Shake a spear

"We will all laugh at gilded butterflies,"
- Mr. Shakespeare, " King Lear"

King George

I kinda like guns, I think they're cool - cool, kinda like in a movie way, like in a little kid playing army or cops and robbers in their yards or neighborhood. When you're a kid, or just a kid at heart ( grown-ups say, "immature"), they (guns) represent adventure and super heroics.
I also kinda like hunting, at least the idea of it. It too, revives the child in me. There's something primal about it. It makes me feel as if I could survive in the wilderness with nothing
more than a gun, a good hunting knife, a bit of rope, a couple of matches, and the tride and true Boy Scout motto of "Be Prepared".
However, I have only been hunting a few times in my life and found it to be not only incredibly boring but just plain sad. There was no movie-like stalk or chase. There was no campfire cooking of the game; under the stars at night, with "Home on the Range" playing in the background.
All of this being said, or more correctly written, I wish guns would go away.
Yes, I know what the US constitution and her dutiful supreme interpreters have had to say - in the United States of America people have a right to own guns - I just wish that they didn't.
Why can't US citizens convienently forget about that portion of their "rights" like US Christians often convienently forget or convienently modify the whole Lord's name in vain thing ?
I guess I'm just tired of hearing about people in the US shooting each other.

KING GEORGE AND THE REDCOATS AIN'T COMING BACK TO RAID US !

So, What Does it Mean... ?

For the love of God can people please stop throwing around the word terrorism - no one can seem to agree on any concrete definition of this word, this concept. Ideas such as "cold" or "up" are alot less subjective in comparison. Seems that nowadays, if someone disagrees with another person or groups ideals or methods, it's really hip and popular to say, "they're terrorists" or "they support terrorists".
Why can't words mean something dammit !
In November 2004, a United Nations Security Council report described terrorism as any act "intended to cause death or serious bodily harm to civilians or non-combatants with the purpose of intimidating a population or compelling a government or an international organization to do or abstain from doing any act." ... HUH... ?

Words !

"And why would Caesar fear Ovid, except for knowing that neither his divinity nor all his legions could protect from a good line of poetry."
-Tobias Wolff, "Old School"

Filosomierda

Everything and everyone - like dogs chasing their tails - or the snake swallowing itself. It's all quite circular - a figure 8. Stuff, and by stuff I mean exsistence and/or time, can't be linear - flying balls to the wall towards some kind of finish line... - can it ?

nada importante

Happy Birthday Rene Magritte !

reminds me of Torrente...

"For decades, my name was more popular in police stations than bookshops,and I do not mean to compliment the literary awareness of Spanish policemen."
- Juan Goytisolo

miller

" seul comme un rat, nu comme le denier des clochards."
- Henry Miller, " A Devil in Paridise"

QUOTEZZZ - more

" ... while sex without love could have it's thrills and satisfactions, sex without soul was like salad without dressing - a bowl of roughage fit for cattle and goats."
- Tom Robbins, "Villa Ingognito"

QUOTEZZZ

"The door to novelty is always slightly ajar: many pass it by with barely a glance, some peek inside but choose not to enter, others dash in and dash out again; while a few, drawn by curiousity, boredom, rebellion, or circumstance, venture in so deep or wander around in there so long that they can never find their way back out."
- Tom Robbins, " Villa Incognito"

thinking...

"Art is a lie that makes us realize the truth."
— Pablo Picasso

COETZEE

" HE HAD NEVER THOUGHT HE WOULD HAVE A GOOD WORD TO SAY FOR WAR, BUT HERE IN HIS HOSPITAL BED, CONSUMING TIME AND BEING CONSUMED, HE SEEMS TO BE REVISING HIS OPINIONS. IN THE RAZING OF CITIES, THE PILLAGE OF TREASURE, THE SLAUGHTER OF INNOCENTS, IN ALL THAT RECKLESS, HE BEGINS TO DETECT A CERTAIN WISDOM, AS THOUGH HISTORY KNOWS WHAT IT'S DOING. DOWN WITH THE OLD, MAKE WAY FOR THE NEW !

- J.M. COETZEE, " SLOW MAN"

à l'avenir, peut-être...

QUOTES

" THE GREATEST TRICK THE DEVIL EVER PULLED WAS CONVINCING THE WORLD THAT HE DIDN'T EXSIST."

