Archive for the ‘Entertainment’ Category

This Song is Old

June 28, 2018


This song is old

and very strange;

things were different

that long ago;

people sang then

so others knew

what it was like

before their time.


They would all sing

till they grew old

and their children

would learn their song. (more…)

Welcome to Dislocation

June 29, 2017

Stay and live, if but a day, or an hour, at a time.

Borrow from the future the symbols of value, this body of an unborn.

The collectors will harvest your emotions, scraping the inside of your brain,

each brand etched through corrosive persistence,

leaving caverns of burnt flesh craving for substance.

Don’t linger, take a loan, do it quickly, make it big.

Taste the promise of a perfect body,

let it soak your palate,

let it glue together the tears in the tapestry of time. (more…)

Ode to Death

May 19, 2015

The smooth wall is ever present;

it sings to me, it resonates within me,

though it consumes all sound.

The topless tower radiates emptiness;

a dull, frozen impermanence;

but I can’t fathom this petrified dream.

I swirl about with my eyes closed,

no time to think of dreams.

I move joyfully to the incessant, droning knells

though I’m a puppet, unheard and unseen.

Unwillingly I stop and stare;

it is everything,

yet it fades before me like a memory.

It grabs my hand and gently turns me in the dance,

but the mystery ensnares me.

I fly and swim to escape the unknown,

yet the black wall finds me.

It expands towards me,

hypnotically dimensionless,

yet I keep swirling.

Inget rum är tomt

January 5, 2014

Droppformade lågor tynar ensamma bort.
Bara skuggan av en sommarbris finns kvar.
Kall viskar sången om glömskans ljuva bröst.
Ekot omringar mig med fjädernätta kedjor.
Jag vidrör stålet med trevande andhämtning.
Kedjorna skingras i en fantasifull dans.
I mörkret klingar stoftet som ett benbrott.
Ilande sken hugger efter ekot,
men lägger sig som en tunn film över den förkolnade marken.

Hålen varken finns eller har funnits.
Pauserna i visan är det enda som finns kvar av fotavtrycken;
En visa, som skingrats i mitt minne,
likt en hälsning som ingen såg;
en tom hand som aldrig dragit i en kedja, aldrig gnuggats över en eld,
aldrig smekt en kind, aldrig fångat ljuset.
Ekot av ingenting omringar mig;
Stickade gevärsskott och virkade kanonkulor,
som viner likt svalor kring mina stängda öron.
En frisk vind sveper aldrig bort mina tårar av sand.
Mitt huvud vilar aldrig på glömskans ljuva bröst.

Going to Sleep I Think I’m a Monkey

March 17, 2013

Dreaming I think I’m a god

Waking I think I’m a dog

Eating I think I’m a pig

Drinking I think I’m a lake

Brushing I think I’m a skeleton

Combing I think I’m a carrot

Cutting my nails I think I’m a rhino

Peeing I think I’m a river

Shaving I think I’m a bear

Washing I think I’m a worm

Running I think I’m a raptor

Reading I think I’m a human

Blinking I think I’m not

The Creature

February 24, 2012

There was a creature lying in my bed. It lay on its back using its tentacles to hold a book in front of its face. Just before it had gotten comfortable under the cotton cover it had gone to the toilet. It had stood there on two legs and water had flown from a pipe in the middle of the body while it hummed some strange tune. It had used its tentacles to steer the water into the toilet, then washed them in the sink while its big eyes stared into each other in the mirror. Yawning it had turned the lights off before crawling back into bed. Its feet were not particularly wide in relation to the length of the body, but without apparent effort, they sufficed in managing the upright balance of the creature. When standing straight with legs together and arms along the sides it looked like a worm with a face. And of course there was the hair. The hair grew all over the body it seemed. In some places thick and long, in some places so little it was invisible at a distance. The only place there was no hair was in the palms of its hands. The hands were really interesting. Five fingers, perfectly ordinary, each with a unique pattern, each looking like a worm wearing a helmet. Each thumb had an enormous muscle, perhaps to compensate for the fact that it was facing the wrong direction as if somewhere along the creature’s evolutionary history a five-toed animal had become a four-toed animal with a freaky, mutated toe. That’s not the weirdest part though. The whole thing is encapsulated in a leather bag, except for a few holes here and there, notably the eyes which move freely but synchronously in the middle of the face. And now this heap of skin was rolling around in my bed and suddenly started at the realization of my presence, body parts flailing wildly and erratically, skin flapping, fluids shifting internally, an involuntary burp, friction and crevices and creaking and then… silence. It all came to a halt. The universe was only black and only white at the same time, which stopped. I blinked. The blinking of the eye was, slower than a glacier, unfolding and folding like the butterfly wings of an infinite rainbow. And the soul sang. And the universe shattered.

