paranoia ruin the clearly fragile friendship I had already. Regardless of my thoughts, I now had the contents in my hands.
Predictably, it was a compass. It had three hands and instead of the expected N, E, S, W letters, it had eight points on the compass and clockwise they were:
LIFE
WATER DEATH
FRIENDSHIP JOY
HER PAIN
CHAOS
I had no idea what this compass meant, but it looked boring.
"I think this is yours," I told the rhinocerous, who looked, all of a sudden, distinctly happier.
"No, I think it is yours. Take it and go to what you want. I'll see you at friendship."
Strange. Again, I stood alone in this vast expance, wishing I didn't exist.
A brown gooze flowed into the rhinocerous's eyes. Trembling, opening the paper sog with her cardboard fooves and twinkling her nose, she looked anxious. I tried to picture the rhinocerous as she looked before, in my nightstories, but all I could see in my memory was the image before me. Having been alone for such a long time now, I don't think I could have stopped myself from going over.
"Hello."
A silence stabbed at the air, clutching.
Not awkward however.
"Do you need a hand with that?"
"OH! Crikey, I didn't see you there. I, uh, am just trying to open this bloody sog, but my fooves are too bloody big," the rhinocerous coyly replied (cheeky).
"Sorry, don't you mean box and hooves?" I was perplexed. It seemed inbetween all the "self-exploration" and thinking I was doing, I realised I hardly ever stated anything. I needed to stop asking questions and start asserting myself but first, this puzzle.
"Ah, no no. I see you've only just arrived and made me. I knew I was going to exist soon, but I didn't realise that you'd given me birth. As I imagine when you were a human, you didn't remember your birth. As for my fooves," her hooves melted into strange rectangular brown fingers, "I can choose between fingers and hooves whenever I want, so this is a simple and efficient way of describing my limbs. And clearly, this isn't a box, it's far too wet, wouldn't you agree?"
Stumped, I nodded my head sheepishly. Clearly, I still had much to learn about this strange metaphysical reality, if that even is the correct terminology. If terminology is even relevant. If anything is even relevant.
"I want to know what I have to do here," I tried to assert. It's difficult not to ask questions when you don't know what is going on at all.
"If the trees line-up and the birds sing songs in an open space, can I paint my face?" was the ridiculous reply. She had sung it in a strange, strained way like something filled her body and control was lost. Nothing seemed to be making sense and it was so frustrating, so difficult to maintain logic and contact with any real thought. Bubbles formed out of the brown gooze that was still flowing into the rhinocerous and formed letters above me, forcing me to strain my neck looking up.
B E N I C E T O Y O U R F R I E N D S A N D
D O
N O T B E A F
R A I D T
O
D A N C E
The brown bubbles blupped and popped back into the fabric of nature and life and out of physical existence. Looking at the shy, clearly sad rhinocerous, I realised something extremely important.
"I'm sorry, let me help you with that." I said, offering her, (I assumed it was a her as she had a high pitched voice, red lipstick and beautiful ornate, pencil eyelashes, like the curls on exotic wallpaper, a hand with the brown sog. She handed it over with no fight and the wet paper fell apart in my hands, reminding me of a bad dance teacher who can't keep a class in check. Fell apart. Suddenly, I had a flashback to when I was alive (I had stopped questioning the xylophone, I was clearly dead and he was right) and a beautiful girl, with big gentle eyes and curly red hair wearing a denim dress with no sleeves and a thin belt, held my face. She then dissolved into sand and annoyingly, the flashback was over. Nothing seemed to last more than a fucking second in this damn place. I remembered who she was though, and a massive warthm came over me, just like when I had first woken up here. I vouched to be nice to the rhinocerous and not let jealousy or paranoia ruin the clearly fragile friendship I had already. Regardless of my thoughts, I now had the contents in my hands.
Predictably, it was a compass. It had three hands and instead of the expected N, E, S, W letters, it had eight points on the compass and clockwise they were:
LIFE
WATER DEATH
FRIENDSHIP JOY
HER PAIN
CHAOS
I had no idea what this compass meant, but it looked boring.
"I think this is yours," I told the rhinocerous, who looked, all of a sudden, distinctly happier.
"No, I think it is yours. Take it and go to what you want. I'll see you at friendship."
Strange. Again, I stood alone in this vast expance, wishing I didn't exist.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Mixtape, Yo.
Feel free to bung it. Be sure to buy the CDs or download them of course. I haven't obtained any copyright, so if labels or artists have beef with the mixtape, get in touch, I'll take it down. Featuring, Sharks Keep Moving, American Football, Stapleton, Black Moth Super Rainbow, Bombay Bicycle Club, Sparrows, Yeasayer, Four Tet, Xiu Xiu, Tubelord, Times New Viking, Devendra Banhart and some other yummy tunes.
