SOUL STRING

HOLY FUCKING SHIT!!!!!!!! THE BRAIN IS ON FIRE!!!! I'M IGNITED DANGDAMMIT, TAKE A CORILLLIAN PHOTOGRAPH OF THE SEISMIC ACTIVITY IN MY HEAD!!!!!

WEW! I haven't felt this JOLT in a while and DAMN when it comes it's fucking BLAM! KA BLAEEM!!!! "BOOM BIG BADA BOOOOOOOOM!!!"

I tell ya, conversations about string theory and the infinite mathematical possibilities of alternate universes should really be held under recording device and camera all the time, but SHIT!!! You never know WHEN they're gonna happen, WHERE they're gonna happen, and WHO they're gonna happen with!!

TOTALLY UNEXPECTED!! random stranger and I've found a new One of us!!!!!!! WOOOOOMEGA.

I'm just waiting for the jets to cool down in my ears before trying to explain the logistic implications of just what was just discussed between two absolute nutcases.

random spurts EVERYTHING IS NOTHING, IT IS CONNECTED, IT IIIIISS FUCKING CONNECTED, the shivers on me arms mate, goosebumps, the paranormal and all the green aliens are bouncing around in my head. pandora's box crumbled open and a whole mess of mushrooms fell out but I don't know if I have the lucid capacity to describe even one of the mushrooms. Dammit why can't a laptop be there when you Actually need it?!!!!!

ok so back to my one of my old theories about re-encarnation. The theory that there are continual and overlapping souls all over the universe. You've got one in you. I've got one in me. Everyone that ever was and ever will be. These souls, they aren't singular units of conscious matter that begin and end with just you. YOU are just a vessel for them. EACH soul has a specific string, with a specific time limit and a specific frequency. Once a soul has gone it's run, it evolves into something else entirely and transforms from the entity of "soul" into-whatever-Nth matter. If you take any of the greats throughout history, Einstein, Mozart, Beethoven, Dakota Fanning (yes her too), Buddha, so forth, any of the truly emblematic, unrivaled, unexplainable phenomenons of human-real enigmas, well the SOULS within each of them isn't on it's 1st run. Each Soul has a certain number of runs. Maybe one is 1,000000000 lives, maybe another is 300, once it reaches its point capootey and it transforms. and see, real Born prodigies, well the Souls inside each of them have each been on their last or final runs. See each run of a soul string has a specific purpose with each life it embodies (each vessel it goes thru). And these vessels aren't only humans either. They could be ants or a chair or a dining table (I'll explain about Kinetic and Potential unity of non moving objects and living beings a bit later). Each singular soul string needs to complete a specific puzzle, a specific set of knowledge/experience/whatever, during each of it's runs. It's like a ladder, slowly rung by rung it's reaching it's final destination, ultimate "nirvana". Each life is a piece to a puzzle. and a soul's string is like groundhog day, each time it gets better, it gets wiser, its more advanced, it's learned more, its understood more. Now you take one of these absolute perfect prodigies, Mozart playing perfect symphonies at age 4. How is it possible, science still hasn't explained. It's because his Soul String was nearing the End of it's run you see. The 5,000th life, or the 400th, or whatever specific corresponding number that was it's Finality. It Finally, after so many tries, Reached it's Perfection. And Voila, it produces it's Effect, its Solution, thru the Vessel of Mozart. (or Picasso or whoever-insert anyone phenomenal). So while you'd be looking at 4 year old boy who physically looks like a 4 year old boy, really inside of him is a soul string that's thousands or hundreds of years old, maybe milleniums. It's perfected itself to the pinpoint and it now has no need for mistakes. Everything is Perfection, everything runs like a rocket ship. You take a real total failure in life, or a total idiot/etc., and he/she may be on their 4th or 5th soul string run. Very very young, very basic, without any history of acquired knowledge. So buck up if you're one of the ones on your 3rd or 8th and your whole life is a pathetic mess. Don't worry, you'll come back as an aardvark and then some new genius someday eventually. nothing to worry about. And if you're on your 5,000th, well, you know damn well if you are-keep on ridin' and enjoy that perfection. Anyone in between-head up young blood, look forward to your next run as a lobster or a playboy bunny.

