Random ...

... thoughts.

All satanists should go to heaven.
Weirdo = square. Or triangle. Or dodehecadron.
Artist<society=art>society.

Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

I ...

... think I can solve all the world's problems. And we can do that with art.

Huh?

Yes ... I was thinking about this this morning and really the only thing that prevents me from doing something wrong is that I can imagine the consequences for myself and someone else. Now, if you can imagine what things will be like for some else you can't with good conscience ... see where this is going?

The problem is, of course, that human beings are profoundly stupid. This should not be a huge shock. We have limited imaginations ... so we need art to imagine things for us! That's right! If I can read a novel and learn what it is to be ... say, a penguin, and I can imagine being a penguin then it's unlikely that I ever want to hurt another penguin ever again.

Not that I have until now, don't get me wrong.

So: we need more art! Art that makes all possible forms of human experience clear to all other humans so that nothing bad ever happens again. Unless performed by people who don't read or watch and those people we can simply kill because, in the end, they just stand in the way of paradise.

Okay ... not kill. But severly mock as philistines ... hell, yeah.

On a side note: my girlfriend starts doing eloquent stuff in front of swines again. Yes, she's going back to teaching, you know, that is, like, her job, and stuff. e wish her all the merriment in the world and hard and heavy object to hit the bastards with.

I proposed sneeking her Bokken in her bag so she would have something to hit people with but in the end this was deemed impractical because, well, the bag, well ... wasn't big enough.

Still. I think it was a marvelous idea.

By the way:

http://bokkenshop.com/eng/166.html

Send me money ....

AND:

Another edit:

Mainly because I just saw some people positively swoon over pastry and I cannot, as yet, imagine that this would take up so much room in your (working) life as to warrant a substantial detour and some hinting and some questions. Just shoot me when I infuse so much importance into something so useless.

And, by the way, Eliot is great. I won't claim to understand half or even a quarter of what he has written but this is by far the most excellent poem I know.


The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats
5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question …
10
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”

Let us go and make our visit.


In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.


The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.


And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
25
There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;
30
Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.


In the room the women come and go
35
Talking of Michelangelo.


And indeed there will be time

To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
40
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—

[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]

Do I dare
45
Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.


For I have known them all already, known them all:—

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?


And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
60
And how should I presume?


And I have known the arms already, known them all—

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]

It is perfume from a dress
65
That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin? . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…


I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
75
Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep … tired … or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
85
And in short, I was afraid.


And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,
90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it toward some overwhelming question,

To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it, at all.”


And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,
100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—

And this, and so much more?—

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
105
Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say:

“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.” . . . . .
110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,
115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—

Almost, at times, the Fool.


I grow old … I grow old …
120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.


Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.


I do not think that they will sing to me.
125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.


We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

New ...

... car. Not this one but one like it:

http://www.tiscalinet.ch/befanello/honda.jpg

Ours is purple. Or black. We can't tell. It's pretty. And pretty fast. And unique ...

So ...

I'm currently at work. It is not surprising, therefore, that I have the time to enter this short piece of prose into the world.

I'm currently listening to Tristania. That is not interesting as such, though fun for me. The interesting thing is that until a few minutes ago was trying to locate people from my old school. For some strange reason felt a sudden urge to search of people which I haven't seen since the early nineties. Honestly, I have no wish to see most of these people again, not ever ... (maybe not all of them but certainly a load of them were utter bastards) ... but I just wanted to know, you know. So, I searched on Hyves which helped me get exactly 0 hits. ZERO!

Is my generation just not interested? Don't we care about the fates of people we spend so much time with in various nefarious enterprises in classrooms and other, more effective halls of learning like the corridors of our monumental school?

In other words: I can't but conclude that all my former classmates failed miserable at life, because they seem unable to even afford a computer. This I take to be totally good news (cf. ll. 7-8). However for the people I did know and liked (Ingrid Klooster, Lonneke Wisman, Conny van Regteren, Diane Korver, Gineke Jansen, Anouk van Hinten ... maybe a few others ... (I don't know)(can't remember)(sorry)) ... I hope for a swift reversal of your possible ill fortunes. Oh ... and get a fucking blog, you lazy people, if you are indeed lazy and not just very poor.

(Seriously ... I seem to have liked women better than men ... not a surprise, really, because women are nicer and when they are growing up they are only utter bastards to their immediate family. Such is the way of the world.)

In other news:

We seem to have escaped death.

I now realise that I should perhaps have opened with that bit of news instead of ranting about images of the forgotten past. Whatever.

There seems to have been a slight problem with the gas and the electricity and all in all things could have gone a bit worse (as in *BOOM* and blackened house worse) but it didn't, so, you know, YAY!

We are now looking forward to having some work done in the kitchen and we are confident that we will not make like a suicide (p)artisan and go *BOOM* in the night.

Life, once again, is good.

In addition: my girlfriend is busy fitting a nice backpatch to my new coat. So there. Thanks.

[edit]: She, and the coat, are done!