DOWNLOAD HERE.
Been wathching a lot of Green Wing, haven't been feeling any creative with words lately. Drew some nice mallards (Copyright Graham Owen) though.
DOWNLOAD HERE.
Been wathching a lot of Green Wing, haven't been feeling any creative with words lately. Drew some nice mallards (Copyright Graham Owen) though.
Monday, 28 December 2009
OH HELL, OH SURE!
Going to try and include the various loud shouts passing around my mind by incorporating them into a small story. Sometimes it's so easy to get frustrated over very small things.
"Walk left, son!"
The darkness bore witness to the shouts of a family of blind people. HERECOMES ANOTHER YELLOW DOLLAR. PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT HER. They were shuffling dangerously close to the edge of the mountain peak. OH BUT I REALLY DOUBT IT. PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT. The youngest of the family, a small boy aged around ten years was confidently striding left, right towards the peak. His family seemed to be warning him about the huge drop he was so confidently striding to. However, listening a bit more attentively to the overwhelming darkness, it was clear they were edging him on. WE'RE SURROUNDED. THE CAMERA WASN'T SUPPOSED TO FIND YOU. YET THE MOON STOPPED SHINING THE DAY I OPENED MY UMBRELLA INSIDE AND MY EYES BURNED OUT LIKE A BAD PHOTOGRAPH. "Keep walking left, son! Keep going!", screamed his father. I SMELL BUBBLEGUM. TOM WAITS HAS THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. The boy stopped his footsteps immediately before the peak. He could hear the small, infant stones he had displaced with his innocent toes hurtle towards their untimely and unfair removal from the rock cycle. The small rocks would surely die. The boy stood for a few seconds. Stood, waited, acknowledged his life. He was hesitant and a nauseating, sickening sensation ran from the base of his spine, right into his eyes. He was shaking. The air was like needles, like partisans from the war hiding and waiting for their time to strike, to distrupt. I could feel that the whole thing was disgusting and grey and dark, dark green. He knew what he had to do and the wind was just right. He threw himself after the rocks. CITY ON DRUGS, THIS CITY IS ON DRUGS. A tear came to the eye of the father, arrived without saying anything and then left. The salty taste of pain was in his mouth and I could clearly see that he was blank. LITTLE BLANK FACES. I WISH YOU WOULDN'T BE SO FUCKING WEAK. IF WE DON'T STICK TOGETHER, THIS DIES YOU FUCKING MORON. MOROSE. THIS GRAVEYARD IS COVERED IN TEARDROPS HA HA HA. If I could have had a violin at that moment in time, the overwhelming emotion in the air would have taught me well. However, the family would have heard and their trance would have been broken. The father shuffled further left. He wasn't as confident as his youngest because his eyeshight was worse. He moved with the wind, rather than with his feet. They were tired and uncertain, but the wind knew him and knew his destination. THIS IS A FUCKING CARTOON. YOU MADE ME VOMIT! HA HA! THERE'S STOMACH ACID ON THE TOILET SEAT! SIT DOWN CARLO! THIS BAND SOUNDS JUST LIKE SPARROWS IF THEY WERE SHIT. After arriving at the place that he knew would be his last, he called out to his remaining family, "We did good, huh, guys?" He smiled. Happiness filled him. He felt so fulfilled, nothing was as satisfying as what was going to happen. Point break. Better than the best sex, the best food. Better than the best drug. All his life it was cats on wheels, television dogs, paedophiles and blurry skies. Well, no more. He smiled again, and felt the air against his euphoric body as he plummeted to meet his son. I'LL MAKE IT BETTER. WE'LL TRAVEL ANDOUR CHILDREN WILL LEARN! If Presidents could cry, they would never cry as hard as he did as he fell. The mother thought she heard his bumpy ride. She thought she heard a dull thud as skeletons entagled and embraced inbetween a pulp at the base of the mountain. She ran. All her life she was a follower, impressionable and weak. Some people succeed and win, but some go along copying ideas and feigning character. She was a complete fake. A lie. So she ran. She knew she deserved everything that had happened. The accident, the fire. The wails of a toddler trapped in her cot, suffocated by black death, by smoke. The blindness. The vacation bought on the last of the family savings to see this mountain. The daughter implying there was nothing left. The daughter. Her daughter. As she hurtled through the wind to greet her husband, she realised something and the intensity of the shriek would puzzle county Rangers for years. The daughter stood above. She smirked, removed her glasses and walked back to the cabin to meet a friend and get drunk.
Phew, that was fun to write. I'm going to throw up some drawings and maybe photos and maybe even a song next time and I'll write the next part of Timbaca with more of the rhinocerous. This post was really just a roundabout way of whinging about how everything sucks LOL.
Peace x
G.Princip
"Walk left, son!"
