schiz ٠ o ٠ the ٠ mi ٠ a

king nothing

Wed, 17 Mar 2010 21:42:00 +0200

i was about 12 years old when i decided to become the most intelligent person on the whole planet. i knew the trick: doing nothing. thinking nothing. not thinking. thinking: “no, i won’t think”. the key was accumulation; not inheritance. you rarely came across issues worth thinking about in this life. just a little patience, and everything went away. every pain. every joy. every seemingly lasting moment. everything. they went away. you just had to learn to be a little patient —and that i did. i stopped reacting to worldly affairs; and since there was nothing but wordly affairs in this world, i practically. just. stopped.

i started storing up my intelligence. maybe i could find a reason then, and a will to live based on that reason, when i gathered the necessary amount —how much that may be. people were draining their precious brain energy by contemplating about useless things. the meaning of life —like there was one, and you could find it even if there were. death. sports. the weather. the traffic. the annoying neighbour. the late bus. the early bus. the on-time bus. and cars with their leather chairs and houses with their mortgages and friends with their constant need for attention and men with their egos and women with their boobs… …well actually, boobs are okay i guess. they don’t use up much energy to think about. their image is kinda hardwired into the brain. in fact, they are the manifestation of a resting brain: it’s exactly when you are not thinking that they pop up in your head. i think about them all the time! well, not think about them… but i digress.

like i said, i was 12 and i had a plan. with a few ground rules: first rule was to not think about the plan. ever. i was not to think about how on earth i was gonna be able to not think about things. that’s thinking too, you know. so it was forbidden to think about it. or anything else for that matter. that was the first rule. second rule was… well, there was no second rule because i couldn’t think of anything. no: i didn’t think of anything. on purpose. yeah. also, i’m not sure about the third rule. it was something about boobs though, i think. no, i dont thi… whatever.

i owe my cerebral vigor to my cognitive inertia. you may not see it, ‘cause like i said, i don’t use it. i’m waiting for my time.

Not a mistake

Sat, 17 Oct 2009 00:00:00 +0300

Heaven save me from growing wise!
And I will mumble the same to my last turn:
Heaven save me from growing wise!
—Knut Hamsun

There was a writing here.
About a man who lost his way
and realized that:
he was just happier like that.
He never returned home.
There was a writing here,
about a great man: a hero.
Such a great writing it was.
It was right here.
It was full of wisdom.

I deleted it.

[ You can thank me later ]

The absolute truth

Thu, 08 Oct 2009 00:00:00 +0300

The most terrifying idea imaginable, for me, is meeting a person one day, who is always right about everything. Not someone who thinks s/he is always right about everything. That’s common, and with the right attitude, very manageable. What I fear the most is to one day meeting a person who is actually really always right about everything.

Where will i run to then? Where can i hide?

The outlaw torn

Sat, 03 Oct 2009 00:00:00 +0300

losing someone to death
and waiting for a replacement that never comes

losing someone to death or
to an irreparable separation or
to a reparable one you don’t want to repair or
you don’t know how to repair or
you aren’t sure if it would make a difference to repair

[ no: it always makes a difference.
it’s just that the difference is never
the difference you expect it to be
or the one you hope to see ]

I search the outside, search inside
To take back what you left me
I know I’ll always burn to be
The one who seeks : so I may find
And now I wait my whole lifetime
Time was never on my side
So on I wait my whole lifetime

losing someone to it
and waiting for a replacement that never comes
so?

i really hate this blog.

Heaven is God letting you stay dead. Hell is reincarnation.

Sun, 27 Sep 2009 00:00:00 +0300

if it’s true that intellect is torture
when you are aware of things, you suffer
and
the more you know, the less you believe
in yourself, in others…
in anything, really
then today’s intellectuals
must be the sinners of the past

[ because, you see,
some say that Heaven is for eternity — but Hell is not
you do go to Hell — but you eventually get out
for God is a compassionate chap
and he is generous when it comes to mercy
yet parsimonious when it comes to wrath ]

eternity can mean only one thing:
not playing the game anymore
not rolling the dice again
eternity is not: living for ever
eternity is: not living at all
| Heaven is God letting you stay dead.
| Hell is reincarnation.
if you are alive today,
it’s your fault.

so, really,
stop whining.
please.

Trouble everyday. every. fucking. day.

Thu, 17 Sep 2009 00:00:00 +0300

give me something to worry about,
and i’ll be in your debt for ever.
give me something to sulk over
something worth to sigh about

and so on and so on.
i really don’t wanna write this one, so maybe i’ll write another:

an epitome of rightfulness
when all we needed was to be wrong

etc.

crap.
just more crap. everytime.
more uninspired clichés, and
more constipated potentials realized, and
insects, leeches and all types of disgusting wildlings.
all the time.
every. fucking. time.
just when you feel you’re this close to an epiphany
and
just when you feel you’re this close to a holy sanity
—whatever that is—
it turns out to be:
just more crap. everytime.
more uninspired clichés, and
more constipated potentials realized.
insects, leeches’n’all kinds of disgusting wildlings.
all the time.
every.
fucking.
time.