Ok now we get to what the hell is this thing the "soul". Some philosophic idealism that hippies make up along with the moon being made of cheese and some giant dude sitting up in the sky staring down at everyone. Actually it's subatomic energy. It's all stars, our vessels, our particles stars. But these souls, these strings

-oh and by the way, about the Specific frequency of Each string. Each string, at a specific moment in time, can only enter into a specific type of a vessel, it has to match Perfectly. In one run a string could for example only be able to insert itself inside the vessel of a flowerpot-because let's say it needs to absorb what it feels like to be Motionless. And on another run it can only enter into a cow, or a human. Each life gives a certain piece of the puzzle. Collectively these puzzles make up the solution of the true pattern of the universe.

fuck I'm tired. my eyes are seriously like red blood diamonds. I haven't slept in like 30 hours. the conversation lasted for about 14 on Top of me already being sleep deprived. ALL WORTH IT ALL WORTH IT EURIPIDES EUREKA!!!! WAHOOO anyway.

ok. The Soul, its the string that some science could even label as Genetics, as DNA, since each time with each further generation further information is learned and passed on. BUT, a Soul string is different from DNA because Soul Strings are Not specific to extending generations. Because again, one life could be an ant, the other a caterpillar, the other Marilyn Monroe. These Soul Strings are actually the Explosion of the Universe's Desire.

How do I explain this empirically. err. There's varying arguements, Big Bang theory, Creationism, blah de blah. Did we all come out of nothing and spontaneously combust into Something, was there just always something and it slowly grew, so on and on.

I don't have a flimmity for that right now. But the essence of the universe is in it's own desire. "You mean the universe is conscious of itself? A self-aware universe?" Well, sort of.

It's aware of it's existence subconsciously. It has desire. IT has Want. We discussed previously the difference between a gifted person and an "ordinary" . the ONLY damn difference is the WANT of a gifted person, to be MORE. The WANT, to Learn how to play a violin or cook a filet mignon or paint a masterpiece. the simple Desire is the ONLY distinguishing characteristic between the "extraordinary" and the "ordinary". And THAT desire, is the universe's Soul Strings.


oh fuckety I need some goddang sleep. I have to "wake up" in like 3 hours.


damn subways!!!!!!!!! if there's a friggin tape of this brilliance which occurred I demand it!!

ok ok back to the EVERYTHING being NOTHING and EVERYTHING IS EVERYTHING, thing. So my previous postulate of

|||| [] + 0


- vise vise my old theorem of Cirle Becomes Square Becomes Line, /flip circle/horizontal lines perceptional view,


a CHAIR, is the SAME, as a HUMAN.


what is a HUMAN? A human is a collection of atoms, at the most basic level. A human is stardust. stardust is Matter.

a CHAIR is matter.

a CHAIR is potential (non moving). a HUMAN is kinetic (moving/alive).

a SOUL STRING, can run thru Either of these (indeed a Soul String is running thru every one of everything right now, anywhere and everywhere, everywhere and anywhere around you)

and does not distinguish in the difference between POTENTIAL and KINETICISM.

fuckkkkkk. how ironic. usually it's so much easier for me to write this shit all out, but this time talking was actually more efficient and made more sense.

Agggh!


ok so anyway these Soul Strings, will always exist, have always existed.



eventually human beings, in several hundred years or so, will cease to have need for skin and will develop/transcend into absolute Energy. no matter. only motion.

the VESSELS

will have become irrelevent and without purpose.

that's everything from flowers to lampposts to humans.


the LAST soul string, will be in its final hour and final run.