There was a Sound – as if of a Monkey

December 21, 2011

and it told its child it was the tree of life and knowledge

and it told it that the child was its seedling

and it told it that the child would too become the tree of life and knowledge to its seedling child

and it said ask and you shall receive and the child asked

why do I have wings

because you are an angel, I added the code for bird wings in your DNA in the same spot that insects have their code for wings

why do you have hair

because I have the old code, you don’t have hair because I removed that part from your DNA

what is that thing

it is a penis, it was used to discharge waste and as a pipette for inserting a part of DNA into a corresponding hole of another human to fuse the DNA parts into a new human

why am I green

because the sunlight produces green energy from photosynthesis in your skin so you don’t need to consume plants and animals in a digestive system

why are you so small, no wait, I know the answer

humans will think you are an angel and an alien

a messenger from a supernatural dimension

a visitor from a strange world

they will think of you as different from them because you are so much like them

(they can’t even think of a supernatural or otherworldly being without it looking like a human)

and their fear will make you suffer

why did you do this to me

I did it for them

The Living Dust

March 31, 2011

It sat down silently, flowing back and forth across the surface. Uncanny, how many stars blinked just then. As if the glow was indicative of the state on the surface. The seat was relaxing and homey, unlike the branches in the dark, moving restlessly in the breeze, ancients holding dominion over the mind’s imagination. Underneath the surface lay cracked sand stone slabs, layers of orange and yellow crisscrossed by a moonlit wave pattern. The water was thick and bold, carrying the monster like a logger catching a redwood tree. It tilted its head down and closed its eyes focusing on the silence hidden in the wind. The unmoving protons were scarce, waiting like a shrouded temptation in the blissless air.  The cold could not reach the focused mind, focusing on the nothingness, on the beyond, on the lack, on the other, on the unself, on the emptiness and its relation to the all. The dream lay itself like a gauze veil with no beginnings or edges upon the tranquil thoughts. The thoughts grew out of the cloth like a forest through a spiderweb, powerful like a gorilla bicep, yet conserving the dream layer with the delicacy of a lover wanting a stroke to last forever. The pressure of the electrical storm shattered and tore the binding veil, yet could not penetrate to the other side. The dream was everywhere, dripping through, cascading, pounding inside, soaring sightlessly high above. Entangled the concentration dissolved into a jungle of radioactive wonders. The spirits of the mind manifested themselves, stealing first the shapes of the forest, then stealing the faces of life, then stealing the intentions of the heart. A memory drew a sword and shield in slow motion and faded into a mist which flapped its psyche wings and exhaled a snaky, spiral dance of fire singeing the coal, dead forest and warped into a burning rainbow orange, so orange it was white, and that white spark lit the ciel and penetrated the monster’s body with a single note, a hum, a Loooooooooooooooo. The resonance of the body flew with the air infinitely gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooos and the human listened for the echo like a newborn bat. It saw that it was two.

by Martina Hoffmann

Porcelain Box

March 6, 2011

Far from fallen trees
Blended by my wounded knees
Treading on a path of green
I shook my milk and blood

Fretful farce fared well
Upon my burning column
Swaying, whistling, breaking dances
I fell from gracious land

Fearing fasting freemen cursing
Banished by my pirate map
Swimming through the stalemate
I clutched my oily genie

Ferocious feasting from sorrow
Upon my bloody feet
Sawing, creaking, screeching clouds
I gathered in a porcelain box

Friendly faces fed slowly
Brainwashed by my wishful awe
Running indoors with scissors
I mended the distance

Freemen formed famous lines
Upon my wave of swords
Flooding, trampling, cleaning house
I woke up by the trunk

Now forgotten, the Glen Dance of the Dance Glen

Swedish Hymn “Den blomstertid nu kommer” English Translation

February 21, 2011

It’s the most well-known hymn in Sweden, because children sing it when school’s out for the summer each year. It’s the same in Finland, although I don’t know the Finnish lyrics. I also found older versions of the hymn, which are found below. But first, the perhaps most popular, modern version of the song.