- KEVIN SPACEY, "THE USUAL SUSPECTS"

DYLAN

" You can't be wise and in love"
- Bob Dylan

MORE OF THE SHIT IN MY HEAD... that didn't "really" happen

Part One:
Riding on a Red Star Under a Volcano

I hadn’t eaten in two and a half days. It wasn’t cause I didn’t have any money - which was usually the case, I’d just decided to drink instead. Plus, I had a horrible case of diarrhea. Earlier that morning, I shit-out some kind of greenish - brown liquid mixed with what appeared to be blood. At the time, I remembered that dysentery was the leading cause of death in the American civil war. I was worried about the blood. I switched my intake to Pepto- Bismal and water. Besides, drinking really isn’t a good idea when you’re trying to forget about a girl. Sure, it helps at first, but then you start to remember and then you end up doing stupid shit like calling her up in the middle of the night, just “to talk”, just to “say hi”, or writing really awful poetry, which at the time you think is amazing, and will make her "yours forever". The decision was made. I left the house I was living in, bought a bottle of water at the corner store, and with book in hand, walked towards el Zocalo de Puebla. Mexico.
The clouds that morning hung in the sky like ribs. God’s ribs - Adam’s rib- the rib God took from Adam and used to create Eve. The rib He gave to Eve. Is that where it all started, this great longing ? The longing that men have for women. The desire to reclaim a part of them that was taken away - removed by the hand of God. As I walked down Calle 6 Norte, I wondered if that was the reason why all of the impulsive decisions I’d ever made had been due to me trying to impress a girl - trying to look “cool”. Trying to get my rib back. Then, in a moment of clarity I remembered that I didn’t believe in God anyway.
I found an unoccupied bench facing the cathedral in Zocalo, opened my book, and was soon transported to Mishima’s WWII Japan. After about fifteen minutes of reading and sweating in the mid- morning sun I closed my copy of “ Confessions of a Mask” and began to scan the area for a place in the shade. As I looked around, my brain was also wandering. For some reason I was imagining epic bloody mythological battles with a soundtrack by Tchaikovsky. I was suddenly and violently awoken from my daydream by the “clack-clack” of a pair of tendon-destroying high heel shoes, which did little more than give the impression of a tight ass that wasn’t really there. As I watched the pair of shoes pass by, in the distance I could hear the all too familiar call of the construction worker - “Chi, chi. Chi chi .” Up ahead I could see the source - two dirty mullet-wearing stone workers - chopping away at the stone base of zocalo’s fountain. As they made their futile attempts to catch the girl’s attention, I couldn’t help but be amused. Does that ever work -
in the history of modern humanity has the infamous, internationally recognizable, construction worker cat call ever been effective in picking-up a girl ? It made me laugh.
After watching the episode with the construction workers, I resumed my search for a spot in the shade. There it was ! Only 10 meters away, unoccupied, and under the protection of a giant tree. It was mine. As I stood up and started heading towards “my” bench, I saw two neo-hippie guys heading in the same direction. They were going to sit on “my” bench. Bastards! There was no way they were going to get there before me - no way, not those pretentious rich kid assholes - who act like they’re poor starving artists and only want to create art and help out the downtrodden of the world- meanwhile, picking-up all the hot chicks and not creating anything more artistic than a simple beat on a Congo drum. Fucking neo-hippies - with their dreadlocks, Bob Marley t-shirts, and “holy” Levi’s (which cost more than I make in four days). I moved quickly and skillfully, like a ninja, and literally ran and hopped ass-first on to the bench. Score: Me - 1, Neo-hippies 0. I stretched-out and enjoyed my victory while watching the two guys walk by. After I thought about it a bit, they probably thought I was crazy with my ass-first leap on to the bench. Hell, they probably weren’t even going to the bench anyway.


Part Two
Letter Sent to A Girl; That Shouldn't I Have, But Did Anyway...