This is not about love

Sat, 05 Sep 2009 00:00:00 +0300

[ for Z. ]

this is about statistics. so pure: it transforms everything with a touch so slight that it moves hardly anything. sorry, but
this is about you, what was it: reaching out for something you’ve got to feel / while clutching to what you had thought that was real. and this, this!
this is about the myriad ways of falling in love with someone.
but,
you don’t really fall in love with someone. you just fall in love while she stands there:
at the right place.at the right time.
surely only momentarily: one day,anyday,you just fall out of it while she merely stands there:
at someplace.anyplace.at the wrong time.
this is not about love. coz i’m not in love.
this is about possibilities which we are told that are so rare, yet happens to
virtually everyone.
virtually everyone, falls in love with someone.

this is about that day. and that piercing sun.

A woman under the influence

Wed, 02 Sep 2009 00:00:00 +0300

you shouldn’t have lied. you shouldn’t have told the truth either. you should’ve just kept silent. you didn’t,
and grinded us all down with your precious truth.

you should’ve known. words have no chance but to hurt: you shouldn’t have expected otherwise. you did,
and grinded us all down with your conceited confessions.

how to correct a mistake? you don’t: you can’t: you just cover it up. but you didn’t want to do this neither, couldn’t lower yourself, no.
you grinded us all down with your pride instead.

you shouldn’t have. it happened. (sh)it happens. i love(d) you despite all these things. i just can’t bring myself to forgive.

What it means to rule an empire II

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 00:00:00 +0300

miracles do happen. that’s why we have a name for them. i have a firm, if unfounded, belief that each and every thing we have a name for, has to exist somehow. they may have qualities unlike we attribute to them; forms different from what we expect… but they exist in some way or the other. or that, merely by way of naming, we blow life into a new being without even knowing it. words have that power. that’s what i believe.

that is why i’ve always been afraid of ghosts: because they should exist, even if they are not semi-transparent aerial bed sheets; or yetis, even if they are not, unfortunately, overgrown anthropomorphic beasts covered in fur, with a bad habit of leaving without a proper goodbye. miracles do happen. so as i finally penetrate the thick wall of fog and enter this godforsaken desert town, i feel relieved, but not surprised in any way. no. not surprised. it’s a miracle, i know, get over it.

What it means to rule an empire I

Sat, 27 Jun 2009 00:00:00 +0300

i’m walking beneath a ruthless sun. indifferent towards me, the rats, and towards the snakes and towards the spiders with pitch black velvet furs, hiding behind small rocks, waiting for their time. towards the creatures of running sand. and the creatures of decaying earth. indifferent towards all of us; still, we owe our lives to its distant existence. our petty lives: these pieces of time; filled with misery rooted in the joys of others and hatred rooted in the fortune of them. reasons rooted in stupidity, and even some benevolence, rooted in pure cruelty. pieces of time noone knows what to do with.

i’m walking towards a mirage. it looks just like a village once i’ve seen: a small group of tiny trees buried deep in a fog of sand, a few buildings, a few people, tired, sitting. i’m tired too, but still moving anyway: towards a mirage that looks just like the real thing; but when you can never reach it, does it really matter? i hope it’s real, and i hope i can reach it somehow… but hope is just the simplest form of procrastination. you hope for something better; you hope that you find a water well behind that dune or see a caravan on the horizon… just to postpone facing the truth you wouldn’t like to face: there’s no water and there’s no caravan. hell, there isn’t even a horizon. so, i just walk. towards a mirage… or a real desert town. i don’t know. it doesn’t matter. i just, walk.

anoise, severe

Thu, 07 May 2009 00:00:00 +0300

therewillbeasilence
a silence thatyou’vesoanxiouslywaited,
youwon’t havetheguts to faceit.

(and
a syncopatedrhythm.maybe.
~~or a~~ but a
rhythm-with-noaudible-color)
thatlinemyfriend,wassucha
cliché

whateverthough:
i’llprepare you foryourlastandlongestjourney
buicannotguarantee evena

evena mildlyinteresting view.

TheIdea.ofsilencing yourinnerself, bytheway
to
hearwhatyourstalker hastosay,
came to me while i was takingashower
and havingdreams ofGrandéur.
~~and~~ but
idon’tfind any supernaturalsignificance inthis

event.
norshouldyou.