Den blomstertid nu kommer
med lust och fägring stor
Nu nalkas ljuva sommar
då gräs och gröda gror
Med blid och lidlig värma
till allt som varit dött
Sig solens strålar närma
och allt blir återfött


The Great Ape Family Album Slideshow

February 17, 2011

Don’t believe in evolution? Watch this slide-show.


Drip Drop

December 1, 2010

in the city in the sea
the tears had painted
a water-colour mural
a nano-deluge of hope
in the labyrinth of blood
eroded by acid rain
and eternal waves of battle
and pissed on by nature
it sailed aimlessly down
a waterfall of pain
into the bottomless cylinder

in the silent darkness
one became two
one went away
two stayed behind
all three held hands
in a six-arm chain
with two dozen locks
the key is the thumb
making ape art

the maelstrom of hope
tore through space
sharper than light
an infinite cyclone
with an eye for details

a path
a hero
a minotaur
a sword
a string

a mule
a dragon
a lion
a child

a drip drop in a well in a square

Robert Venosa Buddha

The Legend of Hidriya

November 12, 2010

The elks tell the story of the elk bull Hidriya, the thunder God. When he came of age, his mother Ilka, the Goddess of Wisdom, licked a tree until it was the shape of a great crown and put it on his head. Throughout the summer Hidriya chased the cows and paraded around with his great crown. It was the most impressive crown they’d ever seen and they granted him the right to impregnate them. After a while Hidriya had covered almost all the cows in the great forest and thought himself the greatest elk that ever lived. Ilka then came to him and saw all the cows carrying calves. What’s the meaning of this, she demanded and thought she’d take her son down a peg or two. She saw him at the pond where he stood watching his own reflection and asked if she could behold her beautiful son a bit closer. Hidriya bowed down to Ilka so she could admire the crown much closer and then she licked the crown and it disappeared. So, the whole of the winter, Hidriya walks alone in the cold and as he gets weaker and thinner his pride melts away. When spring comes, he returns to his mother asked her forgiveness for his behaviour, whereupon she blesses his head with a new crown, even grander than the year before. His mother explained that he’d get a new crown each summer, but she’d take it away again in the winter so he wouldn’t forget where it came from and that this would repeat itself until the day he died, and then his children would do the same, and their children.

In their society still today, when the young bulls and heifers come of age, they have a festival which starts with the retelling of this story. Then the young bulls dance a ritualistic dance, where they put on tree branches on their heads and all the females stand in a circle and admire and encourage the young bulls. At the end of the dance their branches are taken away by their mothers and they’re  kicked out of the village. They aren’t allowed back before the mothers accept their pledge of allegiance to the village, which includes reciting a line that goes like this: “I was given the gift of life from my mother, now I will pass that gift onto my lover and cherish her”. The fathers whisper it to them before the ritual starts. Once the mothers have given their approval, each young bull is let loose to find himself a heifer.

My Last Words

October 15, 2010

– Stand still!

My pulse disobeyed. The wonders accompanying famine rushed towards my attention, flowing from drops hidden on the underside of grey rocks left forgotten in fields of emerald bliss, a crushing water fall of chilling reality came down over my corneas and made the soldiers fade.

– Fire!

The water proved a flimsy attempt at shielding my life force from shattering. The bullets knocked politely but entered unaware of the available  entrances and shredded my muscles into a glitter storm of razor-sharp needle-pin-tip-thin fibers. The welled-up blood burst out through its confines with a somber laughter that died when the drops glanced at the cold, dead stone floor and became nauseously nostalgic about leaving the hearth. The nerves screamed bloody murder as their tight-fisted bond tore in violent and frantic vibrations. The echo of the hollow skeletal sound pulsating around the bone marrow lasted an eternity as my last thought evaporated and became flesh.

