So many of you, it kills

Yes I slave. I slave as much as you would expect one to in a short time of 21 years on earth. Appreciation is not there I accept, but now and then it's nerve wrecking. Especially when you are one of them who thank someone over a million times for the slightest matter because I know, that minute counts.

It's the minute that takes our effort to put up with your whining that,

1. pleads for service for free

2. explains to us it is our responsibility

3. reinforces we are brothers/sisters from another mother

4. rattles as a speech of how we will technically save the world

5. believe they are giving us a valuable chance that we shouldn't throw away

6. suggests I take a certain approach to it as well!

7. thinks I should totally put up with the bitch you don't want to work on this with; it's all about the LURVE apparently

8. reminds me I'm meant to do it; I'm chopped liver

9. blesses me in the name of God for the deed

10. tells me I'm all you can count on from the billion odd people you party with the other times

Not forgetting the bomb of it all; 'you do remember you owe me this one mate'. ON FUCKING WHAT? You try to remember.

A misery of measuring the value of a deed seems like a vitamin deficiency of it's own kind. It is primary basics for your information where you can't hold a ten dollar note as a million dollars. So where does this 'You owe me' come from?

1. A guilt trip

2. You're Osama; great brain wash.

3. A racist, you believe you're better.

4. You are an old hag, and I'm young and wasted you assume.

5. You gave birth to me. sigh.

6. You matter to me, but of course I don't to you!

7. You can get away with it anyways. Trying me out was an option.

8. You dated my sister???

9. I helped you before.

10. Apocalypse is near. I'll never figure out what you meant by then.

Sad, sad, sad situation.

Help I will, come clean I need. A jagged edge proposal never cut through without a horrible painful, dodgy and time consuming process. And what's more; it damages a lot and spills an awful lot of blood. Appreciation is more than words we all know, but what we have forgotten is it's way more than silence.

Next time tell me I did a great job, and give me a pat on the back. Yes, then I owe you.

Sunny went home, so the Pearl goes mad

Another day of celebration in Island Paradise. The whole land rejoices as the Sun traveled from one mythical dimension to another. I hope Sun feels at home. I certainly do, and so layed back doing what I do best to relax, I read. I haven't been this fascinated with something I read for awhile and to post it was almost another Avurudu craving. So here goes.

Professor Gilbert J. Rose, a clinical psychiatrist at Yale, has a therory about the artistically creative mind. I came across an account of this specualtion in an essay by John Fowles, who describe it as follows;

'In simple terms, his proposition was that some children retain a particularly rich memory of the passage from extreme infancy; when the identity of the baby is merged with that of the mother; to the arrival of the first awarenss of seperate identity and the simultaneous first dawn of what will become the adult sense of reality - that is, they are deeply marked by the passage from a unified magical world to a discrete 'realist' one. What seemingly stamps itself indelibly on this kind of infant psyche is a pleasure in the fluid, polymorphic nature of the sensuous impression, visual, tactile, auditory, and the rest, that he receives; and so profoundly that he cannot, even when the detail of this intensely auto - erotic experience has retreated into the unconcious, refrain from tampering with reality - from trying to recover, in other words, the early oneness with his mother that granted this ability to make the world mysteriously and deliciously change meaning and appearance. He was once a magician with a wand; and given the right other predisposing and environmental factors, he will one day devote his life trying to regain the unity and the power by recreating adult versions of the experiance: he will be an artist. Moreover, since every child goes through some variation of the same experiance, this also explains one major attraction of art for the audience. The artist is simply someone who does the journey back on behalf of the less conditioned and less technically endowed.

John Fowles added a footnote to this piece: 'Sensitive female readers may not be too happy about the pronoun used in this, but the theory helps to explain why all through more recent human history, men have seen better adapted - or more driven - to individual artistic expression than women. Professor Rose points out that the chances of being conditioned by this primal erotic experiance are (if one accepts Freudian theory) massively loaded towards the son...' Actually I don't see why girls would have differing memories than the boys as described by Professor Rose, but I thought it sufficiently controversial to merit an airing.

- John Fowles, Wormholes, Vintage (London 1999) -

Bloody fascinating don't you think?

Oh well, happy New Year buggers...Go mad till we meet again at another sunny side.

The forseen unseen

Whoever is in the sun and shuts his eyes. Begins not to know what the sun is and to think many things of heat. But he opens his eyes and sees the sun, and he can no longer think about anything, because the sunlight is worth more than the thoughts of all the philosophers and poets. The sunlight doesn't know what it's doing and so it does no wrong but is ordinary and good. -Alberto Caeiro-

The need to see appeal in what we see is a beauty I must say. From the time you set your eyes on the shades and hues of the colors blending around, you mingle its' essence into the air you breath. All you will feel is the nurturing of it, that makes you want to feast your eyes more and more on the simplest form of detail you can. To see a variant is almost orgasmic, and the annoying space that blocks your imagination is a killer. A monster on the hunt you are for a flower with no name.