I settled in to my new spot and started reading again. Only one paragraph into my second visit to Mishima's Japan and out of the corner of my eye I noticed a new distraction. Turning my head slightly to the right, not so much as to be noticed, I vaguely saw a figure getting ready to sit down on my bench. An infidel in my kingdom !
If he'd sat any closer, he would've been humping my leg. The first thing I noticed about this interloper was his smell. It was a combination of Patchouli, onion, and stale cigarette smoke. When I finally got a good look at him he reminded me of the gypsies I'd seen in Europe. Gold teeth, (as far as I could tell all of them), gold rings on each finger - one with a horseshoe, one with an eagle, and one I believe with the silhouette of a naked woman. He wore a dark blue scarf with red paisley markings on his head, and a worn-out black leather motorcycle jacket. His dark complexion and jet-black pony tail could have passed for Mexican features, but there was something different. Maybe it was the smells or the way he crossed his legs as he sat there. There was something.
"Excuse me, can I trouble you for a cigarette?", he questioned in perfect English, without the slightest trace of accent. "Perdon", I replied in Spanish, pretending not to understand, and not wanting to be bothered. "Bullshit, you understand, tu intiendes!" he shouted back. I was a shocked and yet intrigued. "Oh, yeah, sure", I mumbled as I handed him a cigarette. Although annoyed, I was curious, and feigned politeness - " you speak English very well, where are you from ?" "Oh, that's of little importance", he replied. " I'm curious as to why you are here, in Puebla." What the hell was this guy's deal, I thought to myself. Why was he being cryptic ? It was too hot and I was too tired for any strangeness. " I just wanted to get to know Mexico, I've got friends here", I answered dumbly. "Why are you playing dumb with me ? From the moment I sat down here, you've done nothing but act as if you have no idea what I'm talking about." Jesus, this guy was getting annoying. He grinned, showing off the gold beauties in his mouth, nodded his head knowingly, and pointed. " It's for a girl, isn't it ?" "You've got a Mexican girlfriend, don't you, ah, I know, I know." It had become too much. "No, I don't have a Mexican girlfriend," I responded, making no effort to conceal my frustration. " I don't have a girlfriend in Mexico or anywhere." "Oh, you're heart-sick, that's it, I can see it in your eyes." At that, I got up, said, "well, I gotta go, take care." I was so pissed, all I wanted to do was read my book in peace,do a little people-watching, and generally forget about the fact that he was right - I was thinking about a girl. I suppose that's what upset me the most, the wierd Gypsy-looking freak was right.

After leaving the bench, I walked through the center of the zocalo, past the fountain and headed back towards the house. While walking, I couldn't stop thinking about it. About her. About the fact that a complete stranger could read me so well. I wanted revenge - against him, against everything, against the world, against her...
I started composing a letter in my head to her. I wanted to hurt her. I wanted to be a piece of shit to her. I wanted her to know. Instead of going home, I headed for the internet cafe next to the university - a block away from the zocalo.


"Una machina por favor", I said in my best, most determined Spanish. "Si, numero tres." I sat down and logged on. For the last five years, I'd recorded almost my whole life with the aid of my e-mail account, which I found,(and still do), to be a bit artificial and kinda sad, but that's life. I'd recently sent a long rambling tirade about Mexican buses to a group of friends. I thought it was funny and had enjoyed sharing. She'd replied.
"It was the best thing I've ever read - that you wrote"
- Selma
That was it, that was the catalyst I needed, I wanted to hurt her even more than ever. Flame on - I started typing...

You said," it was the best thing that you'd ever read - that I wrote." The best thing you ever read that I wrote ? That I wrote! What does this mean, "that I wrote" ? As if to say, "well when we consider the source,it's okay, it's not that bad." Is that what you meant ? That I wrote! Are you fit to judge me? Are you fit to critisize something that I wrote ? You, who never read Fante, Faulkner, or Joyce. Never read Anias Nin, Hemingway, or Henry Miller. Doestoyevski, Bourges, Conrad, Kerouac or Wolfe - no! Did you read "The Little Prince" - no even though I gave it to you for your birthday. Did you ever read Kahil Gilbran while starving, sleeping on your cold kitchen floor - like some kinda dumb dog for their master to return home - no! But I did. I starved and dreamt of seeing you. Smelling you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Loving, yes loving, you. You because the first time I saw you, I said to myself, "I would." Yes, "I would", because you were so beautiful, so sexy, so cool - because you are so beautiful, so sexy, so cool. Of course, at that first glimpse, I wanted nothing more than sex. To be inside of you. To touch naked flesh, to caress, to express nothing more than carnal desire, in " I would." Yes, I just wanted a fuck. But you struck the first blow. You got inside of me. We started to talk - and I understood, You understood, We understood. Perhaps, I too got inside of you. Once I realized that we knew each other, I could no longer think of just " having a fuck." That was cheap, vulgar. What I wanted was much more than that - cause you understood, you understand. Understand ?!