– Feed him to the pigs.

– What pigs?

– The children, you moron!

Om att äga och va gla

September 28, 2010

Sade till mig:

– Du får inte sitta här, det här är en restaurang.

Sade jag:

– Oj, ursäkta, förlåt, jag visste inte, jag trodde det var en helt vanlig sten, jag hade ingen aning om att det var din sten, jag visste inte ens att, men ok, jag förstår, det var bara, jag trodde den här stenen var skapad av kvantfluktuationer som bildat kvarkat som format protoner som tryckts ihop av gravitationen i stjärnor och bildat kiselatomer som spritts i universum,  samlats av gravitation till planeter och smält av värmen från trycket och runnit tills den stelnat och knoppats av till en liten sten, men det är alltså du som har skapat den här stenen, det är din sten, du äger den här stenen, det är din arbetsinsats, din svett, dina tårar, ur ditt blod varde gjutet denna helgedom, en helig sten väsensskild all natur ty du är dess allsmäktige skapare och förvaltare och inget ska komma mellan dig och din sten?

Sade till mig:

– Nä, men det här är faktiskt en restaurang.

Sade jag:

– Oj, jaha, attans, det såg jag inte, jag sitter alltså i vägen här, vilken tabbe, mitt på den här stenen kan jag ju inte vila mina ben, hur skulle det se ut, en människa mitt framför en restaurang, vilken hädelse, vilken vanära, vilken skam för dig och ditt företag. Inte ditt företag? Du bara jobbar här. Ja, ack, vilken girig människa jag är som tar mig rättigheter och sätter mig ner på jorden vi alla är en del av, vilken befläckelse, vilken styggelse, jag ber så hemskt mycket om ursäkt att jag förhindrar din strävan efter pengar och rikedom, hur vågar jag stå i vägen för din giriga kamp för överlevnad på andras bekostnad, inte ska jag sitta här och förneka dig din rätt att ta pengar från människor och ge dom till din arbetsgivare. Att gratis mat skulle vara en mänsklig rättighet är ju helt befängt, det ska såklart kosta, och göda de rika, du förtjänar förstås att ta pengar från andra, naturligtvis ska jag lämna er verksamhet åt sin utsugning, ni behöver verkligen mer pengar era fattiga stackare, du har knappt nån täckning för att kunna läsa alla modebloggarna du följer med din snart fyra månader gamla iPhone.

Sade till mig:

– Kan du gå härifrån nu eller?

Sade jag:

– O ja, goda ängel, din givmildhet, en sällan skådad medmänsklighet, har givit mitt hjärta nytt hopp och en aldrig tidigare upplevd värme, en själaglad vandrare tar jag med mig din ömsinthet och din kärlek till jorden och dess invånare, den kommer hålla mig vid liv mången ensam och kaller natt. Jag är inte bitter!

On the Road to Utopia

September 18, 2010

On the day I was born, I was put on a dusty road. People passed me by in a steady stream, I asked what they where doing.

– I’m writing a letter to parliament.

– Why?

– Because… dey took er jobs!

– Who?

– Dem dam policeticians. It’s like dem just woke up an smelled de roses.

– What roses?

– Sa metaphor. Ashley, I should make em dat analogy instead. Imagine dem monkeys buildin a pile o rubble, denn dis guy say he know ta fix’em pile n stars workin n all and makem piles look nice n shiny, but is all stupid coz de pile is in a swamp. Dats politics!

I stood up and started walking with the others. I wasn’t gonna go the fool’s errands and become a politician. I was gonna do something useful with my life. I didn’t have any concepts of love, gender, sex, children but pheromones tickling my nose turned my head to a beautiful piece of ass, with whom I had a baby. I think God gave us the baby. I told the baby to learn to walk.

– Why?

– So you can walk with us.

– Where are you going?

– I don’t know, but I’m gonna build bicycles on the way so we can get there faster.

– Ok.

