“To See Is To Forget How You Came Into Being”: The Unearthly Memoirs Of A Poète Maudit In Earthly Exile
Part 1: Beautiful Bodies – Just Like Allegedly Beautiful Concepts – Are Nothing More Than Porcelain Desktops For Your Chic Ideologies
Communism Is A Torturous Wavelength With No Enlightened Tunnels At The End But A Dungeon Full Of Cockroaches, Informers And Shrinks… Oh, And Stalin’s Ghost Reciting Mantras For The Greater Good Of The Nation.
The terrible ambience was everywhere, inescapable, earthshaking and horrifying. People from all walks of life, have been locked within it as if they were animals in a zoo. All the while, you are slowly walking as a pale anonymous shadow in the crowded streets, surrounded by stoned zombies and binary duplications, without anyone noticing your fragile existence, nor recognizing you for who you truly are. Even if you had an identity tag on your sleeve – nobody would pay any attention to your persona non grata. Your heart is heavy like coil; how could you forget smearing it with fairy dust before going out tonight? You daydream as you walk and imagine yourself standing still in the green cemetery, like a stoned angel, weary from the ills of time, looking aimlessly on the exceptionally few visitors to your grave. As your death unfolds in front of your bewildered eyes – you keep gazing towards the eternally silent skies, waiting for an omen of your next reincarnation to appear out of the blue…
In the beginning, on remarkably solitary nights of turmoil and torment, I walked alone and dived into the hellish streets that were my well-guarded prison. I immersed myself under the swarming clouds and the groping shadows of the divine, and then swam against forlorn passages of space and time on my way home – the one and only home, the eternal home, the dreaming soil…
I remember to have begun reading seriously at a relatively young age – around sixth grade. Until then, like most boys my age, the main interest in my life was soccer. This early period of my life is already quite a blur; I remember it very vaguely and imprecisely. Because I do not wish to transgress with inaccurate exaggerations shrouded in the fog of days long gone, and because the past is a sacred cow anyhow, I will refrain from telling too much about the sweet child that I was. You will have to take my word for it. Quite early in my development, it was clear that I’m unlike others in many distinctive ways, though it wasn’t yet clear by what extent. I was an exceptional student, but had little friends and no interest in worldly and social pursuits; I was a late bloomer too. Luckily for me, I have maintained a rare and very honest sense of innocence that sadly seems so esoteric nowadays to younger and older people alike.
From the moment I started reading onwards, I mean really reading and not just moving my fingers all over the pages, I never stopped. Very early in my reading career, I developed an insight that has accompanied me all my life. This insight was that one day; I have to write something about my own singular lifetime. Not an adventure book or a scholarly book; nothing tedious like that… But, a singular in-depth pamphlet that it is a kind of a ramified kaleidoscopic journey into the multidimensional person that I have grown up to be. It must be written in the most direct eye-level and in an attempt to entice the readers to be involved interactively – becoming co-creators in this mysteriously interactive process.
Although, I have probably read thousands of books and drank them off like a bloodthirsty mosquito – I always remained unsatisfied. Why is that, I kept asking myself over and over again? The simple answer is that these books, beyond having the obvious charm of imaginary characters and luxurious storytelling, were lacking an essential ingredient. This ingredient is a stubborn one and therefore difficult to find. I would describe it as being of an illusory spiritual nature thanks to which the writer credibly paints intimate spirit photographs of himself and his meta-realities, including the smallest details relating to his life – in a non-paternalistic way that allows the reader to delve into this microcosm in a meditatively participating manner. I, as the writer, must therefore write in a sincere attempt to get to the root of my consciousness and creative being. Such a component can be found particularly in confessional personal diaries, which have been my favorite reading material since ages. Yet, how can a profanely self-aware mystifier even begins addressing such a tedious task?
I’ve always preferred books which describe the innermost depths of their hero’s psyche – however made up (is there anything true and real in this illusionary world?). However, I must say in the same breath that I’ve always found most books to be too artificial in style and approach; too polished, too conspicuous in their absence of self-awareness and humility, and in most times there was a deep sense of self-importance that I could never stand for long. Yes, books were always a double-edged sword for me; it was the best activity to help me culture myself – because my perception says that before you go on your own individual path, following your own vocation, you must be well versed in the existent ocean of art and culture.
So… Do allow me to turn off my masks for a brief moment, piling them one after another… Wait… Alternatively, perhaps I shall better choose to sit up straight, cross-legged, on top of one of the hidden caves in the Himalayas, meditating to unconsciousness. The scriptures nickname it – reaching a state of bliss or Nirvana. Therein, I could be sound and just with my spirituality, similarly to the greatest yogis from the beginning of civilization. However, I cannot honestly choose such a futile fate for myself, because I’ve always been too much of an individual to be just “like someone else”. At that moment, I could also quietly remind myself that I’m not the programmer of reincarnations, nor his assistant. I’m merely a human being, so tender, so fragile, so very incapable of escaping my own staggering physical limitations. No bullies I had encountered before sharpening my double-edged sword, learning and practicing the art of Macabre Zazen in the process, could cut my burning passion and imagination. They were physically adept and strong but poor in mind and spirit. However, I… I was just much fiercer. Too independent to be tackled. With a burning sense of vocation and very deep feelings of love towards this mysterious astral formation we intuitively call life. Quite often, it is a nightmare; a horror story greater than any imaginary one… Yes, in my eyes, life is the greatest mystification – a grotesque tall-tale you better not tell your children before bedtime. Yet, there are equally as many sparks of compassion, inspiration and beauty in this oft disgusting daily routine we call reality. Hence, I have become – in the tedious course of time, which I’d never repeat again, and due to my life’s distinctive circumstances – a person full of beautiful contradictions and passionate contrasts. Experiencing both the unfathomable dark nights of the soul (in the spiritually artistic sense) and the majestic shamanic illness has allowed me to come to genuine terms with my own existence and sense of duty. Meaning – I’m one who profoundly recognizes the spiritual horrors of life and of our artificial sense of dishonest superiority – first and foremost in himself. Ergo, I cannot possibly sin towards others with evil intent or add to the existent malevolence. Vice versa – compassion occupies every inch in the temple that is the body – beautifying the crown, which is the mind’s innermost Chakra.