IT, will then, FOLD upon itself and Combust.

having no desire in it left.

having the pattern of the universe solved.

but it does not Disappear.

it does not become Nothing.


it reverts back to


DESIRE.


Desire is not nothing. it's not black. it's not a black hole. it's not a wormhole. it's not an absence and it's not a void.

you actually aren't capable of imaging truly what Nothing is, there is no human definition or pure understanding of it.

but, desire is the Closest to it that you could fathom.


everything Becomes, POTENTIAL.

the POTENTIAL- > Desire.


the Universe will Re-Invent itself and Re-Create itself, the Soul Strings gear up and fire again and eventually evolve into vessels.


the universe has died and been born in this fashion for eons and eons and eons of limitless time.


the Universe, itself, is a SOUL STRING


oh fuck nugget I really have to get some sleep.


BLALEKJKFJEALKJEKABALLAALAAAAAA!!!!!!! PI!! XCHAOS!!!!! DIMENSION 12!!!!! THE NINTH GATE!!!! RAMAYAN!!!!! MAYA!!!!!!!


216 216 216

I WONDER WHAT THE MACHINERY WILL JOT OUT IN MY DREAMS COMIN'. I BETTER DAMN LUCID DREAM IN THESE FEW SHORT HOURS. I'VE BEEN MISSIN' FLYING. LATELY I HAVEN'T BEEN LUCID DREAMING AS MUCH. LATELY EVERY DREAM HAS BEEN A WHIRLWIND OF HYPNOSIS. NO ADVENTURES, JUST CHAOS THEORY OR EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTERS.

I BETTER FLY DAMMIT!!!!!!!!!!

I, Run

Rain. Nature's blood. Nothing as beautiful or as wild as its' mighty droplets. I am running in it. I must have run 7 miles by now. My body is stronger than it ever has been. I see the taut sinews of my thighs rising and falling as I push forward.



"Feel me!" I yell to the dirt, to the grass, to the buildings. "Dare ye press against me, ye fools?!"




My navel is the Spanish Armada.











My waist is the Grand Canyon.









Touch my dripping stomach. I am a Rock.









Running. I am always Running. My 8th grade mathematics teacher asked once what visual scene in nature gave me the most peace. "Waterfall", I had answered.
"Interesting. and not at all surprising," she said half-grinning in her amusement at me.

"Why"? I asked, half-annoyed, half-curious.

"Well, I ask you to pick Peace, and you still choose the one thing in nature which is constantly in motion."

It's true I realize. I get antsy quickly. I get bored, unstimulated. If I hit the point of stagnation I start to self destruct, or destroy everything and everyone around me. I need to destroy, to ruin, in order to create. If things are too happy, too in line, I start running. I feel home in Chaos.

Even when I am consciously embracing stillness, there is the Tiger, the Beast inside me growling. It snarls its' way out of my liver, ravages my kidneys and small intestine, rips open my lungs and snakes its' way up to my heart. If my heart is pumping too mildly, too quietly, the Tiger eats it alive. It eats me alive until I am dead. Then the Beast digests me and spits me back out, my heart now with a new scar, a new strength, beats ferociously.

I burst, and I can Run again.




Sometimes I've paused long enough to allow the wonderment of stability absorb me. I try with all my might to give myself to it's steady pace. But Always, the Beast does not allow it.

I rip the skin off my muscles if necessary. I cut it all off, any remnant of the tranquil. "Cut yourself off from what you love. Hope that the wound heals."-J.M Coetzee


There is no room for weakness in a Spartan. Only the hard can call themselves Spartan. Only the Hard. Only the Strong. I have the power of 300 in me.


There is nothing peaceful about me. I am neither lover nor fighter.
I am the Blade itself. I am the lethal Bullet.
There is no cage which can contain me; of this world or the transcendent one. The Beast inside of me will not allow it. The eyes glow as Lava. And I Run.