The darkness bore witness to the shouts of a family of blind people. HERECOMES ANOTHER YELLOW DOLLAR. PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT HER. They were shuffling dangerously close to the edge of the mountain peak. OH BUT I REALLY DOUBT IT. PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT. The youngest of the family, a small boy aged around ten years was confidently striding left, right towards the peak. His family seemed to be warning him about the huge drop he was so confidently striding to. However, listening a bit more attentively to the overwhelming darkness, it was clear they were edging him on. WE'RE SURROUNDED. THE CAMERA WASN'T SUPPOSED TO FIND YOU. YET THE MOON STOPPED SHINING THE DAY I OPENED MY UMBRELLA INSIDE AND MY EYES BURNED OUT LIKE A BAD PHOTOGRAPH. "Keep walking left, son! Keep going!", screamed his father. I SMELL BUBBLEGUM. TOM WAITS HAS THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. The boy stopped his footsteps immediately before the peak. He could hear the small, infant stones he had displaced with his innocent toes hurtle towards their untimely and unfair removal from the rock cycle. The small rocks would surely die. The boy stood for a few seconds. Stood, waited, acknowledged his life. He was hesitant and a nauseating, sickening sensation ran from the base of his spine, right into his eyes. He was shaking. The air was like needles, like partisans from the war hiding and waiting for their time to strike, to distrupt. I could feel that the whole thing was disgusting and grey and dark, dark green. He knew what he had to do and the wind was just right. He threw himself after the rocks. CITY ON DRUGS, THIS CITY IS ON DRUGS. A tear came to the eye of the father, arrived without saying anything and then left. The salty taste of pain was in his mouth and I could clearly see that he was blank. LITTLE BLANK FACES. I WISH YOU WOULDN'T BE SO FUCKING WEAK. IF WE DON'T STICK TOGETHER, THIS DIES YOU FUCKING MORON. MOROSE. THIS GRAVEYARD IS COVERED IN TEARDROPS HA HA HA. If I could have had a violin at that moment in time, the overwhelming emotion in the air would have taught me well. However, the family would have heard and their trance would have been broken. The father shuffled further left. He wasn't as confident as his youngest because his eyeshight was worse. He moved with the wind, rather than with his feet. They were tired and uncertain, but the wind knew him and knew his destination. THIS IS A FUCKING CARTOON. YOU MADE ME VOMIT! HA HA! THERE'S STOMACH ACID ON THE TOILET SEAT! SIT DOWN CARLO! THIS BAND SOUNDS JUST LIKE SPARROWS IF THEY WERE SHIT. After arriving at the place that he knew would be his last, he called out to his remaining family, "We did good, huh, guys?" He smiled. Happiness filled him. He felt so fulfilled, nothing was as satisfying as what was going to happen. Point break. Better than the best sex, the best food. Better than the best drug. All his life it was cats on wheels, television dogs, paedophiles and blurry skies. Well, no more. He smiled again, and felt the air against his euphoric body as he plummeted to meet his son. I'LL MAKE IT BETTER. WE'LL TRAVEL ANDOUR CHILDREN WILL LEARN! If Presidents could cry, they would never cry as hard as he did as he fell. The mother thought she heard his bumpy ride. She thought she heard a dull thud as skeletons entagled and embraced inbetween a pulp at the base of the mountain. She ran. All her life she was a follower, impressionable and weak. Some people succeed and win, but some go along copying ideas and feigning character. She was a complete fake. A lie. So she ran. She knew she deserved everything that had happened. The accident, the fire. The wails of a toddler trapped in her cot, suffocated by black death, by smoke. The blindness. The vacation bought on the last of the family savings to see this mountain. The daughter implying there was nothing left. The daughter. Her daughter. As she hurtled through the wind to greet her husband, she realised something and the intensity of the shriek would puzzle county Rangers for years. The daughter stood above. She smirked, removed her glasses and walked back to the cabin to meet a friend and get drunk.
Phew, that was fun to write. I'm going to throw up some drawings and maybe photos and maybe even a song next time and I'll write the next part of Timbaca with more of the rhinocerous. This post was really just a roundabout way of whinging about how everything sucks LOL.
Peace x
G.Princip
Friday, 11 December 2009
Ruslativer/Timbaca
PART TWO:
So lonely. That's how it felt at the moment in time. I wondered whether this was one of those "dimensions" where your will bends objects and events to your own ideas and requirements. After several hours of hard, hard thinking I realised that I couldn't do that and all I ended up with was a feeling similar to having two opposing colours in my head. Not particularly pleasant. I wondered whether I would see the "professor" again, and whether he would manifest himself in the same form, or maybe as a bear. I'd like that. I wondered what my family were doing. Mourning? What if I had woken up at the end of humanity and this meadow was all that's left due to some nuclear holocaust radioation madness? I wondered about my friends, I wondered about people in general, I wondered about the red buses in London and Christmas adverts and infidelity and so much. I slowly, slowly melted into a puddle of yellow liquid metal on the floor and fell asleep.