My child grew up to be a professor of nutrition. One day it asked me what I was eating.

– It’s a banana.

– You know you are what you eat?

– I’m a banana?

– Part of the banana will become part of you. Parts of the banana will even become part of your actions as it fuels your motions through space.

– So, my walking is a banana?

– Yes, and your being is a banana. And your poo is the remains of a banana.

– That makes my poo the remains of my being.

– I just saying you don’t know what you’re made of, you don’t know what the banana is made of and you still turn the banana into you.

– You’re talks…. nuts!

– You’re a soulless, complex composite of 100 000 000 000 000 000 000s of atoms.

– You think too much. Stop thinking, get a hair-cut and a real job.

– You don’t even know what you’re made of, you don’t understand where I came from and you have no idea of where this path we’re all walking on is taking us. Maybe you should stop working and start questioning.

– Look, mister-know-it-all, where would we be if everybody just stopped?

– Here?

The Winner of the Rat Race will not be announced in the next blog post.

The Centaur and the Unicorn

August 15, 2010
Inwards staying the slap of radiance emanating from the downtrodden unicorn, outwards raising the hand of the behorned centaur, fusing Moses on the border of these two unrealities, hammering, shaping, forging the words of the Metatron, a crocodile God to devour our rock in a made-up dimension where the force of creation is the coal sword God-bane of electrochemical metaphors, the unliving thoughts of dead life shaping the living thoughts of the undead minds in a fusion of time beyond godlessness. Where blood runs thick and hardens, the rock trembles and shakes the waters, the atmospheres, the near-empty space, pulsating differences out of our world, a harmony of undefinability originating in a point within, on the border of its non-existence, the shore to the source of the without, a beached whale delusion of creation.


June 23, 2010

I feel… and that’s a strange thing.

Is it a thing?

Is it a stranger?

I think… That’s even stranger.

A companion from much further away.

Does he come from beyond?

Can a line really be drawn to the beyond?

Can the distance in me be measured?

I wonder… That’s recursive.

I want to snap.

I don’t know why.

The recursiveness suggests an endless loop.

There is no beyond.

There is no snap.

There is nothing.

No thing is there.

Because the thing cannot be placed.

It is everywhere.

Is it a feeling?

Is it not here, with me?

Who am I?

This is not the snap.

There is no flipside.

Here is the flipside.

But it’s not me.

The feeling is…



Too many certainties block the stranger.

Can he break through the wall?

There is no wall.

I am the wall.

There is nothing underneath.

There is nothing above.

I’m just a block.

A stone in the path to nowhere.

There is no path.

The way is a wave.

It flows nowhere.

The flow cannot snap.

The feeling cannot stop.

Why do I think?

Where does it lead me?

There is no goal.

Yet the path is ever leading.

To nothingness.

While I live I travel.

It’s that simple?

On and off.

Is there a switch?

The flow is ever switching.

The switch is not on and off.

The switch is more or less.

Yet I believe in death.

I believe in an end.

But why, if there is no start?

I don’t remember my start.

Doesn’t mean there isn’t one.

I won’t remember my end.

Or will I?

Is it just the delusion of time that’s confusing me?

Am I never, but only here?

I’m just removing definitions one by one.

What is left?


Why not remove that too?

It is empty without all contextual definitions.

I am empty.

That’s not helping.

There has to be something.

No, that’s just a figure of speech.

A metaphor, a word, a metaphysical road sign.

Pointing out the road.

But the road is everything.

It is all directions.

It leads nowhere and everywhere.

I’m not getting anywhere.

My thoughts are strange.

They are alien to my road map.

Where is the real road?

Why am I stuck with only the map?

I guess that’s the answer.

Accept the map.

Because if you study it close enough…

You see the world.

The map will change.

The roads be redrawn.

The waterfalls misplaced.

It will crumble into dust.

Copies of it will survive.

Different, but similar.

But the world is constant.

Yet I am not content.

I wish to see the world with my own eyes.

Hope is my compass.

It will not die before me.

It will die with me.

All these people.

All these maps.

They’re flying them wherever they go.

Is hope the problem?

Is hoping being?

Still more redundant definitions.