My writing, art, music, creations, they are what I am, they permeate my being with such wonder. My lover gives me pleasures of the flesh and solace of the spirit.
Yes, There are a hundred reasons why my art, music, writing, creation, is better than a lover; better even than sex. There are a hundred more reasons why This is better than all of it.

Because it is not my lover's (your if you're reading this Gian hahahaa=0p) tongue running along my thighs when I storm thru the valleys. And it is not a paintbrush which makes my skin glow with excited blood.

I, Run.


I. RUN.


I have done it. I have broken Free. Freed myself of Society. Of Man. Of Earth. Of Rules. Of even Myself. I am nothing but the sound of these shoes. I am absent save for these miliseconds of motion.

This moment. This death of my lungs and birth of my being, bursting adrenaline throughout my veins. "Too Much is Not Enough. Nobody Said This Stuff Makes Any Sense..."-Adrenaline, Gavin Rossdale



For the Truth is I Have reached the end of it. Stared into the black hole of the abyss and seen it's sad eyes staring back at me. I have finally found the answer. Reached thru and captured the essence. The grand mystery revealed. There is nothing. It's all meaningless.




So what.





There is this moment. This moment that vibrates my core and I pulse thru the city like a sonogram. I run. I pound. I run.



I am invincible. I am on fire. I could fly off this earth right now, spread out my arms and soar above All of this, and unlike Icarus I would not fall. I would only morph my skin into the clouds, become the sky, become the rain.


I breathe. I sprint harder. My focus could shatter a diamond.
I am ready for whatever precipice, I am faithful in whatever journey.

I've already seen the end of time, the fall of of humanity, and witnessed my death. There's simply no room anywhere in my being for fear.



Stand not in my way. Fuck with me not. I am a force. I am the Alpha Centauri. I am the Aurora Borealis.

My past the arrow which skewered my guts and pierced all my organs and fluids out of me.

I take hold of the arrow, I pull it out along with the gallons of blood and the cries of anguish. I look it in it's treacherous face and laugh at it, my eyes gleaming maniacally in the night, their whites rising above the red stains on my cheekbones. I snap the arrow in half. I let it fall, I crush it with my foot and leave it there on the ground to lay cold and deserted in the rain. I don't look back, never look back.







My heart is the mighty oak, shielded by steel. It's depth is limitless, my devotion infinite, my love pure. It is reserved now. Beating out it's rhythyms, vibrating for all to hear, but not possessable by anyone. It's been wasted on the undeserving. No more. No more. It waits for the one who is worthy of what it gives. All others bite the dust. And if the fates declare there is no-one for all eternity, so be it. I need nothing, I seek no-one. I am in a lifelong romance with myself.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Albeit it is not that I've stopped enjoying the tastes of this earth. I've had lovers, I have even now a lover. I've replaced the hole with a new toy. The new toy dances for me...he lifts me up...and I wonder if he'll be worthy enough for my steel to melt. (Are you, oh dear sex slave? Well we'll see.) The thing is...I've learned enough now to Never pause. To keep my muscles tight, to keep my stride unreachable. To keep Running.

To play with my prey First,
dangle it,
make it suffer, make it suffer some more,
test it,
capsize it,
drown it,
spear it,
make it suffer again and again,

and then see if it's still there before even Beginning to let my steel down.
My soul is a sacred vessel as is my heart. Whatever I put in it better be 4 Star Michelin gourmet prey. If it's truly gourmet, it'll pass the test, and if it's not, well, the armada of Me would have served its purpose.




You never know how many arrows will fly out to hit you. You never know how deeply they will penetrate you. So what do you do? You do what you can control. There is no "battleplan". There is only You. Violence is ridiculous to put into war. War is political.

Violence...is..... personal.


So you build your fleet. You increase your speed. You heighten your senses. You look for sharp corners. You force your eyes to zone in on the weaknesses of your spirit and bring them to your attention. You strengthen all of you and you leave no Achilles' heel.