I have never strived to be famous, you see. Therefore, I’ve always worked to maintain my anonymity. Thus has begun what is perhaps my main life’s work – my secret vocation as the serial dreamer and healer of holograms – somewhat like an upgraded post-mythological adaptation of Lord Shiva. In my Dakroom, everything was possible, and so, without any drugs, I have slowly but surely, become a master psychonaut – A Columbus of my own godlike consciousness… I am a heaven and a controversial authority on one world…
Every Now And Again,
Deep At Night,
The Moonstruck Poet Opens His Dusty Curtain,
To Get Rid Of Dead Light.
His Dirty Little Garret –
A Sacred Graveyard;
The Narrow Bed –
A Tomb of Might.
Part 2: Full Of A Never Wavering Will For Further Earthly Births – With A Freedom From Pride, Passion, Put On The Helm Of Wisdom, Rent None, Scorn None; Freed From Whoever Ate His Abandoned Desires With The Majestic Potency Of All The Sadhus From The Kumbh Mela
Your room is and has always been your best friend… Here, you have dreamed and envisioned your illustrious ethereal fantasies, unassuming in their randomness like alien tentacles; in the magical loneliness of your existential fever and in the indestructible longing to express yourself and your infinite psychedelic imagination. Genius’ dead-end is arrogance. Humbleness is the focal point you arrive to when you have exhausted and extracted all you could from pride and swagger. If you meet a teacher who is not sincerely humble and protective of this sense of humbleness – stay away from this person. Once you become a so-called master, there must be no place for haughtiness in your heart anymore. You are suddenly free energetically – a free radical of the highest order. You stop tapping yourself on the shoulder and seeking attention as you open up to appreciate other colors around you. I remember the years I had struggled with pride, and how through very demanding psychological work, I was able to cut those branches off the gorgeous tree of my life.
Now, it is midnight and you sit flat-footed on a simple TV chair; having a steady place for one of your greatest missions: Gazing at the windows of your life (and neighbors). Nestled in the memories you have accumulated so far, you drift away. You think of your life’s creative work. Your body of work, even though having a colossal scope, had never felt enough for you; you had always felt as though it fell short of describing you and your holiest vocation to the fullest extent and therefore you have kept going on and on, creating endlessly, each night afresh. Sound without the visual aspect is perhaps too abstract and impersonal at times, yet also, at other times, too sensual when it becomes overused and popular – very much unlike your hardcore disciplinary tendencies. At some point, perhaps all works of art become umpteen and unoriginal. However, contrary to that, I hope that the Entheogenic/Hallucinogenic artistry and the implementation of these concepts in my AmbiaMagia, shall hopefully survive the test of time – perhaps, in a similar vein as the anachronistic melodies of Mozart have, and the art works of Michelangelo, Bosch and Van-Gogh have as well. Your full-blown psychedelic adventures, in your spectacular lighthouse, and the interconnectedness between obscure sonic forms and an intimate window to your soul – allow you a raw and genuine depth of expression that is rarely found elsewhere. This ever-expanding alternative universe explores your one-of-a-kind mental landscapes with quirky existential commentary and unorthodox humor, all the while giving a voice to your infinitely outlandish imagination.
These unique mystifications for trippers and exquisite corpses are your best organic contributions to humanity. In your work, you set to explore the twilight zone between the subconscious and conscious dimensions of the psyche, without getting into clichés or formalities. This is the breathing spirit of the AmbiMagia – Ambient Magic that creates a hypnotic gateway to existential tripping, without psychoactive substances… Using techniques such as binaural beats and other brainwave simulacra. Unlike many others renowned artists who paint unimaginative vistas – you have gone on a different route – giving life to very personal unlimited ambient music, which often reminds a subtle Rorschach test. Your life’s work is purely based on high-octane improvisations in the dead of night. You have often debunked your intensifying mind in this manner – creating infinite iterations Down The Rabbit Hole in your ghost-ridden room. How often you have wished to buy a whole palace for yourself, to settle down there with your gang of ghosts and get swallowed in the almighty nocturnal darkness – haunt yourself and your ghosts and be haunted, in a particularly unrestrained mind-game of obscure apparitions… Hunting for the ghosts within our psyche should become a national sport, all the more so, because in today’s vegan atmosphere – whereas actual hunting is considered taboo like shooting drugs in your veins (aka needlework) – inner hunting could be the best substitute hobby to get that ultimate Adrenaline rush fix. Spirit photography has always naturally fascinated me, henceforth, it was only a matter of time for me to invent and develop from scratch a style of art that interplays with some of these concepts in-vivo. All the more so, I think that other than the Internet, which would be nearly impossible for me to give up, I wouldn’t have been sorry to be born in an earlier era, perhaps the Victorian one, as I always greatly appreciated the costumes and the atmosphere of those long-forgotten times. Have I told you already of the The steam roller I built for grasshoppers inside Sweeney Todd’s cutting edge barbershop?
Art distracts us from noticing and recognizing patterns in real life, in the same way that external events distract us from our innermost subliminal life. Hence, I had to give up on wanting to become an artist in order to achieve an ever greater and much more open-minded creative freedom. Little did I know that my vocation would result in opening a demonic portal of infinite inspiration and infinite possibilities at reach – heck, not even the greatest tall tale in the whole world could have predicted this turn of events and end so orgasmically for the main protagonist!
While driving along the urban lines of the city
(Which are, like everything else in our country, will soon be the heritage of history)
My curious eyes stare in amazement at the architectural neglect
Which was exposed in all its misery at every turn.
No – I have no intention of making fun of them, God forbid
The complacent shacks of the rich
Are devoid of character and mystery
Two elements which are quite essential in life.
But that’s not the main issue of this attempt at writing a poem.
After I survive the agony of the bourgeoisie
When at last I reach the other Tel Aviv
My eyes collide in amazement at the peeling and half-abandoned buildings.
And this sight fills me with enormous vitality!
For this is the true magic of life.
Who are the dark dwellers of these apartments?
And what do their lives look like on the margins of reality?
It is not inconceivable that in one of these abandoned apartment buildings
Sitting in his chair in the well-hidden balcony,
A certain anonymous man stares with sad, sad eyes
at the windows of his abandoned life;
A Tabula Rasa He Is Today.
A transient reflection in the window, a peeling photograph of some ancestors on the wall, white noise of unrecognizable nature and some fragile ghostly light beams – those are the only witnesses to his insulated existence on this earth.