You knew that I fell in love with you. But you were afraid - cause feeling hurts, afraid to try - cause failing hurts, afraid to jump - cause sometimes you don't land on your feet, afraid to love: really and truly, without thinking of the consciquences - cause, well that too can hurts. Life hurts, but so does doing nothing, so does not trying. Either way you're screwed. I know all about pain, failure, and embarrassment too - you're not the only one. I know all about the kinds of scars that never fade away, I know about the kind of shit that life drops on your head and you just can't seem to wash off - you're not special or alone.
But you said that you didn’t like me, “in that way”. “In that way”? In what “way”? Am I not good enough, not handsome enough, not smart enough, not tough enough, not…? As a child, I learned when to run, but I also learned how to fight - with my fists and my mouth. I learned how, with words , I could disgust, destroy, amuse, and charm. Was I “normal”, who knows ? And I didn’t care because I was proud, I was strong. But it wasn’t enough, it’s never enough. I had to become tougher, smarter ,stronger. I had to have culture. I needed knowledge. I started to read, to study, to learn. I didn’t care about school, I only wanted to be independent and free. So, once I finished school, I left home. And really, what is home ? Where is it ? Where your “ heart is” - bullshit! It’s nothing more than a security blanket. So before that blanket could be pulled away, I was on my way to Colorado. Eight years - learning, struggling, living, and even dying a bit…But, I’m just rambling, none of this really matters does it ? Cause, you’ve got a boyfriend. You’ve got a boyfriend! Yeah, sure it’s nice to have that security blanket, a stuffed animal, a gentle puppy dog, a worshiper - non-threatening, non-emotional, and nice, so very nice - nice and plain. So you don’t have to work, you don’t have to try, you don’t have to feel, you don’t have to scream silently alone, you don’t have to wait and wish. You don’t have to dream or hope. You don’t have to remember how your heart whispered into your imagination’s ear - telling it that anything was possible. And even though sometimes the pain can be like a thousand cigarette butts put out in your eyes or like a million icy needles shoved into your genitalia - it’s worth it. At least you feel something. Can you honestly tell me, (or more importantly yourself), that your boyfriend, your fucking boyfriend, ever made you feel even a fraction of the pain, hope, inspiration that I felt - that I feel… ? Did he move you ? Move you to feel ? Did he touch you ? Touch you in a way that no matter how hard you try, you just can’t forget…But then again, as you read this, you’re probably thinking that I gave -up. I quit - threw in the towel. I left. And yes I did leave, I did escape. Yes, you’re right, I left Belgium - but really to where or what ? Well, to a place I never wanted to be. A place where I couldn’t see you, couldn’t smell you, couldn’t laugh and joke with you. I escaped to a place with nothing more than memories and shadows of you. So, either way I knew I would suffer - if you were nearby or far away. And I knew, or I know rather, that you didn’t and don’t give a fuck ! I really hope at this point that you’re wondering why I wrote you this letter, why now, why at this point and this place ? Well, I honestly hope that after this letter - you cry, or feel guilt, or hate, or sadness, sorrow, something. I want you to be mad, insulted, annoyed. But, I never want your pity -never! All I want is your rage, your anger, your hate… Go fuck yourself, or, your as charming as a cigarette butt boyfriend, ( I bet it’s about the same) - Ciao, Robert

And with the simple push of a button, I sent my letter to Selma. There was a volcano of regret mixed with a bit of pleasure getting ready to erupt somewhere deep down in my gut.I stepped out of the internet café and into the bright, brutal, unforgiving Mexican sunlight. I guess the African or Arabian suns are just as bright, just as brutal, just as unforgiving - but I knew the Mexican sun. It had been with me, above me, almost everyday for a year. It was there, beating down on my back when I accidentally vomited on a bum dog after eating peyote in San Luis Potosí. It had been there, so many mornings - like an alarm clock, telling me to stop drinking cheap Mescal, stop talking shit with Javier, and just go to bed. It was there when I wandered around the city bored, tired, lonely, listening to the birds and the balloon vendors - each singing their own distinct songs. It was that same sun, so revered by the Aztecs and the Mayans, that never left me alone - always reminded me where I was. It was never deserting or hiding and it was always strong. It was that bright, brutal, unforgiving Mexican sunlight that made me come to my senses - sobered me up. What had I done ? Why did I send that letter ? “Agghh”, I sighed out loud as I slapped my forehead. Jesus, I shouldn’t have sent that letter. What was I doing - whining, crying, complaining ?

CITATEN

" INSIDE US IS SOMETHING THAT HAS NO NAME, THAT SOMETHING IS WHAT WE ARE."