" I AM THE GENERAL. and

I AM THE WARRIOR.


I AM THE BULLET. and

I AM THE SOLDIER.


I AM THE SWORD. and

I AM THE SHIELD.


I AM THE POTENTIAL WOUND. and

I AM THE SPEAR.


I HAVE SEEN MY DEATH. and

I HAVE FALLEN INTO THE ABYSS.


I HAVE BROKEN FREE. and

I HAVE BECOME A HUMAN BARRICADE.


I, RUN. and



I AM MY OWN ARMY."





Lather. Rinse. Repeat.





What does the future hold for me?
Who knows.
Is there a purpose to me?
It doesn't matter.


The most unpredictable and therefore most effective strategy....





is to not have one.





get yourself to the point where you've ripped everything else off, to be able to just run, and the dirt will form a path For you.

Are you dangling G? Have you grown tired yet? here's a wink for ya, kid.

It's Only You and I Who Understand...There Is No Plan........... ;0


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


All I hear is the sound of my feet pounding on the earth. All I feel is my heart drumming in my chest. All I know is I must keep running.

Eat Me, Drink Me

Sweet dreams are made of these....who am I to disagree....traveled the world and the seven seas....everybody's lookin' for something......

Annie Lennox hit the proverbial nail on the head.


All this travel has made my brain dizzy and my sense of time completely flabberghasted. My sleeping patterns are the weirdest they've ever been. I wake up in Europe and expect the heat of Southeast Asia. I wake up in LA at noon and wonder why I don't smell the coffee of Paris. I wake up in NYC at midnight thinking it's 9 am and am aghast as to why everyone suddenly decided to wear black and look grumpy. Plus there really isn't enough time in the day for all the stuff I've got going on. I am seriously considering cloning myself.

The whole world is....unique....but...the same. Instincts are instincts wherever you go. I'm not sure what I was expecting to find, fairytale creatures perhaps? People, regardless of their varying mannerisms and languages, are still People.

Bersha books-my publishers, are in the process of negotiating a deal for my book with Borders and are pushing for Barnes and Nobles. I am kicking myself on the head for using my real name as the author. I need a pseudonym to prevent me from the weirdness of what is going on in my world.






Given that I feel quite like Alice lately, I recently saw Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland. Thanks, Tim Burton, for being a douchebag and ruining a classic. And because of the stupidification of this new young generation, the majority of twiglets and tweens will see this version and mark it in their head as being the real Alice in Wonderland without ever reading the book.


the Only good thing about it was the (though incorrectly quoted from the book),


"I'm quite afraid. Have I gone 'round the bend?!"

"Well I'm sorry to say, but yes, you're entirely bonkers..

But I'll tell you a secret....

All the best people are."



Insanity is the magic wand of creative achievement!



Aside from that, and Helena Bonham Carter's gloriously large head,
something which irritated me beyond no measure was how inconsequential the caterpillar's presence was in the movie. Plus the cocked-up pronounciation of "who are you". Aggggh!!!!! It's meant to be be, "Wwwwhhhhhooooooooooooo Aaaaaarrrreeeeee Yeeeuuuooouuuuuuuuuuuu". The magical wordplay, theme, and logic of the masterwork is eliminated, and replaced with ridiculously heavy CGI and total Lack of Plot.


Tim Burton re-affirms my love/hate relationship with Hollywood.

I borrow this grand youtube find from sir Cornelius Blow to aid in expressing my frustration:

3.14159............

"Pi: Pattern of the Universe" a drawing I did back in 2003





In honorarium of Pi day (3.14),

below are some of Max's theorems from one of my favourite films of all time: Aronofsky's Pi




1. Mathematics is the language of nature. 2. Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. 3. If you graph these numbers, patterns emerge. Therefore: There are patterns everywhere in nature.