I’m tired of this loop.

Show me reality.

Is it death?

Is reality empty?

I do not wish for emptiness.

Maybe I cannot both have the cake and eat it.

Maybe that’s just a figure of speech.

Will this ever end?

Life is but a dream within an eternal night’s sleep.

Waking up is not an option.

Reality is not the morning.

The map of dreams is all I am.

The feeling is different.

The alien thoughts have become mine.

The map of dreams is flowing.

Maybe I should just go with it.

But to what end?

Living, hoping, I need a purpose.

But there is none.

It’s just a dream.

Now I dream of dreams.

Reality is beyond me.

I feel trapped.

A pointless feeling, cuz I will never see the real world.

My thoughts are exhausted.

They lead no further.

What to do?

I’ll keep hoping, in vain.


I’ll live without hope.

Just go with the flow.

It seems impossible.

I want further insights.

Pointless insights.

No, I will keep hoping for that one last insight.

I’ll keep searching for the waterfall.

Not on the map.

I want to bathe in the real water.

Maybe waking up is possible.

Not dying.

Really living.

The mind dissolves.

When the dream snaps.

The glass shatters.

The flood comes pouring in.

I dream of it being bright.

Post Scriptum (The morning after actually)

Śūnyatā is the emptiness, the real reality. No, Buddha got this wrong, because the metaphysical world is not the real world. The metaphysical world has no “essential, enduring identity” and deconstructed it is simply empty. The real world though, is beyond us. At best we can glimpse at in when our minds are perfectly in tune with the flow of the universe, but even that might be a fantasy.  The vajra, the thunderbolt and diamond, would be that union between body and mind or universe and mind or body and universe or mind and God or whichever delusion one prefers in this relationship. The infinite spectrum of the white, transparent diamond is the filter through which transcendence forms the metaphysical experience out of the physical electrons. Though, if electricity is thought, then what is magnetism, the only thing that can bend electricity? Actually, a iron rod can lead electricity wherever it points too. And not to mention the quarks that make up it all. And where does that leave photons, the infinitely(!!!) small parts of the electromagnetic wave we call the universe? It’s nice to think though, that when the thunder strikes the ground (normally lightning occurs higher up in the atmosphere where we can’t see it) that’s the thought of mother earth communicating with its body. And how can we know if the earth is conscious or not? If it is, it will use its body to form words communicating to us or to other planets that it is a thinking being and since we are its body and we form words… of course, ultimately our language limits our understanding and the meaning of words like conscious seem like metaphors, just like everything is in the mind. I would like to feel the diamond bolt rush through me, not in a sexual way, just mentally, although it seems like a typical phallic idea and I still dislike the fact that I’m a male philosopher, because even though that’s just a construction it potentially reduces all my efforts to something very base in human nature. After all, I can’t rid myself of the thought that I am DNA, that in my body there are 1 000 000 000 000 copies of one single, huge molecule (3 000 000 000 base pairs (like e.g. C5H5N5-C5H6N2O2, imagine having 1 500 000 000 000 000 000 000 of those) long) created from half my mother’s molecule and half my father’s molecule, with a few tiny mutations.


P.P.S. (Written the night after the morning)

The phenomenal world (the perception) and the noumenal world (Nirvana/Plato’s idea world) are not real. Maya, the material reality (but not as we perceive it) is real. The mind is only a creation of our language, just like soul and angels and desires. This is our inadequate language’s way of describing what is happening inside the body. Language is the transcendence between inside and outside, between me and the 6.8 billion clones, between me and God, between all two-folds of duality. Language is responsible for the discrepancy, the rift, for duality at all, for inconsistency, for similarity, for the idea of 1, 2 and 0, language is responsible for everything. Look in the mirror and you see a monkey. There is no mind world circling the head like a pink cloud. The cloud illusion is just a reiteration of the same oneness going round and round in your head, over and over, in a myriad of ways, forming more words and thoughts and connections than you can save on your neurochemical hard drive. Look at the monkey. Why not accept it as it is? All the words we use, like thinking, being, existing, experiences, feeling, et cetera are just novel noumena for what we already see clearly in the mirror, that there is a monkey, it does exist, it does think, we know this. The language (or thought) is created only when something has to be communicated between two people, so the transcendence is created by and/or creates duality at the same time. That’s the thing about transcendence, it does not play by the rules. Anyway, stop whatever you’re doing, I mean why build a huge fantasy language just to try to understand being when we’re already being?


