One morning in Southampton

08:30. I wake up to a song from Faxanadu (a NES game), serving as my cellphone alarm tone. I slowly get up from my double bed feeling disoriented, as I always do when waking up. I probably have slept for 6 to 8 hours, my general amount of sleep per night.

As I get up from the bed, I usually quickly decide what I'm going to wear: Addict T-shirt, a collage shirt with the words "urgent need of sound" imprinted on it, given to me by my room-mate. I slowly make my way to the bathroom, throwing my clothes on the floor in a small pile.

I run the shower for a few seconds, waiting for the hot water to start pouring out of the showerhead. Getting under the hot stream of water, I go through a certain phoenix-like rejuvenation process. I usually feel deathly tired without a morning shower. I don't use shampoo, because it would soften and break my already-way-too-broken dreadlocks, so I just settle for washing my scalp and body with a herbal soap. Drying myself is always an arduous process, as the air temperature in a British house seems to be always freezing, so I tend to be very quick with the towel, drying my hair with rigorous movements.

Finally having dressed myself, I go downstairs packing my laptop and other stuff like keys and mobile phone into my backpack. I get some orange juice from the fridge, my default breakfast of choice; I never like to eat anything "solid" too early. As I'm walking towards the door, my room-mate greets me, and we talk about some current topics and our life in the house in general. Seeing as she is my good friend also, it is a very easy way of communicating all worries about the house and bills et cetera.

I get out of the house, carrying a bag with library books in my hand, which are already a day overdue. Turning left, I walk to the end of the street to the nearest bus-stop. I wait three minutes for the bus, thanking the good connections of the city in my mind. I get on the bus, stating my destination to the driver through the plastic screen. I sit down, watching the view out of the window as the bus makes it way to city centre. I get off near the university.

Walking to the university campus from the bus-stop only takes a few minutes, and soon I see the library entrance. I walk inside, making my way through the turnstiles to the returns desk, and I find that it is not yet open. I turn around to the self-serve return desks, and scan my returns, dropping them to a slot in the table one by one. Having returned everything, I cannot recall if that was all the books I took out. To remedy this, I walk to the info desk, and give out my campus card to the woman behind the desk. She smiles kindly, and we change a few pleasantries. Scanning my card, I hear I'm off the hook, having returned everything. I smile, and exit the building, hearing her talking to a person behind me.

I walk through the next building to the elevators; it's already 9:32, I'm 30 minutes late. I walk to the elevators, and take it to the fifth level. I exit the elevator, and enter the classroom. Here I now sit, writing this blog post, coming to a full circle.

Objects in motion - objects at rest

She arrived at Tokyo airport on a midnight flight from London-Paris-line,
holding in her hand a worn out light brown leather suitcase with a heart-
shaped sticker pasted on the right-hand side. Standing in front of the
large glass windows in the Arrivals lounge, she was anxious to get through
the security check without any unnecessary incidents. Clutching her old
case with a slightly sweaty left hand, placing it in the middle of her legs
while she herself sat down on a designer bench made out of half-circle chro-
mium steel pipes, matte-painted in cyan and yellow with end caps made of red
polypropeine plastic. The lounge was very silent, and the only people in sight
were two tired-looking salarymen with their flawless top-of-the-pile gray busi-
ness suits from Macy's, New York. Postal order, speedy delivery, of course.

They were sitting on a bench that was perfectly identical to the specimen she
herself sat on, eating something that looked like a vending machine sandwich
slash health disaster. They both had the same sandwich flavor as well, tuna and
mayonnaise. "A carbon-copy world with carbon-copy food and carbon-copy archi-
tecture", a thought idly crossed her mind. The thought was quickly forgotten
when an announcement sprung through the airport speakers: "*Would the passanger
Ichiyo Taki-san please report to the Air Japan desk three.*". Nobody seemed
to react to the announcement at first, but then one of the businessmen,
Ichi-San for all intents and purposes, she noted, stood up and quickly started
shuffling towards the Air Japan desk near the luggage reclaim coaster four.

He stopped in mid-step.

By some strange glitch in the space-time all movement ceased instantly.

There is his partner, sitting on the designer bench, biting into a lurid mess
of tuna and mayo with brown lettuce standing out of the mix like a sad old dog
turd laid on an early winter walkie.

