Tired of confronting thrown dirty cloths of yours. Tired of cleaning man-made deserts. I need you to have to face and own completely and entirely what you make.
Sky of sky, sky of light, sky of space, pressuring cold, sky without breath, sky of layers that we invade, our particles of what is that. I want to say emptiness, but it is anything but. They are full clouds until they collide, the contradictions entwined in black night coming down. Blackest and lilac space, part of it open but I am thankful for this lack of artificial light. Circling sensations of being small insignificant, breathing when I would like to hold my breath. Tired of this work. Not seeing anything but that above, anything worth seeing, anything worth sensing.
arborescent dimension, cycles of self-destruction rhizomatic eschewal of Humanism in favor of pluralic flaws repressive views of institutions, we have become blocks of over-coding,
lines of flight in direction, under order rationality has its way in making, to be logical in natural way. How I long for illogical, obverse and increasingly dissatisfying false calculations and definitions of wrongs and rights, acerbic, egotist mania I fascinate myself with numbers, numeric patterns, digits on receipts on streets on buses routes, pass the way for could you understand my need for fantasy, disorder and accuracy at the same time, and findings
hoho, obstinate, started feeling inadequate could you not try like there is nothing else than to impress all the time, because it could be so much better if you didn’t measure everything force everything I would appreciate it much thank you.
I’m going to learn to sleep sitting down at stations, wake up when someone approaches, touches, breathes, looks towards me. Sleep in a flight, work in the night under a newspaper. I will not be afraid. I will be a document of strength, of survival. Sleeping and waking up, walking and looking, sleeping under a tree, passersby gaze, maybe fear. Becoming the environment, giving up my comfortable bed, my isolated room, safety, quiet space for only me. Exposing myself to danger, disorder and death, but also harmony, beauty and life. There is a lot to live for, lot to see and experience, but is that to be experienced?
Sounds as chanting this world. Christ is crisis. Chanting in crisis. Chanting an end.
Call it divine, call it repetition of the name, repetition of the sound, call it repetition of the act, the same movement, the same fear and hate in the call, do not expect the same, expect the worst, do not expect the sane, expect lunacy, expect your narrowest nightmare corridor with mass of people in it with you unable to breathe, with them and their smells unwashed. Call it hypothetical trust, blind hypothetical trust, insane hypothetical belief, expect the unseen, the unknown purity command, fury, need to make the idea of purity happen in black. See the flag, see the scarfs, see the eyes. Nothing will turn their heads around from this mission. Nothing. Crisis is in the not negotiable, in the smallest space, in the smallest breaths inhaled, in passing out with the rest. ThreatExpect the crisis, threatExpect the hurt, threatExpect the ill, it will come, it will be a terrorist, call it a terrorist, call it an organizationTerrrrrrrrroriiiiiist, Terrrrrrrrrrrroriiiiist! It will be an explosion, a blast. Call it what you will, call it fear, terror, tyranny, call it many of who were hurt, many of those who are dead. Call it your blind heart, call it the answer of the kind heart.
It is not a comical POW. It is not a comical savage. It is the hidden savage of Christ, the one you deny, the one you do not want to acknowledge, because it is in you, in your religion. Smell of the divine captivated, taken, imprisoned. Moral imperative making monsters, sounds of this world, being a monster in an acceptable way, the same way as chanting righteousness, justice, superiority. Us and them, heaven and threat, Paradise of safety and Hell for the uncovered. Those who did what they had to do. Those who accomplish God’s plan to save what there is for us to be saved, next to nothing. Standing next to nothing, next to a plan of salvation drawn onto ground.
What beauty means to Dita? What beauty means to Pamela? What beauty means to Jennifer? What beauty means to Sarah? What beauty means to Angela? What beauty means to Marion? What beauty means to Christina? What beauty means to Anna? What beauty means to Bella? What beauty means to Amanda? What beauty means to Dolores? What beauty means to Diego?
because death is so close by, I’m turning left seize to exist for a moment, feeling uneasy, little bit,
like ever, nose bleeding ungodlike, ears bleeding I
looking for a tissue, sleeve, back of my hand, index finger, spit
It won’t find me nor I not even smell of me nor my path
(I just asked are you disappointed at something since you seem to discard everything to move on without hesitation) notes: About heavy metal and other parts of me, it is about dying and
feeling very much feeling much, much like an animal looking at people
filled with emotions like fright
feeling the energy of young men and adoring it. They are not ashamed of anything nor turning anywhere
Do you dare? Masochistic need to destroy yourself, the child. Like ever and never going away. Do you dare to look at it? To look. It is down to earth. It is a thing, it is a fright and strange layers of pleasure. Perversions and something worth trying, even saying it is an ache. Desire to let go of consequences, of obligations, of anything but dirty ideas.
Food of France, a blend at hotel FountaineBleau in Miami at sunrise. Arrange her, her open yawn, a complaint I could see down her throat, reddish and hear a voice. How to arrange something, something locked away, something grown to squeak in the uncomfort and disability of contemporary womanhood. Horrified, please stop. Sunglasses. Original attractive unpowered without a change, so loud homogeneity, carefully crafted, commitment to the kind of planning, please send us your very best words, washing quantities humming alone.
Majakollektiivi Timanttimetsä 