Breathing, creating, thinking and dreaming were his only daily ingredients…
And it is clear to me, as I write these lines
That this poet is me
In a few good years…
Rejected for ever and ever
his reality long since fell asleep
Between the shattered wings
Of poor old demons
And angels who committed suicide
Charmed by 8mm dreamscapes
On the archaic deeds of extinct Gods
associated with inverse neurotic melancholy
Because of the absence of artificial intelligence…
Frankly, I’ve never seen myself as an artist. As long as I can remember, I’ve always been more engaged with the deeply intimate expression of who I am, who I could be and who I dream to be in an alternative universe… Hence, I use different dimensions to express the otherwise unfathomable – far away from any categorizations. I am always told that modern art (with an emphasis on digital art) is too ‘easy and superficial’ and therefore modern artists are nothing but hypocrites who would never equal the classic household names we were forced to see as role models. It is quite a familiar scenario to see how folks from all walks of life, and especially artists, mock digital artists and visionary psychedelic art in particular – proclaiming that machines are the actual force behind this unimaginative form of expression. I’m lucky to have mastered the best instrument of all – playing on people’s nerve… Frankly, I’ve never been apologetic about what I do and the reasons why I do it this way and not the other way around. My custom-tailored methods of creations, based on ever-changing artificial intelligence, cannot ever be traced or copied. It’s state of the art in a way that wholly and uniquely mine. I have a huge smile on my baby-face as i’m writing this because it has taken over twenty years to synthesize this creative universe – numerous, almost infinite, sleepless days and nights have been allocated to fulfill this preliminary vision, that has been laboring my consciousness since a very young age.
To you – who think you are enlightened and the greatest the world has ever borne from the ether – I shout to you, wake up! All these renowned philosophers and geniuses you admire, and the Russian or German or the devil-knows-of-what-origin novelists and artists you have been brought on, are nothing but depressing mythical creatures. Dead artists cannot be awe-inspiring or serve as bona fide role models, for they have remained far behind and eternally lagging on new technology, new dreams and new creative adventures, so we must find living paragons and replace all the old masters with new masters, far more relevant and engaging! In my revolutionary perception, traditional art loses its appeal (if it hadn’t lost it by now as is) in an ever-changing reality; hence, to be original, you must first discover what haunts you more, then forget everything you know about theory and practice, including everything you’ve been taught about right and wrong, harmony, beauty and intrinsic cerebral duality. All the more so, we must remember that when art becomes a commodity, we lose the essence of what we may or may not express via our elusive sense of transpersonal eye memory. It’s not a coincidence that most artists – just like most so-called spiritual masters and teachers – are in fact imposter artists and imposter thinkers. To find someone genuine and original is akin to looking for a needle in a haystack.
It is time to create and generate our own miracles! Healing happens within us when we allow the karmic wheel to shed its eternal light on our pre-programmed heresy in ourselves. If only I had a penny for every time I was told that my projects were too idiosyncratic, I would have been rich today. However, I create purely for the sacred purpose of embodying my own miracles. And I always embrace change – just as the planet does in light of our maleficent deeds towards her and her beloved creatures. Thereby, I am accepting the challenge which fate has thrown in my direction – and opening this portal to my very own generator of miracles. I encourage you to read my words not as unfathomable woo-woo or highly intellectual wordplay, nor am I pretending to be a master or a guru, heaven forbid; each one of you is a master and a guru in your own full right! My words and most importantly – the dreamy spaces that I’ve been creating for as long as I can remember myself – are meant to stimulate you to think, feel, imagine, dream and create by yourself!
I often see an “end-of-the-world” TV channel in my dreams, where slightly faded neon-esque mandalas videos are played in a continuous loop – long after humanity has gone from the face of the earth forever and had become stardust. I have come to terms with my liverish visions and do realize that this particular vision, with my full-fledged psychedelic animations, is haunting me because it’s inscribed in the essence of my psyche… When I was a child, I remember how, when we first got television, most of the channels were turned off in the nighttime and white noise had taken their place – there were no translations in the little hours of the night but flickering video noise. I would often watch the white noise in obsessive fascination, in order to find abstract patterns in the chaos. Add to this vision my trademark dazzling colors – and you will envision the kind of fathomless psychedelic work I create in the dead of night.
As an authentic (in my own humble perception of myself) outsider artist, who has spent the greatest share of his life in the Lightroom without any kind of publicity or close contacts with the art world, I’ve essentially dedicated my life to authentically unpretentious self-expression. Outsider art is the art that is created by people who have not studied art, are not part of the art world and its institutions, and typically are cut off from the establishment. People who are living in insulated realities of their own; and these people create surprising treasures, rich and fascinating, and were usually recognized only after their deaths or in their later years, in their deathbeds. Their creative output confronts audiences as well as the hypocritical art world in general, with troubling existential reflections. Outsider artists are those people whose societal life was never bright, who went against the grain at any cost, non-conformists and mavericks who had stayed true to their inner vocation.
The very heart of my own expansive lifelong conceptualization of art is inextricably linked to my revolutionary notion, according to which, human consciousness is capable of entering a meditative state, and in fact experience a full-fledged tripping state – without the consumption of substances that are identified as psychoactive. By delving into the unique mind-altering experience that I offer- especially within the context of the animations, which I create from my own original artworks – one can reach a part of his/her consciousness that is usually inaccessible in a ‘normative’ state. Thenceforth, instead of swallowing hallucinogens or entheogens, it is possible to experience my art – with the word “experience” being the focus. For, the experience here is purely active and not passive – the goal is that of unity with the art and not separation, as is usually the case when we face a work of art in a museum. Stemming from this – I advocate rebuilding the core values of our culture, changing the trends that have prevailed to this day. A hearty goodbye should be said to the masters of the past and to the so-called spiritual assets, on which our civilization was unjustifiably based. Psychedelia is a central concept in this vision = a building block that will change our fundamental perceptions of the natural world, about the systems that make it up on the micro and macro levels. Without bias, I wholeheartedly advocate an insurmountable internal jihad – as the Sufi mystics do. That is, the extinction of our imagined sense of superiority, first and foremost, followed by root therapy for the ego, which motivates the human instinct of violent conquest.