There is Ichi-San, with a facial impression that was a distinct mix of tired-
ness, anger and anxiousness, looking directly into the eyes of a beautiful
Air Japan desk clerk, a woman in her mid-twenties, with a small golden
wedding ring with an inset small diamond in her left hand ring finger.

And yes, she is also there. Like the cherry petals flowing around in spring
wind on the last day of school, her name is Hana Sakura. "Cherry Flower".
This time, she will be waiting forever. For without time, nothing moves.
Without time, nothing really is, as everything is in a state of flux.

Were all their combined actions meant to lead up to this point of total
stillness. Is it the Harmageddon? Kami-sama's final judgement? Will ancient
gods get off their Eternal Thrones, climb the sky and finally eat the sun?

But it is not the end, as it is not really anything. For there to be and actual
end to anything, something would be actually required to be recorded after
the end-event. In this case, the world seemed to be more of paused, in a manner
of a giant causal remote control switching on pause while fetching the giant
intergalactic advertisement break sandwich filled with metaphysical tuna and
non-tangible mayonnaise.

Are we just on a break? And what is the main event? Is this all that the
announcer promised us?

"Yet to come", "Don't miss", "After this", "Tomorrow at Eight",
"Next time on Lost".

Oh, switch off.

Elevator - A Study of Observation

The Observant enters the building. Zero floor.

*ding*, goes the elevator.

The space in this tiny metal-framed box is filled with all sorts of
small tiny detail. The buttons go up from G for Ground up to P for
Penthouse. Our playmate observes (as fit for such nom-de-guerre) the
sticky ripped edge of a sticker in the right edge of the beveled metal box
holding the buttons together in an army-like rigidity. "Truly a fine
accomplishment of engineering bravado", notes The Observant. The
sticker is one thirds of a pink elephant with a gigantic phallus, with a speech bubble hanging in the air above it, in a fashion not-entirely-unlike
a looming white spirit of Death. The bubble contains a cut-off
message, a thought forever lost for The Observant in its' glorious
original form.

"t on it!!"

*ding* goes the elevator.

"Second floor."

"Doors opening.", says the cold female with a not-entirely-unlike-a-
Star-Trek-computer voice. A sign of dehumanized society, notes The
Observant, wryly grinning in a sudden cloudy outburst of dark
humour.

Enter Katt.

Katt, as observed by The Observant, is a punk rocker. She is wearing a
striped undershirt with alternating see-through and black stripes. On
top of the "striped wonder", she has a black, worn-out denim shirt with
multiple metal spikes protruding through the fabric. The backside of the
shirt is fully covered by a patch boldly stating "CUNT", done in a
Helvetica Bold typeface. "Full circle, eh", the inner monologue of our
Observant continues.

Katt's hair is a wildly interesting mix of experiments; the lower half
just covering the ears is jet black; on top of that, alternating white
and black stripes; and to top it all off like a screaming red cherry on
an Italian gelateria icecream portion is the peacock-like Mohawk-cut,
looking almost like glued on in the middle of her head, in all 30 centi-
meter glory. "Must be a hell of a battle every morning", the old bugger
goes on. Her eyes are of dark brown, and the look on her face is total
"Do not fuck with me, you motherfucking cunt, or I will hurt you"-
material.

*ding* goes the elevator.

"Sixth floor", says the food replicator.

The Observant is alone again. What remains of Katt in the three-dimen-
sional vertical transportation box is just a very fine hint of vanilla
cigarette aroma in the air, probably caught in her clothes from a
long-winded cigarette break just a few moments ago. The floor also now
contains the remains of some unlucky flower patch, stuck on from a
walk through the city parks last night. The Observant feels sort like
Sherlock Holmes for noting all this detail, but, then again, it is just
acting as a neutral party in all this.

"Sit on it!!". The pink elephant flaunts its' flaccid message defiantly
towards whoever happens to look at it. The Observant feels a bit uneasy,
a feeling very unlike-for-her. Grasping the shiny metal railing in the
back part of the elevator, she acquires a tighter hold of the round
metal pipe providing support for any possible fellow transportees.
Looking down, he observes her image as portrayed by the shiny, curved
surface of a metal mirror plane. Delightfully distorted, he is again
filled with a newly renewed sense of self.