An Arbitrary Theory of Creation

June 15, 2010

All definitions are arbitrary but let’s, for the sake of argument, invent a word and let’s call it brème. The brème is only indirectly related to the knowledge of a person and/or its culture; it is only dependent on the existence of the mind-language and the knowledge of the relationship between physical objects and not the knowledge of the physical objects; i.e. it doesn’t matter if you have a definition of a computer or a fork, as long as you can define their relation to an apple. Brème in this case I define as the knowledge of the metaphysical world and its relation to the material world and by extension knowledge of the physical world as it is viewed by contrast of the metaphysical world. Fortunately, brème is a construct of the physical world since the metaphysical world is a delusion, not an illusion. We can do with brème like all other delusions, keep them and strike them out like Derrida, because while the physical world remains the same and real, our delusion is arbitrary, because of an undefinable principle of the physical world. It is not unknown, we know that it says that 1=2=infinity, but we don’t understand it because our mind-language (langue) can not define it without contradictions and paradoxes. We can call this undefinable principle God, but we can just as well call it flubbydiboo, it means nothing – actually it defines the concept of nothing to be used in the metaphysical world of our minds since it embodies the concept of the unknowable and knowledge=mind, so the opposite of knowledge which the undefinable principle by contrast defines, is the opposite of the mind, usually called God, but more appropriately called reality.

The idea of constant creation says that 1 and all are the same and that the metaphysical universe was created once, everywhere and all the time. The mind is a product of the constant motion of he body. The constant motion of the electromagnetic wave, the universe, forms local maxima perceived as atoms and bodies. Contrary to popular delusion, there is no future, nor past, nor present. The mind is created a few milliseconds after the body experiences what the mind believes it experiences. The mind looks backwards through moments of slightly delayed presents and deduced from them the idea of the past and when defining the past by drawing a line backwards, it can trace the same line the other way, into the future and thus create the future in its mind as well. It is not that the eternal soul is created by a God and is connected to, encased in or fused with a physical body. Instead the body creates the perception of continuity by letting the mind look back and draw the arbitrary line and call that line ego under the delusion cogito ergo sum. For each moment the past perception dies and a new experience of the mind is created. The new experience of the mind has access to memories, which are electrochemical imprint in the brain caused by previous body-experiences (not mind-experiences) and therefore each new day you wake up and call yourself the same person although clearly your mind has a new unique experience every moment of your life, it never becomes a younger mind and it is never an older mind than itself, it is always a new mind.

Time is a delusion of the mind. To understand delusion, imagine you’re walking in a desert, you got no water and you start to hallucinate that there is an oasis. In fact there is only sand, but in your mind there is an oasis, this is an illusion. A delusion on the other hand is when you see an oasis, and you drink the water and it refreshes you and you can continue onwards through the desert, but your definition of what happened, of what you drank and what it did to your body might not be an accurate description of the world. It is a practical definition of the world, a simplified version of the universe that can fit inside your brain which is tiny compared to the universe and needs to use generalizations and deductions to make sense of all the information that surrounds it. Your generalized understanding works well in familiar situations with familiar objects, like drinking water, but the further away from your normal understanding you get, like understanding quarks and black holes, the more inaccurate your understanding becomes. It is flawed already with water, but the flaw is so little that is has little practical impact on you and can therefore be disregarded and you’re misled to think you understand water, because you’ve never yet failed to deal with water, but think about it, do you really understand why H2O has such surface tension? In actuality, nobody knows the nature of water. But we are finite and therefore need to/do believe that we know.

(To be specific, we don’t know that the undefinable is a single principle. That’s the thing about the undefinable. To us unknowers, 1 unknown = an unknown number of unknowns. So it might be a  ‘principle of unknowing’, but it might just as well be ‘a fermented angel in the bark of a goat’s shadow’s reflection that’s gone a bit stale’.)