Heaven is a promise of uninterrupted solitude

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 00:00:00 +0300

They walked towards the top of the hill and soon enough, disappeared behind it. She stays and watches. She won’t go yet, no, she’s not ready. Sky is filled with the sound of sirens and myriad of other machinery. You can almost smell the fire, even all the way up here. You can almost smell the flames the city is somehow joyfully burning in. An ominous humming sound is there too. Never stopping, never increasing its volume and never decreasing it.
It’s. just. always. there.
What are they doing out there, she wonders. Killing each other? Making love to each other?

Both?

If you would like to know, she doesn’t wanna find out yet. It’s not that she wasn’t ready to go with them; it’s just that she isn’t ready to care about what that means. Or about what is the scenery like from the top of the hill. The only high enough hill of the city to give you a complete view of it. This city she was born in. Grew up in. Fell in love, even. Twice. But those are merely distant memories now. Very distant. She listens to the humming sound. It’s impossible not to, anyway. She looks at the pistol in her hands, which once belonged to a friend she much loved. It has three bullets in it, but that’s not important, because she won’t use it. No. She’s not ready. Heaven is a promise of uninterrupted solitude, she mumbles to herself. I hope God is faithful to his words.

Perpetual opprobrium is the only way to keep people in line

Sun, 26 Apr 2009 07:00:00 +0300

J: I know, I know
B: Then why are you tellin’ me that you “don’t wanna torture people anymore”?
J: I’m just tired man, you know.
B: Tired? What do you mean “tired”? This is not a game Joseph, this is our responsibility to our…
J: …to our community, I know, I know, I’m aware of that. It’s just…
B: Just what?
J: It’s just that… I’m tired of torturing people just because they want me to do it, you know. I want to torture people because I like it. I used to love my job man, love it! The smell of blood, the screams, the shiny, state-of-the-art equipment… it was so exciting back then. It’s all but a routine now. There’s no creativity in it. No space to express myself. Just yesterday, they cut a tenth of my salary and for what? Because I used a different method and skipped a few steps of the official torturing protocol. This fucking bureaucracy! What if I used a hand-made pliers instead of the ones the Central give us? Fucking infidels are gonna die one way or the other, no?
B: You know the answer to that, Joseph. We may be harsh, but we are fair. We have to be. What if everyone asked for “the new method” for their relatives or something? We have to make sure that everyone gets the same treatment no matter who that maybe. No exceptions. You know all of this; you were the first in your class, what happened to you?
J: I lost my edge man, I don’t have it anymore, I just lost it. Even the captives make fun of me. They say that I’m gone soft, that I can’t give them the torture they need properly; greedy fucking bastards. Nothing ever satisfies them anymore. It’s like a fucking porn set out there! They just yell “harder, harder!” no matter how hard I whip them and I can’t even tell if they’re really not getting enough or if they’re just faking it just to get on my nerves. Just transfer me, okay?
B: I see. Okay, Joseph, I’ll see what I can do for you. Do you have a particular department in your mind?
J: Ehm, I was thinking PCTS.
B: PCTS?
J: Yeah, Central Bureau of Preemptive Cerebral Torture Studies
B: I know what PCTS stands for Joseph. What I don’t know is how can you think that a man of field-work like you can survive in such a competitive academic environment.
J: Well, I studied Lacan back when I was a sophomore student; I think I can handle it.
B: Lacan? Lacan was a douche-bag. They don’t use his ideas anymore. It’s been centuries. Get over it.
J: I know, I know, I just meant that I have an educational basis to build upon, man. I’m a quick learner.
B: Pfff. Okay, Joseph, fine. I’ll prepare the papers. You have two weeks until all the procedures are done. Have some rest, okay?
J: Okay, thanks, man.
B: And don’t forget: perpetual opprobrium is the only way to keep people in line.
J: I know, you already said that in the title.
B: Oh, right, sorry.

Profanity is the trademark of all saints

Fri, 24 Apr 2009 17:00:00 +0300

Nothing-ness is the ultimate product of religion. Produced by a sheer number of gears working under the hood, it hides the simple axioms of creative force from the eye by the way of multiplying them endlessly in an inwards-looking kaleidoscope of mirrors. It is the culmination of an ontological vector, sharpened to a point where the mechanisms that enable it appear to vanish. This point is where the magic of modern day church kicks in: banal exploitation through bureaucracy becomes alchemic — substance dissolves into air, mass turns to light, accumulated wealth turns into culture. Suddenly men without wings start to fly before your eyes… and you may ask yourself: well, how the fuck did i get here?

In this sense, God as we know it does not exist. It is only a state of mind; a diluted clone of unalloyed substance. This level of perspicacity, in return, is the ultimate proof that God as we don’t know it yet, should exist.