*ding* goes the elevator, as do thousands upon thousands of other
elevators in other building in other cities in other countries on other
planets in multiple different realities and dimensions. The hand presses
the )!%??&-button, the snorkel-appendage reaches for the Uranium 58-di-
mension pocketspace, an energy transfer in the lower part of the atmos-
phere is started.

*ding* goes the elevator.

*248195825888888888888888888888888888888888888888* goes the elevator.

*ZZNXisoroé* goes the elevator.

Thousands upon thousands of Katts with thousands upon thousands of
Observants in thousands upon thousands of possibilities of outcomes.
Like the one where she is actually the Queen of England. Or one where
she's actually a man in a terrible 5p wig. Or one of my favorite ones,
where they like totally have sex and everything and it is so cool, you
wouldn't even believe it, man, they show EVERYTHING.

The point being, that everything has multiple possible outcomes which
are, of course, calculated from the incomprehensibly large number of
all attributes defining the different aspects of all things. Think about
all the adjectives you can name, for example, basing on the description
of the original Katt we discussed earlier. Now think of how many single
atoms are required to make up her body, and then, consider the thought
of the parts that a single atom is composed of. Even then, you still
have no idea of the mind-bogglingly infinite amount of variables that
have to be taken account of in this series of Observant calculation.

And that, my friend, is why you should sometimes think before you act,
because you never know which action causes a predictable reaction. The
pasting of an elephant sticker on an elevator button box by a
red-headed young boy, age fifteen. The red coloring in the Mohawk
haircut of a young punk rocker girl. The cold female robotic voice of the
elevator, chosen by a German engineer working late hours in a design
shop in Frankfurt, overlooking a silent street with a neon sign
displaying its' dim colors in the rainy and foggy dark night.

"H ute Kult r".

It all comes together somewhere. Just hope you'll be there to Observe.

Collected writings #1

(ed. what follows is a collection of writings by your Friend. Any or
all words here are written in a normal and clear state of mind. Any
resemblance to real people is purely intentional. All complaints
are wished to be presented in a pure Token of Love. Thank you for
your continuing patronage. Written during Oct 4 and Oct 5, 2008.

No chemical alteration of the writer's mind was required, with the
special exception of caffeine.

- Your Friend and Brother-in-Love )

--

Woop! Glap! Zingle! Ka-splat!

...beginning.

Thomas woke up from his drug-induced coma-like state-of-the-mind one
Sunday morning. The room around him was a multi-sided rectangular object
of many facets of facetious geometrical faces. The window was 2-by-3 by
which Two is meant as the width and Three as the height. The Window was
the source of illumination in the room which itself was sealed off from
what-other-realms-may lie behind the thin enclosures of reality in which
our Hero Protagonist lied in a herbalical hubris-state just few short
moments ago.

His hand was a mechanical device with multiple joint-pieces,
which automatically rotated independently from each other; creating a
sort of strange labyrinth-mix of army salutes and street gestures.
One could easily get him/herself into trouble in the streets of
Amsterdam with a hand like that; whizzing away on its own accord constantly.
A clear self-security risk.

The drugs started to clear from our Friend's mind; it was clear that
the required level of clarity would be soon reached with a distinct
level of easiness. Clear as a day it was.

The last remnants of that sweet Mary Jane soon left ol' Thom-Thom's
noodly-woodly-woogle. He rose up from his predicament-on-the-sleeping-device
and started to adjust His ocular devices-of-seeing-eye-thingies towards
his strange mechanical hand, which had started a sort-of Fairy Dance
Moon Ritual of the Spring Goddess-routine, and started a weird grinding
metal gear-sound which filled the room with monotonious machine hum.

"Strange indeed", said The Man.

--

The Angel Gabriel

The Angel Gabriel sat in a Parisian coffee-house hold a list of names in
His Divine Hand. The coffee cup was filled to brim with opaque black
beads which seemed inedible. He idly scratched the front of his neck,
apparently suffering of some sort of skin irritation condition.