Restate my assumptions: One, Mathematics is the language of nature. Two, Everything around us can be represented and understood through numbers. Three: If you graph the numbers of any system, patterns emerge. Therefore, there are patterns everywhere in nature. Evidence: The cycling of disease epidemics;the wax and wane of caribou populations; sun spot cycles; the rise and fall of the Nile. So, what about the stock market? The universe of numbers that represents the global economy. Millions of hands at work, billions of minds. A vast network, screaming with life. An organism. A natural organism. My hypothesis: Within the stock market, there is a pattern as well... Right in front of me... hiding behind the numbers. Always has been.


When I was a little kid, my mother told me not to stare into the sun, so when I was six I did...



~~~~~ How ironic (or is it really.) that one of my dear friends, the brilliant (I will call him as he would like to be known as-X), is like a hologram straight out of Pi. Except X is Taiwanese, dresses like a punk rocker badass complete with his trademark long hair and bandana, takes amazing photography of dark shadowy things he sees on his late night strolls thru LA and has (in his guestimation) about 34,567 things he doesn't need in his apartment. These facts aside, X devised an algorithm computer software for predicting patterns in the stock market years ago and is now able to survive off of his accurate calculations giving him freedom from job slavery, as he slowly but steadily ascends along the path of making "Fuck You Money". These may not have been Max's objectives, but X has decoded the labyrinthian machine that is the stock market and beat it's misanthropic ass into a pulp. And like Max, X would never sell out and give his formula to the bastards over at Goldman-Sachs for a big payola. Genius has Principle, people. Principle.

A toast to Pi day. A toast to X. A toast to Ozzy, Daz, Rory, Gian, Dan, Reef, Viz, Fyodor, ARH, Bahar, Bilal, John & Angelo and a toast to mathematical minds everywhere.

*************************FAITH IN CHAOS************************************

67th Street

I sat by the window facing the platform on the train tonite. The beige seats smiled at me but the grey silver steel surrounding everything else looked sad. The subway was crying and I was the only one who could see the tears. An old man with veins on his neck purple as deep rivers sat down 3 rows ahead of me. He and I were alone riding in silence for 3 stops. He had matted hair and looked like Ray Charles. I wondered if he, like me and Ray, played piano. But his fingers looked too fresh, too uncalloused. What is such an old man doing sitting on a train, all alone at 11:57 pm in NYC? Where are his children, where is the love? He comes over to me before getting off. I am stuck to my seat, in a daze from the silvery doldroms of the monotonous rails. He touches my shoulder. I remember the last time someone touched my shoulder was 4 hours ago. How long has it been since someone has touched him? He stares at me. He studies me. I don't mind it. He says nothing, smiles a wrinkly smile and gets off as the doors open. The doors shut. I feel something on my shoulder. A weight. I don't know why my mind immediately jumps to wondering if he has left a bomb on it. A ticking bomb about to blow up. It would be a glorious way to go. Orange red explosion. But it doesn't smell like a bomb. It overwhelms my senses. My right hand itches to reach up and discover what it is. My left hand grabs my right hand and instructs it with force to wait. Patience is worthwhile to irressistibly curious personages. The longer I wait the deeper my insanity grows. The nauseous paranoia takes over me. I draw this on the pad I have in my satchel:





I draw with a pen. With my left hand. All the while not moving my shoulder. It is a jellyfish with tentacles. It is an eye with a strong nose. The eye is crying and making a few splashes, creating an ocean. A tree blooms, its' roots become eyebrows. 8 stops. 