I have peacefully lived among you all my life – the hard-working ants and black widows; all the while, meekly detesting the kind of ‘normality’ society promotes as the highest end of human existence. In my eyes, it is lo-fi at best. I have always known, deep inside, later experiencing it first-hand [as a drug-free psychonaut] – that there is more, much more to life on this itsy-bitsy planet we call earth (which in my perception is a living organism) – than merely existing by the day like damned technocrats… Who created this existence and why – nobody knows up to this time and age – and do not let anyone lie to you otherwise. There are theories, some firm, some hilarious, some queer… However, nobody has a concrete answer – only bewildering variations of the self-mutilating tricks we use to fool ourselves into believing that we are better than everyone else. Even if it was announced by the scientific community that some kind of afterlife undoubtedly exists, insofar one can attempt suicide to start a fresh life course, fixing past mistakes to create the best case scenario anew, I swear that I’d still prefer to stay in this lifetime, just the way I am now. All the more so, even if I would have known for certain whether god exists or not, I’d never attempt to deliver the news to the masses, because I believe that what we have now has the best of all worlds; often, absolute answers create unfixable disasters. From the intangible depths of space, from neon fire-wells and new-age cellars of extravagant light I call to you to remember this!
Part 3: Derived From Equanimity, I Rise Like A Mythical Hero From The Forest, Wishing To Send You Postcards With Ambiguous Self-Hoods
Where do you find a functional society on a spiritually and culturally enlightened level nowadays? With MTV, Hollywood and other trash industries blinding us further and farther by the day, we are all captives in a monstrous marionette game we haven’t designed or asked to be part of. Manipulated to death by authorities, religious institutions and numerous cults, we are strangled daily. How are we expected to find a dedicated life partner when everybody around seem to belong to either one of three follies – feminism, veganism or spiritualism? It is harder than ever to find a kindhearted, wise and emotionally stable spouse, in this confused era wherein all the values are berserk. All the while, a bankrupt dance economy caused our younger generation to appreciate the wrong kind of art – which is everything but promoting profoundly spiritual expressions of humanity. Thus, young people listen to trance and techno and not to Indian or other kind of classical music that could open them up to meditation and self-reflection. Today’s intellectual life equals a risk revenue. The academia promotes dry philosophically detached intellectualizations and looks at one’s grades and the number of papers promoted by fancy peer-reviewed journals – rather than seeing the big picture, valuing depth and multidimensionality. In such a sad excuse for a reality – how do we decide what is Dharma and what is Adharma?
My vast line of life experiences have shown me that I shall learn the best I can from all enlightened masters of the world – the good and what I must avoid myself, meaning, which traps I must be aware of. Whoever says he has found the perfect teacher has to realize that at different times – we have different teachers/masters who are perfect for us at that particular moment of time. In my experience, it is impossible to find the ultimate truth in words, teachings and even in role models; to find the ultimate truth you would have to live all the possible scenarios in the universe, in all the possible attires, but remember that omnipotence was not given to humanity for a good reason.
In my beloved Lightroom, throughout a lifetime, I have gone the full academic route in divinity studies – from my own local traditions [incl. Kabbalah] to Sufism, Buddhism, Hinduism; I’ve studied Christianity, Islam and so on and so forth… I studied practically every possible offshoot of world mythology. I went to embracing Solipsism for a night or two; Nihilism, Nietzsche and Cioran were my guests of honor but then kicked with shame… I still went dissatisfied and hungry like a lion in a world without prey and food. In addition, to pray was never an option. Studies show there is a positive psychological benefit to this practice, but the ridiculously rigorous cognitive monster in me demanded answers – to whom shall and/or do I pray? Moreover, what for – is it acceptable to ask for divine intervention at all?
I buried my spyglass
In a churchyard of a sunburnt
Where worldly suctions penetrate
my holy fireside
On northwest eve
creation went through laceration
A negro wainscoting vine
Fantasy, you voiceprint!
You fog dish
biometric cheater model!
You fish blueprint
monetary paean maneuver!
We are mere dust impersonations
in a rusty simulation leisure
of a hopeless
Thou shalt transcend your orderly reality in order to meet face to face with the otherworldly domains of mind-bending psychedelic art – profound reflections of the most spherical dimensions that the human mind is able to grasp, and on the other hand, the unfathomable spiritual horrors of our oft-nightmarishly absurd existence. If you’ve ever experienced with psychedelic substances, you’ll surely comprehend what i’m talking about – it’s a most elusive experience, and one which might prove to be celestial or a slippery slope towards the gates of some grotesque Hell. It’s highly unpredictable – strongly dependant on one’s particular mood, the dosage, the setting and various other criteria. Labeled by yours truly as God’s Favorite Toys, Psychedelics have remarkable effects on the human imagination and psyche at large. They shed light on spiritual terrains we rarely access, if only, perhaps, once upon a lifetime, in our dreams (unless you’re me – because my dreams to be very astralic and psychedelic, often materializing into full-blown trips). My lifelong fascination, spanning some 30 years, has been art that can best be described as hallucinatory. Trust me that within minutes of submerging yourself in my intricate psychedelic life’s work, you’ll most certainly feel the best possible effects on your health – spiritually, emotionally and even physically. It is also very likely to induce a genuine trip inside your psyche (and for sure will have everlasting subliminal effects!). To say the least (believe me and others who have experienced this first hand) – tuning-in for a few minutes each day, equals long minutes of healthy laughter and thereby holds the power to harmonize your mood and enhance the quality of your spiritual practice. Moreover, it will probably change your worldview for the better and alter your perception for good. So, Mutate Your Mind Into An Irreversible Trance And Create Your Miracles On The Fly!
Part 4: Meanwhile, The Envious Lord Of This Identity, Of Which You Were The Chance That Was Capable Of Freeing The Whole, Envies The Maxims And Attains The Desired Object Of Goodness – Is It Thanks To The Influence Of Time Or The Opportunity Of Utopian Schemes?
How fast the nightly ghouls spread across your holiest ark, your sacred chamber, the unearthly amber – and the all-pervasive eyes of your irredeemable solitude bleed striking colors unto the canvas like a peeping tom – blunting the senses like old-fashioned gypsy magic. You do not move or flinch, well seated in your chair, meditating in silence, flying through one of the many escape routes in your imagination. Sometimes, you feel lonelier than the hero in Coltrane’s ‘A Love Supreme’. You are not easily deluded by your feelings. You are well aware of the increasingly intolerable price you have to pay for remaining true to yourself. Your past is so sanctified to you because it holds the potential to explain you; it is the only source for such abstruse psychoanalysis. Giving up on society’s core values has taken its toll on you, but you are ever the fierce intellectual that you remember yourself to be; only much more sentimental, nostalgic and emotionally transparent.