- JOSE SARAMAGO, "BLINDNESS"

COTIZACIONES

" DESIRING TO MEET TRAINS PERHAPS, BUT TO MEET NO TRAINS THAT STOP, FOR IN THE ANGELS MIND THERE ARE NO TRAINS THAT STOP, AND FROM SUCH TRAINS NO ONE DESCENDS, NOT EVEN ANOTHER ANGEL..."

- MACOLM LOWERY, "UNDER THE VOLCANO"

CITATIONS

" I WAS DRAWN TO ALL THE WRONG THINGS : I LIKED TO DRINK, I WAS LAZY, I DIDN'T HAVE A GOD, POLITICS, IDEAS, IDEALS. I WAS SETTLED INTO NOTHINGNESS; A KIND OF NON-BEING, AND I ACCECEPTED IT. IT DIDN'T MAKE FOR AN INTERESTING PERSON. I DIDN'T WANT TO BE INTERESTING, IT WAS TOO HARD. WHAT I REALLY WANTED WAS ONLY A SOFT, HAZY SPACE TO LIVE IN, AND TO BE LEFT ALONE. ON THE OTHER HAND, WHEN I GOT DRUNK I SCREAMED, WENT CRAZY, GOT ALL OUT OF HAND. ONE KIND OF BEHAVIOR DIDN'T FIT THE OTHER. I DIDN'T CARE."

- CHARLES BUKOWSKI, "WOMEN"

THIS IS SOME OF THE STUFF IN MY HEAD...

GO LIKE A CRAZED MACHINE GUN.
NEVER LET THEM CATCH YOU -
THE LOVERS.
THE PRIESTS.
THE PEOPLE WHO CALL YOU UP IN THE MIDDLE OF A PEACEFUL DAY ASKING FOR MONEY FOR CANCER RESEARCH, AIDS RESEARCH, OR LEUKEMIA RESEARCH.
BARK LIKE A VISCIOUS MONGREL DOG.
PISS ON THOSE WHO’LL INTERLOPE.
THE INTERCEDERS.
THE HELPERS.
THE HEALERS WHO WANT YOU TO BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN’T HEAL YOURSELF, PICK YOURSELF UP, OR LOVE YOURSELF.

BE BEAUTIFUL BY BEING-
SECURE, SURE,
AWAKE ALIVE.

EAT RAW RED MEAT.
DRIVE FAST
AND
THROW YOUR TRASH OUT THE WINDOW.

QUOTES

" AS A TRAFFICKER IN CLIMAXES AND THRILLS AND CHARACTERIZATION AND WONDERFUL DIALOGUE AND SUPENSE AND CONFRONTATIONS, I HAD OUTLINED THE DRESDEN STORY MANY TIMES. THE BEST OUTLINE I EVER MADE, OR ANYWAY THE PRETTIEST ONE, WAS ON THE BACK OF A ROLL OF WALLPAPER.
I USED MY DAUGHTER'S CRAYONS, A DIFFERENT COLOR FOR EACH MAIN CHARACTER."

-KURT VONNEGUT, "SLAUGHTERHOUSE-FIVE"

PANTHEON OF BEAUTY AND WONDER or JUST SOME STUFF I DIG

"ASK THE DUST", NOT THE MOVIE, FUCK THE MOVIE!
EL ZOCALO DE PUEBLA -SITTING IN OR WALKING THROUGH, DRUNK OR SOBER, NIGHT OR DAY.
TROPICS AND CRUCIFIXIONS - THANK YOU MR. MILLER.
ROBERT ALLEN ZIMMERMAN, MR.DYLAN - COMMANDEUR DES ARTS ET DES LETTRES.
MAROLLEN VAN BRUSSELS - LES MAROLLES...
ALL THE QUIET AND EVEN THE DODGEY BENCHES OF THE WORLD.
GUINNESS, THANK GOD FOR GUINNESS.
LOU REED.
PATTI SMITH.
BURROUGHS.
BUKOWSKI.
THANK YOU KURT VONNEGUT -" SO IT GOES... "
NABOKOV AND NIN.
GERSHWIN, TCHAIKOVSKY, MILES DAVIS, CHARLIE PARKER.
KNUT HAMSUN, JAMES JOYCE, JACK KEROUAC, THE BEATLES, VAN MORRISON-FANTE !

THE PIXIES AND HEAVILY BUTTERED POPCORN.
BUSHMILLS, JAMESON, JACK DANIELS.
YEAH, A PANTHEON SHOULD PROBABLY ONLY BE PEOPLE - GODS AND GODDESSES.
OH WELL...