(ed. then again, the Matters Of Divine Beings is a complex field of
science, so I'd really not know what really was going on. What is
Written Here, is just the human point-of-view from what was gathered
with the limited Senses of Man. )

The list contained the following names:

- Goward Gelbin Huhu-Walla The III
- P-012411
- Whatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatatata

All were written in neat typewriter type of type, fixed-width and
beautifully aligned in a geometrically pleasing grid. The beads in the
coffee cup rolled around a little, moving the other beads in turn, in
a-sort-of gear-like motion. The Universe as a metaphore, perhaps.

I scratch your back, and I'll scratch yours.

My head hurts. Must be a brain tumor.

--

Lucifer - A Miscellania of Collected Pockets of Space-Time

The Fallen One sat atop His fiery Seat in Gehenna. Morning star, he was
called. Lucifer.

The Man sits in front of his writing device and ponders the gears of
universe itself, making little sense as he goes. Then he breaks into a
self-referential passage in his text, describing what ever he finds
interesting in any small pockets of time that pass on constantly. Then
he reads the passages later in his solidity and is instantly transported
back into that particular pocket of space-time.

Free the confines of your trapped mind and talk to your inner plumber.
Drain the pipes of mental traps and self-learned protection mechanisms.

Let the sunshine in! Let the Love shine through! Let the people near,
and come close to other people as well. Receive and give Love. Love is
all you need. Love is everywhere. United States of Love. Love Machine.
Love is The Amazing New Electronic Pop Sound. Love is Cybernetic. Men
and Women as a Yin and Yang of the Universe of Love.

Everything is one, but even One is Dual-Sided. Still, nothing is as
Black and White as they'd like you to think. There is no absolute.
There is always the bordering value of gray-shade. Chaos is not Evil.

The Man sits in front of his writing device listening to electronic
sounds of Popular Music but is not distracted; not by far; he is
actually enlighted by the simple quality of the tonal sequence; he
starts seeing the combinations of the frequency of notes and colors
of the full rainbow spectrum.

(ed. they call this phenomenon Synesthesia. )

They call this phenomenon something Latin-sounding, but the name escapes
The Man at the required instant in space-time. He is forced to not to
write the required letter sequence because of this momental mental
flux. The sound is suddenly distorted in an interesting way which
reminds the Listener of the sine wave; a pure algorithmical wave of ups
and downs. This effect is called the vocoder.

The voice is coded with two waves; the original voice itself and the
other voice, from which characteristic are taken into the original voice
pattern; thus it all becomes something completely new and different.
Something out of this world.

This is how speech can used in new and interesting ways, something which
before was impossible for the human speech organs.

--

The Anatomy of the Human Sexual Quirkiness – A Therapeutical Study

The Man feels totally naked when in fact he is wearing a full set of
clothes. This nakedness is translated into incomprehensible feeling of
shame, which seems to be something that is learned from the Company of
Others; the sub-conciousness of the Western Society. The self-image of
The Man is helplessly bad; He looks into the mirror and tries to like
what he sees. On some days, he does. On others, he seems to quite think
of himself as being in a wonderfully distorted Funhouse-in-a-Fairground.

He meets a Female. A Yang. He hits it off with the Female. A girl.

A Woman.

A lovely little cutie girlie.

And then he realizes that even though he thinks he enjoys sex and knows
"The Tricks of The Trade", he is still in his inner self the same shy
and nervous Person as always. The lack of self-esteem is then translated
into fumbling and unsure movements of the Body.

It takes a few tries. Then he gets quite good at it.

The girl even comes a few times in traditional Old School Apple Pie
American Missionary Position Intercourse. Oh boy!

Then the different styles and positions are tested; many of which are
much liked and added to the repertoire!

What is then observed is the fact, that the The Man craves more of
partnership than casual sex; which is also found nice, but still
secondary. The drug-like feeling of Love is overpowering to this
young Lad.

This is better than anything. Better than a pound-bag of Jamaica's
Finest Ol' 'erbal brew. Better than a monstrous hit of Good ol' Research
Chemical Acid. A double-shot of that good ol' Jack in a glass with twin
ice. Take your pick. Depending on your poison-of-choice.

The Man chooses Love. Both Traditional Hetero-Sexual American Apple Pie
Kind-of-Love and the Love-your-Brother kind. He chooses his path to
be the Path of Love.