You cover your body in a thick wool blanket and continue to reflect humorously into the cold air of your room. Soft light beams are flickering on the infrared walls, creating an illusion of instability. You remind yourself of your favorite memories from the same apartment building where you have lived for the vast majority of your life. It is almost as if it was in another lifetime. Long ago, so long ago… Where are you now? Has anything substantially changed? You are too tired to answer your own doubts. You remember the beautiful walks around town at dusk time, dozing off while listening to some crime episodes on discontinued old time radio shows, and dreaming the multitude of lives you could have lived… You remember the silent valleys and the tall mountains around your hometown, the silent breeze of cool air stroking your cheeks on a warm summer night; it all seems to you, right now, like one madcap hallucination… Later on, in your fathomless lucid dreams, you would be a runaway who had found a welcoming bed amidst the cool bosom of the sea. You would then envision azure skies as seen from old porches; damp and crumbling.
Yes, you want to be a sea in your next life; or at least a never-ending, continuously unfolding dream; perhaps starting by visiting the provinces of isolation of other geniuses, like Fernando Pessoa’s Lisbon… Half-smilingly, you admit to yourself later – your real life events, unlike your creative work, were terribly monotonous. Sort of an uninterrupted perfection. You have not allowed anyone to love you genuinely, because you simply loved life too much – the abstract life, the unsung life, the life beyond words and sounds, and the life only your creative insanity could portray… Suddenly, you remember that you have lived a whole year in the so-called City of Love, Tel-Aviv. However, you, on the contrary, killed your love life during that year. Interesting… Why are you remembering this now, all of a sudden, unexpectedly? You also remember that like a ghost, you were spinning back and forth throughout those strangely deserted streets, those secret and barely-lit narrow alleys, the empty courtyards, the kingdom of courtesans, in the dead of night… Out of sight and out of your mind, in the hardcore heat of the night, like an off the hook salsa dance with your own shadow-identities.
Do you remember how you patrolled the red-light districts in search of the sublime? There, of all places, you hoped to find your long-forgotten peace of mind. Like a lunatic who escaped from a well-guarded asylum, you followed strange vehicles on their way towards socially forbidden nocturnal pleasures. In your wanderings, you saw too many lost souls with a landscape of fanaticism in their rotting eyes. Moreover, there was no light to be found in their hearts. Nor any kind of solace or redemption to guard you away from this orgy of naked souls. You saw prostitutes celebrating their prestigious transmigration; but just like waves that hit the beach mercilessly, you witnessed them all breaking loose and apart. And you remember lucidly how you felt too many emotions, but kept quiet; keeping to yourself was your favorite national sport after all. You were a kindred spirit to those women, but not to the men. You could never understand how and why someone would use and abuse a broken soul in the very first place… You still do not understand, even though it is your professional duty to answer such questions.
The wet stillness of the night absorbs your lifelong escapism through untouchable landscapes of misleading nocturnal light beams and socially learned helplessness. In this haunted windy city, the cold suffocating darkness goes on forever and you are always alone, sitting by the open window in the godforsaken alley – quietly observing god’s eternal madness and the devil’s inscrutable wisdom. Oh… My forsaken love… Love, my imaginary blind friend with the all-pervading third eye… Love, who climbs silently to play with stray dogs and wounded kittens on abandoned rooftops in the shadowy city of decaying concrete jungles, wrecked doom promises and stark naked voyeurism – where misunderstood geniuses and mysterious loners roam the smoke-filled streets of the red-light district in the dead of night to escape their self-inflicted loneliness. Therefore, you madly escape without any regrets… You escape through desolate back streets, soot and negligence, empty parking lots and isolated construction sites, secret twilight zones and faintly lit residential areas, nameless alleyways covered with thick white fog and soft dewdrops… You reach the silent blue sea that awaits you patiently from immemorial times, the sea that sees with its wise infinite eyes the forbidden romances that take place on ramshackle park benches under the naked moonlight or at mysterious underground tunnels and lifeless shopping centers in the dead of night… The same locations where self-educated sages in abstract scapulars and voluptuous nuns in black leather corsets and seductive lingerie create theoretical models of the universe, and where unconsciously enlightened hustlers and impoverished urban shamans teach brokenhearted misanthropes and cosmopolitan refugees who orchestrate their invisible lives at the margins of the sleeping city about the joys and ills of western colonialism. And… At last, you arrive to your future burial grounds, where schizoid spinsters feed stray pigeons and caress wild jackals and anonymous sleepwalkers like yourself have escaped the unbearable solitude of their mundane existence in search of the sublime…
You perfected the art of your spiritual escapism from reality, like in a drunken trance; you often danced barefooted on the streets like the distorted rabbits on energizer batteries that dance at those neglected toy shops in Tel Aviv’s central bus station – the lowest gateway to hell. Were those awe-inspiring journeys a set-up by fate or perhaps by the spell of the muses? What kind of raw freedom and uninhibited spiritual drunkenness have you wished to share with the universe? Perhaps these unbridled dialogues you managed to form with the environment successfully maintained your internal strength. Then, unto the darkest dreamscapes, in the hallucinatory tunnels of your visions, you have entered like a daredevil. You will never forget all these devious nights that you have spent as the weary and dirty Cabaret King in your Lightroom – guarding the sacred Lightroom Dharma from harm. Aahhhhah… All those accursed dark mental places attracted you like a moth who was inevitably attracted to the dying light. Thankfully, throughout your lifetime, you have managed to synthesize the enormously rich tapestry of your consciously gained insights into a unique body of multifaceted work that stretches beyond categorizations and borderlines – metamorphosing the authentic darkness you have seen, felt and experienced first hand into wholesome spiritual beauty.