All hail randomness, all hail randomness.

The plushing velvet luxury you fly on, smoothly climbs up the clouds of inert art. All the creativity you can grasp is now in your lungs. You hold your breath with it all and a hunger leftover. A device of capture, a trap of the heart, your mind works wonders with a caption from your soul. It's yours, always yours.

No need to share it, really no one else will see it. It's your prize treasure you can manifest on. A pool of life you look into every now and then, just to remind you; you are a God. God of nature, that creates this utopia so perfect, this utopia so excellent, this utopia the drug.

You haven't seen it all till you see beyond what you behold. Let you see you.

Lover, you are so sad

To love with all your heart is easier done than said. It sounds the most valuable thing yet, who can define it? The pathetic situation of everyone doing it to everyone is a arm bender when spoken about. To value a life, to respect a life is no bewilderment. It comes with ease, it comes without awareness. You believe its' the real thing when its' just a time you let down the rest of the world and your sanctuary is setting your eyes on this beauty, hearing this beauty or feeling this beauty. Hurrah! you are in love?

Beauty is admired by them all. The pretty faces, the famished lips, the flowing hair, the skin so fair and the walk so light you will put up with any fight. To see deep in where the Satan of it all lie low, till you murmur the best out of them is a sight you wish you saw way damn before. A reflection to your inner is your face they say; and I sit and laugh with all who consider it and seeks a refuge now that they are nothing but wounded and grasping for a clear breath of air. I shall not help. I shall not be the saviour. No one is, but your loser self.

Beauty is a horror that unleashes the many other horrors that you will cultivate as long as you believe in it and bleed with it, ignorantly.

When death calls

A call we never await for. The spontaneous bewilderment is much more than a human mind can take. The beauty of it rises when hope acumulates invisibly. The sudden laughs, the sudden smiles that dawn amidst the clouded wails and mourns is almost a miracle. Death doesn't like it, it simply wants to root down in the hearts and grow pain. Thrust down the angels of cherishing moments, jubilations of a life time and a future to come. Love will not die, nor will its' life. A life has acheived too much, seen too much and heard too much to let it all go with the a gasp that would be your last or a blink that would be your last. You live with those you shared, with those you loved and those you cared for. An eternal journey it is, an immortal one.

The dogs that shun when death calls will shun for life. Never do you want to see them or else you will wipe them. The dust that clouds a shimmering wand, you will wipe them off.

Death will call, and the dear will not depart. You live, you live, you live with the ticking time in our hearts you live.

For my best bud, Chanuka.

A measure of grief

Small and wimpy you are now. Wounded and dieing. Angered to the core at that cunt of a world that showed no sympathy, but hammered you down till you met the devil living in the depths of hades. Broken with the fall you will not stand up. You can't stand up. All you do is curl up, hoping you'll die fast. A swarming army of memories charge at you striking you with all the deeds that deceived you. The memory of a love that was not love, the memory of care that was not care, the memory of joy that was not joy but his sheer abundant self pleasure. You were an entertainer. A puppet with too long the strings who didn't see what dangled you up from there, cos' he was just too darn up high!

The measure of the wasted few years, lost priorities, bruised emotions, a life no longer fit to live and a face of shame that can not be mended tops off your grief.

Then a ray of light will be shead on you. The warmth makes you seek for it making you crawl out of your misery. You simply need more. More of that shimmer so beautiful, so resurrecting. Its' called a 'new day'. Get up, stand up, walk up and spew the mangy cunt with a flash of life. It will burn, it will melt at your comeback.

How simple the most important things in life. We show a blind eye, maybe laugh at them too and then rush over to the insignificant and try make life out of them.
Meet the simple. The shut down lights. The diamonds in the rough. With them, the measure of grief will sum down to none.

Worlds apart

Delusions of social status is the scream raving through the universe for decades now. A plague, incurable and swift as the wind never to be caught, but spread. A human can be labeled on what one wears? on what one labours for? on what one eats? on what one shits?!

We live in a world of mutualism. Each of us live on each other. Yet, we dare talk about social status? A farmer in the village will harvest the food on your plate tonight and you dare think living in a city of sky scrapers set you apart from all who fight the sun and rain to live its' life? Come to think of it, maybe it does! They are the real high rangers. The fighters of a modern day legacy. While you are the self damned king resting under the wings of the poorly battered legends, who are forgotten cos' your gleaming light of selfish survival is too bright. The souls will weep at the sight of your celebration on life, where you harp about the adventures of taking refuge. And the world; hypnotized by you who are adorned in a marvel of self obsession; listens, applauds and will sing songs of praise. In their eyes you are a living ecstasy, in mine you're a living defeat.

The unsung will always look down on you; from a place way up high, from a place worlds apart.