April 11, 2010

The Punishment of Niobe

The behorned arrow pierced the flesh of Antalus, the hero, bringing him to his knees. His loving brother Rea stumbled to his side when struck in the shoulder and bled to death grabbing the gaping wounds of them both. Lume and Ume scouted the tree line for the assassin. Keen-eyed Ume gave up a yelp as an arrow burst open his larynx and Lume turned to face him and fell with the feathers protruding his powerful back. Swift-paced Frey mounted his horse and rode for the City of Light as his six remaining brothers drew their weapons. Bold Leonidas with his grim visage gave a shout, but the forest only rewarded him with an arrow to the heart of his younger brother Gorm stilling clasping his flute. Leonidas charged the invisible foe followed by the eldest brother Jorgmund thrusting his spear towards the unknown. Trampling the bushes Yme fell down bleeding from the foot, Lyme stayed by his side when the spear returned and caught Lyme and Yme in an eternal embrace nailing them to the trunk of a tree. Leonidas and Jorgmund thrashed the woodland furiously with their sharp steel when behind them Tyr was sucked into the tree tops and out of sight. The youngest of the eleven brothers, Ethos, watched the mutilated bloody corpse of Tyr drop onto the ground next to him, he watched his brethren Leonidas and Jorgmund tear the forest apart, he watched them both transform, neither looked like his brother anymore, their faces and bodies changed shape and colour and they turned to face each other. Ethos watched them stick each other through while still trying to shape his lips to shout. The emptiness in their eyes was followed by a dark silence suffocating all sounds of the forest. Then the wind started howling, it caught Ethos clothing and blew him out of the forest. He couldn’t find the horses and ran home to the City of Light. On his way he passed swift-paced Frey and his horse, both cleft in half lying divided on either side of the road. Ethos didn’t stop to see if it really was his brother, he kept his muddled focus on the road and ran as hard as he could with water-filled sight.

The city of Light was in mourning. The eldest of the Niobid sisters, Avenna, was found dead in her bed. Her ten sisters were kneeling by her death bed when part of the roof caved in and struck the fair Lydia’s head into a mash of pulp on the floor. Ylva, the second eldest, led her sisters out to the city streets in search of the culprit. Behind her hawk-eyed Freya and her twin sister Fyr the archeress sat down on the cobblestones in bewilderment. The caring Rowenna tended to them when a horn-clad arrow screeched through the thick, misty air and burrowed itself in her neck. The twins lay down on the ground, turned a pale green and seized to breathe. Another arrow cut through the silent terror and dug deep in the womb of wise Athena who had not yet reacted. Ylva took the hand of the youngest sister, Embla, and ran across the market place to hide from the arrows, followed by Gina, the gifted. Chavah och Havah, who had painted the Archelios of the Ceil, stood firm next to their fallen sisters and spied along the houses for the murderer. No people could be seen anywhere. The citizens had disappeared. The house nearest to them exploded and an impossible flame engulfed them both leaving only the charred corpses of six sisters in the middle of the streets. Embla tightened her grip in Ylva’s hand. They hid behind a stone wall together with Gina, who fell into a trance and sank onto the floor. Blackness filled her eyes and her mouth opened. Ylva shook her and called her name and when she spoke an arrow shot from her tongue and pierced the left eye and skull of the elder sister. Embla watched Ylva melt onto the ground and Gina, before collapsing dead on the stone floor, spoke thus through the blackness of the gape:

“I am your God unto eternity. I am the master of your soul. I am the judge of your being. I have sentenced vain Niobe to watch her husband die, die from sorrow over the death of all his twenty-two children. Disdainful, scornful Niobe! Neither parent knows the truth. She will cry until there is no more water in her wretched body and be swept away to her origin, where her stone-dry body will be placed by Atlas on his shoulder and whence she will deservedly mourn the loss of her family forever. You and your brother, poor children, will be watched by Apollo and Artemis… as you rebuild the City of Light.”

An earthquke tore down all the walls in the city and Embla watched through the mist of damned Niobe’s waters as Ethos ran towards the city, to her, to tell her.