During the nineties – a time of great discoveries for me, especially thanks to the blessed advancement of technology (it’s a double-edged sword for the younger generation, who’s addicted to technology and cannot live without it, sadly), allowing me to give vivid life to my illustrious subliminal adventures – I’ve realized how important it is to open my heart and mind to others who have inquiries in the spiritual and cultural realms, and thus have begun engaging in very fruitful dialogues with many people from all walks of life who have approached me by mail and private messages. I humbly see this as an acceptable compromise between fulfilling my vision of an enlightened creative leadership without ever entering the accursed guru-territory. I also believe, anyhow, that once a work of art is released, the consumer necessarily becomes a co-creator in the process of viewing and analyzing an artwork. In such a way, objectivism fades dynamically, just as life unfolds in such a nonlinear way, that a teacher/guru cannot possibly lead you anywhere but towards reckless confusion. In addition, role models are necessarily people who are older and can only teach and be an example of the past – past values and patterns. Alas, the world is moving forward so quickly that it is not wise to concentrate on the past that much. When a person becomes a living monument – stagnation and rust soon develop.
The Right Confidence Is Called Non-Voluntary Truth!
Thence, next time you are persuaded by a guru or a pest aka a spiritual teacher, tell him/her: “Your Body Is The Most Unfair Shit Hole To Dig Up My Brains At”!
Avoid having a follower status of a torso at all costs!
To every soul constructor and contractor : Your betrayal in the basic values of humility and compassion is more painful, all the more so, because you, being friendly with the unspoken sides of reality, spirituality and creative expression, were supposed to be like a magnet for nobility, a pillar who’s like a power station, but instead, you became a broken cane.
REMEMBER: Spiritual enlightenment is an endlessly dynamic process, not a static, once-in-a-lifetime situation – but a living and breathing movement of insights, changing the mind and heart of a person like smart livable genes.
A short haiku in the memory of Osho – a psychopath guru and an epigone who left a controversial and highly overrated legacy:
In A Rare Mind State Of Redundant Luck, Screaming Horsetail-Horsetail, I Reluctantly Asked The Master To Fold Our Hands Inside The Naked Men, A Tantric Gesture Known To Help Me Bark My Prayers.
And one more short haiku – this time, in the memory of Zen masters who wholeheartedly believed that beating their students with a stick could somehow help their spiritual progress:
Can A Good Example Equal A Mortal Sin Midday? Be Free Of Any Second Thought Refutation, A Zen Master Volunteered His Advice – Creation’s The Ideal Mental Musk After All, Huh?
Died a little forever; a world withdrawn for what seems forever now.
Innumerable laments chanted by arcane archaic beacons
Children of the new age enjoy cherubic decentralization
Confederates in Buddhist temples support deep spiritual retardations
Systems of brutalizing rules; Idealisms creed propylene pest –
Or rather freed radicals be fishing for an overpaid wolverine nurse!
Somebody, any-body, please burn my image forever;
As I molest my own memory,
Having been an abacus rover –
Unimportant like a chant of some awkward -little- screed crocodiles – –
Are we an abrasion or an allergen?
Iberian comber morality is more likely;
Did you know that – – –
Groaners are grainier than Chinese taxidermy productions
Manufactured by small bicyclists who were cheaper replicas of eristic holocaust survivors?
Jeez, what an awkward coxcomb I am;
I guess I’ll spend one more Valentine in this treacherous Darkroom.
Hercules versus virtual milksops.
In my younger years, my deepest yearning was to be a universal prophet – one size fits all – without any exceptions made. A prophet of the common person, plodding senseless to provide for his family. A prophet of the distinguished professor, who teaches students about scientific discoveries and social phenomena by day and at night, recaptures his youthful unfulfilled dreams. A prophet of the violent prisoner with thousand scars, who by day is a criminal authority and in the dead of midnight, like a little boy, is crying in his cell for mercy on his soul. A prophet of the beautiful widow who is softly stroking her Persian cat in front of the television – remembering the days of her prime and the passion her deceased partner had towards her. A prophet of the rebellious teenager, who fled her home and was forced to sustain herself on the streets by providing sexual services to immoral bald men. And of those elderly men, who were once babies and then cute little kids, sweet and full of amazing dreams, loved and loving, and withered due to spiritual and cultural corruption. I want to be the prophet of the bourgeois and of the country’s rich and powerful, and of course the prophet of drivers, vendors and construction workers. A prophet of men who are secretly peeping each other in public filthy restrooms in a central station of a large and bustling city; and a prophet of married women who are secretly having stormy love affairs with their young colleagues; a prophet of asexuals, queers and transvestites. A prophet of lost souls, sinners, and righteous saints – without leaving anyone out of my warm fatherly hug.
In my life’s grand opus – you will not find any praises towards scholastic philosophy, psychology, the humanities and the natural sciences – nor towards sophistry, contemplative sciences, spirituality and esoteric teachings. I shall not write about the metaphysics of education or abstract astrophysics. Instead, this is my ultimate song of songs, my beloved swan song, a humble requiem of a life-affirming psychonaut. A Psalm celebrating the freedom of one’s individual mindscapes. It is essentially an ultimate cry out for the love of life, an inspirational blues for the lost muse, a twisting psychedelic trance dance in the virtual reality of one’s deliberate creative impulses, the ultimate ode to a radically creative lifetime of one unearthly demagogue.
Part 5: I Have Full Faith In The Strange Zany Lips You Paint On Your Heart, While I Smoke The Unseen Body Partitions Of All You Who Live Inside The Caudex… Like I Always Say – If You Trust A Mystic, You Will Surely Become A Cystic Statistic!
I swear that each time I enter a library, I feel as though I just entered a cheap sleazy brothel; with all the letters and punctuation marks trying to break free from their eternal arrest on the shelves – with the atmosphere being densely depressive and onerous… Libraries are jails for ideas and the librarians are the wardens of intellectual order. I, for one, could never feel at home in the castles of knowledge or houses of culture such as museums and opera houses, and at the bleeding-heart meetings of academics and wisemen. I’ve always felt incredibly suspicious towards people who claimed to be wise and knowledgeable, as well as allegedly able to convert ideals into actions. In this sense, I have always been like a philistine troubadour who forgot to discover the world… Moreover, when I enter museums, and I have been to the most famous ones, like The Hermitage in Saint Petersburg – I feel stifled and suffocated like the marvelous, timeless, paintings that are literally hung on the ugly walls like Jesus on the cross. If my paintings are ever to end on such sterile, abominably white walls – just call me St. Demagogue of the Double Cross and call it quits…
In fact, in my perception, classic art is like a mentally frail hag who’s already too old and ugly to look in the mirror and acknowledge her stagnant irrelevance in an age of cosmetic ghostwriters, featherbrained tacticians and granulating foxhounds.