I think I woke up as a woman except I had no sensation in my body. I knew I was moving because things were moving around me but I couldn't feel anything. Everything was so numb. I tried to pinch myself but my hand missing the target and I must have looked so uncanny standing awkwardly in the middle of a vast green expanse. This experience reminded me of all the times when I lied on my arms but no decent thoughts came to mind so I left it and began walking somewhere.
So lonely. That's how it felt at the moment in time. I wondered whether this was one of those "dimensions" where your will bends objects and events to your own ideas and requirements. After several hours of hard, hard thinking I realised that I couldn't do that and all I ended up with was a feeling similar to having two opposing colours in my head. Not particularly pleasant. I wondered whether I would see the "professor" again, and whether he would manifest himself in the same form, or maybe as a bear. I'd like that. I wondered what my family were doing. Mourning? What if I had woken up at the end of humanity and this meadow was all that's left due to some nuclear holocaust radioation madness? I wondered about my friends, I wondered about people in general, I wondered about the red buses in London and Christmas adverts and infidelity and so much. I slowly, slowly melted into a puddle of yellow liquid metal on the floor and fell asleep.
I think I woke up as a woman except I had no sensation in my body. I knew I was moving because things were moving around me but I couldn't feel anything. Everything was so numb. I tried to pinch myself but my hand missing the target and I must have looked so uncanny standing awkwardly in the middle of a vast green expanse. This experience reminded me of all the times when I lied on my arms but no decent thoughts came to mind so I left it and began walking somewhere.
Tuesday, 1 December 2009
Timbaca/Ruslativer
PART ONE:
Falling, falling down.
And I heard her screaming when I was dreaming.
What was I drinking? What was I drinking?
What was she thinking?
When I was sinking.
A meadow.
I can feel the grass in my eyes but instead of hurting it feels calming, more like cotton wool. A brass band can be heard a few seconds away, the sound of Eastern European folk music rings. The sky is definitely coming closer and a warm, pulsating feeling slowly rushes over me, almost like when you were a child and you used to run away from the waves at the beach in the hot summers. There is nobody here and even though you'd think the brass band has people in it, there is definitely nobody here. The air is so still I can see the oxygen molecules float from the grass and pop in front of my tongue. It is so satisfying, like finishing a difficult book or getting away from a cardboard rhinocerous that chases you in your dreams. I realise I am slightly dyslexic which makes this all the more enjoyable. A mixing of senses and pictures and visions and feelings. Even better when meelings are fixed. Suddenly, a xylophone walks up to me out of nowhere.
"Pretty empty in this meadow,"
"Yeah," I reply.
I am unsure what the etiquette is on talking to personified xylophones. It's really quite absurd. I remain quiet but offer a friendly smile, hoping the xylophone has eyes to see this and acknowledge it in his (I assume it is a male xylophone through the presence of a beater laying gently on the top and the deep voice) wooden frame. Still, the warm feeling pulses through me but now tinged ever so slightly with a shadow.
"I'm the professor here," he says. His words seem laborious, strung out like a hungry drunk fumbling for the last coins in his coat, hoping to bite into some delicious meat. The xylophone seems anxious, but happily tired. Saying no more, I decide to probe this curious statement.
"The professor of what? Is there a -," interrupting me,
"The professor of history! I assume you're here to learn?" is the unpredictable reply.
"I don't even know how I got here. I want to ask 'what is going on' but I'm not sure I'll understand,"
"I see. Well, quite frankly, sir, you are dead. This is a realm, portal, dream, dimension, place, thing, cloud, city, field, river, lamp, tyre, string, whatever you want to call it and if you want to get it big time, go ahead and get it big time,"
"Dead..?" I was taken aback. I assumed when I laid to rest last evening after getting terribly stoned with my friends that I would dream heavily and that this was the predictable surrealist nonsense that my brain usually came up with. However, this just felt too real. Of course it did. Never before had I seen things or heard things with such clarity. And the conviction with which the xylophone has informed me of my death! Gone was the rolling, slurring prose I heard earlier. He was definitely a professor and I should respect that.
"You can have twenty-one sons and twenty-one daughters," he suddenly said.
"What do you mean?"
"Clearly you haven't studied enough, it's probably time you went to your lecture. We'll get to know each other very well, very soon." and with that he simply vanished. Just disappeared out of my field of vision. None of this silly childish magic poofs and dust and smoke, the xylophone simply vanished. No noises. Silent. Predictable.
And I stood alone in the empty meadow waiting for something to happen, feeling, once again, very warm.
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