Love.

Love is everything.

The Man finds others. Others who want to Love him back. Love his, as
much he Loves the others, even if He sometimes lacks the proper method
of showing His quantity and quality of Love.

And in the end, isn't it what we want anyway...?

--

Alcohol as the Removal Agent of Social Inhibitions - A Case Study

The observed Group goes to a Public House. They order Alcoholic
beverages of their choice. At the start, they are a little silent and
jumpy, being all in strange, never-before-seen company. They
start quaffing down their Drinks-of-Choice, the poison required for
this study. After the first one, all members report easier levels of
interpersonal communication. This is continued through the evening. The
redness of cheeks on all faces is increased as the number of drinks
increase.

The volume of speech and laughter increases. Body language is more
apparent and highly visual. A few hugs are exchanged. The closeness
of bodies attract orbiting mass. Personal space is decreased; but not
by any means accidentally. A feeling of hot breath is felt on their
faces as the Group shouts at each other over the Loud Blasting Music in
the room. More physical contact is observed, in increasing number. A few
kisses are exchanged.

The Group Loves one another and the Group as One. Sexual tension is
apparent. Is this force of unnatural and Un-American Triad of Love
acceptable for all and everyone?

Cannabis Sativa is added to the mix as an experimental catalyst of
Physical and Mental Love. This, as expected, increases the Lust or
Libido or Sexual Want or Driving Force in Males and Females of the
Group.

All physical Contact is now strongly associated with Mental infatuation
between the members of the Group.

Simply put, they want each other badly.

Different Combinations of Love are experimented on, many of which are
much liked and added to the repertoire of the Group.

This is what we call a Gang Bang in the Business of Love. Oh boy!

--

The Human Hand-Towel or How to Stop Absorbing Shit for the World

The Man sits in front of his writing device and ponders things great
many. Of palaces burning and of tygers fearsome. Of far-away lands and
people of Great Renown.

Ever think of why You call people "Sir" or "Madam", like these
honorifics were somehow preset values of the Human Worth?

A "Sir" for $130!

A "Miss" for a bargain Fiddy Quid!

For The Man, human worth is a humble state, of which all Hu-Men should
be aiming for. It's something that is Noble, Just and True. Greater
than any meaningless social value or measurable quantity of material
wealth. Mahatma Gandhi was quite close to what I'm aiming at. He wasn't
perfect, of course. Nobody really is. He isn't a personal hero. You
shouldn't have too many heroes.

"Measure a Man by his actions," says The Man, knowingly grinning. Ignore
his scruffy and quirky outfit, he is not any better or worse than you. He
just Is. And so should You be.

The Man is not Jesus, nor is he Buddha, Allah, or any other figure to
look up to. His actions may not always be admirable or True. He is not
by any definition a Figurehead of Great Expectations. He just Is. And so
should You be.

Do unto others et cetera...

There is still a lot to say, but the Human Race needs is own voice, and
that voice is not the voice of Religion or State. It is the Voice of
Humanity itself, crying out from the darkness; the vast mass of
wrong-doing and of unto-others.

An Aye for an eye, a Youth for a tooth. Walk with the mass and you
become a cog in the machine losing any notion of free will.

Stand out.

It's a dog-eat-dog world out there. Try to stay aboard and enjoy the
ride.

--

The Spring Ritual or 1+1=2

We sat together in the river-bank of Seine
Your hair has dark brown and it was flowing in the summer breeze
You looked me in the eyes
I was yours and you knew it
I gave in to the dizzying feeling of us Two
And finally, one plus one equals Two

--

Isn't this where we got off?

The end is the...

Etuin kwys shulu kudzu?

Hata ma! Etuin shulu mas nani karon tenki twys mun kudzu.
"International incident" - kore wae ni peccta-ma.
Nis ti mechonomalischa accuradite. Etuin kwys?

O owe nenki se "magoro" (se pun munimuni korewa?)

(*jalaco*)

Guin ma fiendlich Spyrry goen goe! Swip~swip hata ma!

Enloche Mars xen chieni mun kore. Se ni "caricature" nis te "magoro".
Je nie nis ti, jalaco jalaco ma fiendlich spyrrylichen! Gengorowa suupeji!

Suupeji...