Dearest friends, perhaps I have failed, perhaps I’ve been wrong my entire life, but my lifelong creative passion must never shut down, wear off and extinguish. I hope that my memory and my art have found a warm shelter in as many hearts and souls as needed to keep this flame shining until the end of days which will also be the end of conscious creativity (as we know and understand it). The magic realism of the end of art… If You’re Dead Bones – What Does It Change To You Whether You Are Known Or Not? There is no nightmare greater than the continuous feeling of being transparent to the world, having to prove yourself from scratch everywhere you turn, even though in secret, in the transcendent laboratory of your dreams, you have transcended far beyond anything you could ever wish to describe…
Remember that The Psychonaughty Psychonaut has no bibles as they are always empty; you keep writing and deleting them with your celluloid imagination, whilst your worldview collapses for the thousandth time, fueling your ever-expanding inspiration… I never looked for the light beams of fame. I never looked for riches or to earn a single undeserved penny. I never wanted loyal fans or to be admired, and I even sneered at this perverse idea. The worst thing that can happen to a genuine artist is the attachment to an idolizing and captive fan base, who feed his narcissism and passion for greatness in glorifying acts of virtual sycophancy. I have always condemned such inane mesmerism and was always in favor of an open eye-to-eye dialogue… Hence, I created simply because it was the only faithful act I could do well enough in order to express my innermost microcosm – in its most ravishing complexity. I created like a possessed nutcase or better yet – like a ghost which was stuck between all metaphysical realms; I created without extraneous considerations, directing all my flowing inspiration only inwards. I expressed the wealth and splendor of my inconceivable consciousness, an outpouring of supreme magic on the blind canvas. In the dark and cold, in front of a flashing computer screen, in spiritual ecstasy, awe and piety – I was as all-powerful, all-seeing, all-feeling as The God you all seek outside of yourselves. May you find inspiration in these words to do the same and become flourishing creators in the fullest sense of the word. My thirst and passion towards the act of creation has no limits, and this burning desire is what I wish to convey to you by all means possible!
Most Artists Are Mere Technicians Of Their Instruments, Aiming To Conquer The Stage, Not Their Innermost Galaxies… Nowadays, I realize more than ever how limited the scope of art is, and how attached you all become to your godly title (i.e artist/creator), thenceforth, it’s time to unite the creative impulse with the spiritual one and start appreciating works of art by their expressionistic realization and not their impressionistic premise.
In my Psychedelicized solitary confinement aka the ritualized Lightroom amber, there is nothing but an old vintage clock, the premise of fundamental sentimentalism and the promise of infinite goodbyes. On these fetishistic walls, a visitor shall see an exhibition of the haunting images of my unearthly life. Do you recall the far-gone days of esoteric occult orders, which secretly worshiped demons at midnight, in hidden cellars of nunneries and synagogues? Then, you should know that my Lightroom has an ambiance of hundreds of years ago, when human beings believed in spirits more than they believed in gods. Between these four white walls, I had taken upon myself the heavy burden of transcribing humanity’s cult survivors. In this lifelong process, I had transformed my initial [quite nonsensical] vocation as a decadent sound de-programmer, unto a refreshing vocation of eternally hopping freight spaceships beyond the scope of humanoid space and time… Even though, I must confess that I could not ever win a single chess game against the embodiment of time. To be utterly frank, my ethereal awakening as an infidel cosmic hobo has begun after art had stopped to engage my furious need for breaking apart… It was back then, that I have also given birth to my very own one-man clairvoyant circus act. Thanks to which, my esoteric sense of mystifying hypnotic humor created artifacts that helped materializing my artificial abstract fantasies into accountable desires. In the past, I had been telling myself all the time that instead of writing heart aching poetry about lost souls, I should simply get lost myself once and for all. Although, this circus business is highly anti-empirical, it is still the only existing visionary narcotic for healing earthly energy drones. So, join my psychic tinder circus, where I am playing telepathic mind games with my numerous unrealized secret identities! All hail the highest priest from the cystic temple of funeral doom metal; shit, sorry, the mystic temple of funeral doom laughter!
We Live In A State Of Eternal Coma, That Is Until The Morning Sunrise Washes Us With Sin Again, Each Day Anew. Thereby We Pay The Terrifying Price Of Enlightenment… Without The Protection Of Nature And Emptiness, History Loses Compassion Over Its Materializing Narrative.
I’m well aware of the fact that writing books and all the more so biographies is akin to playing with self-deception – not unlike playing with a kaleidoscopic wheel of fortune or constructing a sand mandala from scratch only to ruin it after the game is over. Thus, although having the chance and talent (humbly said), I never gave in to this temptation to write a serious book for serious well-groomed adults. Encoding my feelings, musings and meditations into my avant-garde creative adventures was more than enough. My artistic affairs have taken the vast majority of my spare time and have provided the best companion I could have ever wished and hoped to have. Fully immersed in the creation of my art, I was genuinely an incomprehensible mad scientist in his KaleidoMagia Labs – working for the goal of enriching and developing further my torture chambers of psychoactive sciences… Behind the translucent veil of constrained silence, I was all I ever hoped to be… Yet, still, something was missing and that something is a direct manuscript of my best diary entries, edited into a coherent stream of consciousness. Therefore, the words you are reading right now are it – the missing link of the puzzle.
As a lone soldier who hides secretly in a godforsaken watchtower in the wilderness, somewhere far, surrounded by the blood-thirsty night; Who cannot wait ’till the sunrise appears above the ground – so were I – for many nights in my bedroom. And when my strength completely sold out, when I stopped to imagine and conceive original new ideas because of mental exhaustion – I was still feeling. I could never stop feeling. I learned to hide my intense sensitivity, I learned to hide it well, I learned to cover it with thick layers of rationalism and acute witty humor, but nevertheless I could not stop feeling the existential angst and ennui of those around me. I deceived everybody, but I failed to deceive myself. Which greek deity was used as a spate in the future tense of thine sovereign cosmic theater?
Pretend you know I love you…
Time is pure beauty;
But it is painful like you.
A siamese hell is my honorable abode.
However by choice –
I lose my voice.
Otherwise, I’m under complete psychological control.
Blown away or drunk?