3 young boys get on. They are drunk. They are boisterous. They advance towards me. They try to flirt with me. They ask me to come with them. They spew empty compliments. One sits down the row across mine. He stares at me. I mind. I do not welcome it. I imagine what his heart would look like outside of his chest, beating on the cold tile floor; the red spreading everywhere. The other two close in on me. I am a statue. I feel their breath on my hair. I want to vomit. He gets up and walks towards me. His cologne is a ghastly generic mix of Armani A/X and Blue Water. He is an idiot, I can tell. He thinks I want him. He walks closer. I can hear his teeth. He is bending over me. His hand reaches over my shoulder. I feel a weight lifted. Something in me snaps. It is too much. I am the tree exploding. Somehow I know the old man will understand. I black out. I smell blood. The boy is lying on the tiles. He is screaming. He is holding his right hand over his left eye. There is redness streaming down his face. My pen is jarred in his eye. His friends have shrunk. They are as tiny as gummy bears. They are scuttling around him on the floor. One of them looks green and chewy. I pop him in my mouth as I get up out of my seat. I stop over the young boy's body, I see a rose stem in his left hand. I see half a rosebud on top of it. The doors open. A flash of my reflection in the glass. There are rose petals on my shoulder.

I walk home in silence. The street is empty. I do not know why. I walk into the apartment. Gian is sitting on the steps in our foyer. He is even more beautiful than a jellyfish. His hair is scruffy. His eyes are tired. His shirt is unbuttoned and untucked. He sits and stares at me. His arms crossed. His lips in a straight line.
"Où avez-vous été?" (Where have you been)

"Cimetière Touflé's," (Tousle's cemetary) I say.

"J'étais enterrer mes cauchemars," (I was burying my nightmares) I say.

He gets up and walks towards me. All I smell are roses.

the convention of Fukitol!

convention.

there it is again, like a howling dog at my feet.

every time I think I escape it, it comes back to haunt me.

I thought I left it when I got the hell out of high school. there it was again in university, even worse.

I thought I'd left it when I left university, nope, there it is in the real world job market.

thought I left it when I went on the self employed/entrepreneur path. nope, it's there too.

it's there in Hollywood.

it's there in relationships. even in the most magical, undescribable, incredible relationship I ever experienced.

there is rigor and restriction and rigidity, Everywhere.

the contradiction of being a total slave to something, anything, whatever it is, in order to get one or two things that you want.

example: you want to be an artist.

so, in this fucked up world, either you sell out and be some damn graphic designer for $75 tshirts, or you whore yourself out to teachers telling you about concept theory in art and other such nonsense at a fancy art school that is basically a money mill, or you decide that you want to keep your art for yourself and get some other job in some other industry and do art only in your spare time.

there really is no other way. the da vinci/muralist/lassen old school artist is a fairy tale that happens to maybe 1 out of ten million artists.

or say, you want to be in love. you want to love. so you do. you fall, fully, deeply, irrevocably, undeniably. you give it everything you have to the one you love and all you can. then you discover after several years that regardless of all the magic you feel, money and natural human tendency get in the way. you either cheat and leave, or you get married and have babies. and add a mortgage and the suburbs to that.

what started out as something so pure and beautiful becomes crippling and a killer of the soul.


or say you just want to be a hermit.

well you're gonna need money to do that.
so, choose a way to whore yourself out to the system in order to get it, just so you can have a sane piece of mind.

it's inescapable.

like the skin on my body.


so what to do?

everything and everyone keeps trying to pigeonhole me into being something I'm not: a thing of the system, Any system.

the World, just seems intent upon raping me. no matter what choice I make or where I turn, all of it leads to something half-assed and imperfect. nothing is what I want it to be because there are no fucking sunflowers and green pastures. everything is an illusion upon an illusion, and every choice I make just leads to some backwards alley of practices I never signed up for.

and in order to survive, it seems like I need to, become a vessel of some sort of system.

it doesn't matter whether I'm the CEO of Goldman Sachs or a Buddhist monk. There is no true freedom, ANYWHERE. Every fucking thing, no matter how beautiful it appears, eventually turns out to be a total fraud.

when you're a kid you believe in magic.

you grow up. you learn. you gain knowledge.

you know better.

THERE AINT NO FUCKING REAL MAGIC ANYWHERE. it's ALL fake.

