A million dollar you

The savagery of an eye exist when it does nothing. Let it look up high a million feet up, let it look down a million feet down, let it look around and spin around along with the boggling head.

The leaves keep growing, the grass will always be green, the sun will rise on the other side, the flowers will bloom and so I ask...What have we got to lose?

A ticket to heaven - 'Working according to the scripts assigned by human nature can get you somewhere only on the other side.' Think again. God meant something more when he said do good and you will see heaven.

Life long love - You really want to put all that effort to be loved only by one being while there's quiet a few millions hearts out there? Love a world fellas, love a world.

Vanity fair - A stunner you are, a stunner I am in this disco ball of a society. We make it complete, we keep it going even though we are rubber flip flop clad or leather boot clad, sarong clad or micro mini clad, combed our hair less than a month before or curled it to match your dog.

Leaping frogs - Time croaks all the way leaping away from us every time we try to grasp it. It leaves with us nothing but the signs of the love it made to us or the hate it wished for us. Bid farewell and bid it well. It didn't come across you for nothing.

Diamonds in the house - Only a diamond cuts another. Greed is never a friend and never far away. It's with you, around you and sometimes it's on the house. Cheers for the death wish mate.

The crimson tide - Reaching between the legs is quiet a deal. Sometimes, that's all it is. A tide that you ride when you're high, when you're low.

Your life is a million dollar bill. Sometimes you'll be picked up, sometimes you'll fly with the wind, sometimes you'll be trampled hard on and sometimes you'll end up real old money. But you'll always be a million dollar bill. So yes, hell you have nothing to lose.

The sour grape, rape and ape.

The grapes always listen to the ape.

He loves it when they listen to him justifying rape, but it's just so ugly. Most of the grapes smile along. But Sour Grape shows nothing but bitterness and it bothers the Ape.

He has seen nothing but bitterness on Sour Grape. It makes Ape not feel ape-y.

'Sour Grape. I will bother you, because your mere smirk has bothered me.

Tell me Sour Grape, why the face so bitter?'

'Ape from very cold Apeland, everything about you was disgusting from day one. It will be so forever. I will be bitter on you forever.'

'No, no. How can I promote rape that way. I have to! You not looking is an option. An option for the other grapes to follow suite. I'll lose it; this rape adoring nation I'm building!'

'Yes, and you can go back to Apeland where you will freeze your furry arse to death. My Grapeland has treated you very exquisitely hasn't it? And you mock us with nothing but allowing rape?

Rape our beliefs you say? rape our sense of values you say? rape our need of effort you say? Rape the long tough way to life you say?'

'Well it works. You grapes like it nice and slow.'

'Well then, I will continue. I will continue disliking rape and you. Every day my bitter face will bother you. I will keep my bitter face on for as long as I will be seeing you.'

'Sour Grape, I'LL DESTROY YOU. YOU WILL REAP NO MORE. NO MORE THOUGH YOU HARVEST MUCH!'

'I will harvest, I will harvest for my many wine dreams. I will never let them be your urine dreams.

And I will reap. When you are gone I'll reap. After all your nothing but an ape in my life.'

So Sour Grape left Ape who ran around, jumped up and down, twirling his frisky fancy white tail raping the Grapeland about how bitter Sour grape is, while Sour Grape started harvesting all over again on her many colored wine dreams..............

Because as Sour Grape said, after all, he is nothing but an ape in her life.

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.