I actually wore her coat to work this morning, which is totally possible, because they're totally the same, except, of course, some minor details ... I may have to upload pictures just to show what kind of art my girlfriend made of it.

Update:

According to my lady the job is torture and Dimmu Borgir patches suck. They supposedly are like sheet metal to get through ... so, you know, we appreciate the job EVEN more! Wow. Isn't she great?

Hohoho ...

... 'tis the season full of folly.

Anyway.

Right now, my girlfriend is watching Murder On The Orient Express. A movie supposed to be on this evening. However, because Talpa sucked and RTL sucks equally hard and they don't care about quality the movie got pulled. But I found it in the rental place making me happy because I could make my girlfriend happy. Who in turn is making me happy by making a really cool old-school heavy metal jacket with nice patches by nice bands. Which makes me happy. She keeps being needled, however, and that is less fun.

Anyway ... the season of violence has started again. Soon, there will be normal fight lessons and life will be awesome ... I actually want to get to it again. Me gusta fight.

What ho, bitches?

... anyway.

I feel it's imperative to mention that those nice folks over at FiveAndDae (those folks being Five and dae, what shock ...) have been working very hard on the newest and latest version of their communication device that is FiveAndDae. I'd urge anyone to go there. I know that ways to talk to strangers are plentiful these days and never more so than on the intarwubbs but I feel that this is sort of a special plays since people are actually nice.

Yeah.

It was a big shock for me too. There you go, go check it out. Linky at the bottom.

Other than that it's a very slow day at work, again. Yesterday was sort of hectic or I was too sleep deprived to be actually of any use. And I suppose my sense of time was fucked out of commission.

I should really do some art. But I haven't had the chance to gain some supplies as yet ... the other site is sort of wallowing in its misery ...

I think I'll push my girlfriend to go buy stuff. Gives her something to do. Plus, she gets really panicked if I also tell her to buy something pointless ....

THIS COULD BE FUN!!!

Right!

In the past couple of days I got new glasses, we went to the zoo and I have trained today. Oh ... and we finally saw happy feet. And Primer.

The new glasses were necessary, but they turn out to be a real challenge. For the first time I have a cylinder put into my glasses and it fucks you over ... but good. As a result I spent an awful lot of time swaying around and being tired when we got to the zoo the day after that. We had me mum and dad with, so it was fun for the whole family. But it was tiring.

Happy Feet is awesome, as everyone already knew ... we are sort of late. Primer is a good thriller. But for the life of me I couldn't tell you what it was about. I'd suggest to you that you go out and find it and then watch it and then be utterly stunned. We turned to eachother towards the end and said, practically in unison ... "What?"

Seriously, THAT good.

... and in training there was this endless discussion about men being gay and spinning bottles around or something. This is what you get when on the road there you listen to some old irish ditty in which the word 'gay' has a completely different meaning. Still ... in Ireland men apparently are gay as long as the bottle goes around. So, time your ...

I won't finish that sentence.

Wow ...

... it's been a while ...

Yesterday was fun. Up to a point, of course. Me dad an' me we went to Deventer to visit the annual bookfair there. Seven kilometers of book throughtout the city. Was a load of fun and we bought some stuff, naturally. I'm pleased to inform you that the Suske&Wiske collection of my girlfriend is finally complete so far as the regular numbers are concerned. And there was much rejoicing. I'd recommend going there if you have the time and the opportunity ... and can read dutch.

:)

Following the events of the day I slumped into a migraine headache so that was a bit less but I got nursed through that in splendid form by my girlfriend. I ruined her plans nicely, so, I'm sorry, darling. But, you know ... I'd have done it differently given the choice.

At this point in time there are several puppets from the Fabeltjeskrant waiting for me. I just like to throw that out there, you know. I don't expect anyone to really gt why that is so much fun to me ...

On another note: whilst waiting here, at work, for something interesting to happen ... which it invariably won't (of course, now that I've typed that, I've jinxed it, so interesting things WILL happen ... unless I've just jinxed that ...) I was cruising YouTube in search of music to annoy people with. And, in so doing I stumbled upon this little gem:

http://nl.youtube.com/watch?v=ig3EjNlKP5M

I'd suggest you have a look. It's Katty Melua singing along with the Pogues on 'Fairytale of New York'. several things: Shane McGowan is dead. Nobody told him, however. This mistake must be rectified before he becomes even a bigger parody of himself. Beware of too much alcohol, people. Before you know it you too will be killing of all your old triumphs. Then, there is Miss Melua. This song asks for someone who can sing with real spite and venom and anger and, you know ... that 'Nine Million Bicycles' voice is just too damn sweet. If Miss Melua ever said 'fuck' she'd probably be rinsing out her own mouth with gasoline. At least that's the image she puts forth. Too wholesome. All in all this clip is nefarious in nature and should have remained locked in the vaults. That the audience is cheering this only convinces me of the fact that all audiences are per definition as stupid as its most stupid member and in this case, George W. Bush must have been present.