you can call that beautiful, or you can call it ugly.

pessimist, optimist, realist, it doesn't matter. that's just the truth.

The one thing that stood strong against my inbred cynicism is love. and I suppose in a very buried, very, very, very, very buried part of me that will remain.

but the reality stands that some things can be lost forever whether you want them to be or not. the person that put up with your bullshit will eventually figure out the piece of shit that you truly are, turn their back on you and finally give you that hearty Fuck You that you were secretly fearing. you will hurt the person you couldn't in your darkest nightmares imagine hurting, and you will feel their pain tenfold. the choices you make will have irreversible consequences. your bones will break. nothing is eternal. nothing is permanent. nothing is magical. nothing is perfectly pure.

people just eat the world and it's shit up and delude themselves with self-positive mantras about "positive thinking" and "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger" brainwash that they've been fed from the time they were born, by teachers who have been dead for centuries. people Accept that life IS , inherently, total shit, because they're too cowardly to tell whatever "god" invented this nuthole a.k.s "the universe" to SHOVE IT.

you know what Socrates really thinks dumbasses? He thinks You're all dumbasses, for believing any of the shit that he spewed.

so.

what the fuck do I do now?

kill myself?

is that the ultimate answer?

even THAT is a trap.

for fuck's sake.

what. WHAT. am I to do?


keep on fighting another day I guess is all there is to be done.
keep on fighting a losing battle and be unafraid to be a fool.

is that where the magic is at? deluding yourself into thinking there is such thing as a happy ending?

the Hope of redemption? of a chance to make it all golden and sparkling? HaaaaaaHaaa!!!! say that to the one broken beyond repair. the one who's lost all reason and all purpose.

it's all on me, I'm the one who destroyed everything. can humpty dumpty ever be put back together again?

I don't know.

The only real truth about me is that I exist. Everything else about me contradicts itself at some point. Multiply that by infinity, take it to the depths of forever and you will still barely have a glimpse of what I'm talking about.

FUKITOL.

Fukitol!

Fukitol! 1000 mgs. Now comes in grape and green apple! Music composition: "Bipolarity"

bada bing bada boom. big bada boom.

The book launch in Feb. went well I am told. I'm told it's selling too. How horrific. I apologize to all the readers. As you must have ascertained by now: it's crapola on acid.

The publishers encourage me to promote it, when really I just feel embarrassed by the whole thing and want to crawl under a blanket and stay there.

J.D Salinger died a recluse and I see a glimpse of my own fate: a hermit somewhere in the mountains...alone and insane, surrounded by snakes. or tigers. (Not that I'm being pompous enough to compare my writing to Salinger's, just alluding to the hermitty thing.)

But anyway, here is a damn photo of it along with the ISBN and a press review about it in a Bangladesh newspaper. It was on Dhaka FM as well though I've no clue how to get the recording. It's soon to be critiqued by some important "Literati" haaaaa, I can only imagine what they'll say. well. If you want to buy it, go buy it, just please don't tell me you did.

Artists have to be entrepreneurs these modern days. And I'm at the heart really an old-fashioned romantic kind of artist who wants to prance around in ignorant glee. You go for your dreams and you are forced to sell out. You keep it hidden and you're a loser coward. Win = Fail. There is a fine line between self-marketing and whoring, though sadly like in most other aspects of my life, I am terrible with colouring inside the lines. It'd be fun to lie and say I feel perfectly OK with saying "yo homie go buy my book fo' shizzle!" but to be honest it makes me nauseous. It's my soul. and it has to sell, in as many copies as possible, at 5 USD a pop in order to be deemed a success enough for the next one. In order to be deemed a success, period.

Hmm. You're a "success" if the world wants to F*** you and classify the murky depths of your subconscious as "art". What a Wonderful World. Fairies and ice cream y'all!

a toast to what I wrote 7 years ago and is now Finally in paperback. Grassy ass to everyone who suffered thru the journey-Muchas, Muchos, Gracias