A sensitive being,
Suffering abnormal deaths,
Tongue rings can’t help –
My state of helpless ecstasy.
I feel like being eaten alive;
Would you please volunteer to end my woes with your toes?
Please do not mistake thinking –
Your illogic logic is like yogic exercise
I hate those gray days –
I invented emptiness for people
(yes, even normal people)
When I was too full of myself.
Now I’m hungry again.
Must find myself an average dose of the Gaussian function.
Or else, I will have To Keep Sending Empty-Handed Telegrams To Shallow People.
I watch the world through a pair of melancholic eyes that have accustomed to poetic sadness in such a manner, that with the flow of time, it has metamorphosed into something else entirely – an object of magical mystery. In my childhood, I would spend hours watching myself in the mirror, focusing on my eyes. And through the soft unattainable lightness of my gaze – I’ve always been watching curiously with unruly thirst on everything around me. In a constant – unseen – meditation of emotions that threatens to eradicate Samsara – I always feel a stabbing sense of yearning to be the messiah of this wretched world. However, I then remind myself the words of Emil Cioran: “In every man sleeps a prophet, and when he wakes there is a little more evil in the world”.
I want to die countless times and countless deaths, and come back to life again. I want to experience everything, I want to be everybody; I want to be the God and the Devil of this terrifying world. I want to be life and death together. I want to go to the desert and lie down on my back, on the hot sand. I want to hug trees and flowers with my thin arms. I want to swim with crocodiles in the Amazonian river. I want to kiss all the unborn embryos, embrace them and be a worthy companion for animals, the flora and all the undiscovered animals of the cosmos. I want to be that stone young punks are throwing to the lake. I want to be a bee and produce pure honey (after I have stung some of the aforementioned punks). I want to be a dog and finally be someone’s best friend. I want to be a furry little animal that curls in the cold nights with an unmarried landlady. I want to be a lion and be the king of the animal world. I want to be a lone wolf in the wild. I want so much and so powerfully that I literally go crazy!
Communication starts and ends with white noise. We fill our days with endless chatter, but we give very little thought about the actual meaning of the words we use. The same goes regarding writing. So much is written in so many languages, using the same patterns, the same default tricks. I’m writing effortlessly, otherwise I wouldn’t even bother because I don’t believe in the written word. When we force words into our cognitive patterns – we enslave our spontaneity. I feel that under my stylus pen, words create themselves and inject their own universe of meanings unto my initial intent. All these words are to me, as a baby is to a woman – swimming in deep silence inside the womb of quasi-infinite consciousness. They simply need to find the most favorable moment to emerge into the world. I cannot force them to emerge. This intimate alliance is splendiferous. I allow them to stay and live undisturbed in my mind, and in return, to my utmost surrender, they assemble. I do not think what to write, how to write, why do I write – I do not plan anything. It is an entirely spontaneous process, like an inner revelation. And I… I am just making love to the words under the moon’s softly caressing limelight…
Have you ever felt as if nothing you do is good enough? I often had such intrusive thoughts – regarding everything, from school to art, friendships and professional decisions. And it’s quite likely that every decision I’ve made was indeed faulty; but is it not the case with each and every one of us and our personal decision? Can perfection be attributed to decisions that we can never see in a multidimensional light? We can never know the full and utter consequences. Every decision is a crossroad. I am more or less beyond this phase now; I would not be writing this book if I have not been. However, I can never stop thinking how imperfect this existence is, how fragile, how unexpected, how awkward. A creator of such a grotesquely palpable existence must have been severely drunk or high on acid. Another explanation would be a personality disorder – borderline is my best guess. And when I lie awake in bed, during the unsung hours of the night, I tell myself weird stories where I’m someone else entirely, oft-vague, always surrealistic, I become the hero I could never be in my unnoticed real life. Most of us lose our innocence quite early in our development, thereby becoming obnoxious adults, even if we used to be cute and well-mannered children. Youthful stupidity robs us from our spirituality, leaving us with frenzied hormones and a riotous sex drive. The universal poet, who also gigs as a prophet for extra fun, understands all this very well. He’s well-aware of his vocation. He too may be vile from time to time, and perhaps even act in weird and infantile ways sometimes, but the difference is that he’s fully aware of it and can control it consciously. When a maximalist poet becomes a fully-capable adult, he necessarily becomes somewhat of an impotent simultaneously. The world needs more genuine people of truth, who haven’t given up on their truest essence for the sake of a societal role.
Thence, I Can’t Escape The Thought That Perhaps This Life Is Best Lived As A Full-Fledged Eccentric, Oblivious To The Woes Of This World, Concentrating On Inner Peace And Transcendence, Disconnected From The Rhythm Of Modernity In My Shadowy Apartment, Surrounded By Classical Music, Creeper Plants & Ladybirds…
Part 6: Temptation Feeds On Our Blood, And Then We Are Born, The Scabies Babies Of Jihad
Lo and behold, ye confirmed minister of war, the Olympian falcon, galloping away like a humiliated Homer; you were the perfect ripper in the backdoors of London, before you had found your fore pleasures in the sub-definitions of the prowling, censorious, nutcrackers of the kitchen table. And in this distorted trance, taken out of all proportions, the nucleus of lethargy symbolizes the way in which we’d attained the clearest vision of the disproportionate measures of our supposed, unfulfilled, greatness. Then, like disembodied avatars, we found ourselves swirling in spiraling chaos, towards nowhere at all. How many times have I told you before, and do I have to tell you each day anew – if we all become afraid of ourselves, we can alter the ego once and for all; The secret lies in the absolute acceptance of transience and imperfection; beseeching in half awkwardness about the no means to obtain one simple question. Desires and showers conjugate our incarnating anachronistic casket in this episode of mispronounced amnesia – this lifetime we must learn to accept, even though we have not chosen it; we have not had a choice at all. I view my life as a fictitious propaganda that has been constructed by the divine to crack an ideal curfew on my freedom-thirsty-mindscapes. The distinguished improviser in me promises to stay tipsy and intoxicated, but life keeps being the tenebrous neighbor that forces me to choose the lesser of two evils. Hence, like a butterfly in the buffer zone – I am yet to break free from its spell on me. Marked by my own gown, the moon prevailed, but the ice and heart of man are out of sight; so do not dare to mumble how humble you are! Long before the earth swarm with metazoic darwinites, I had already overstepped the memory hill, only to find out that question is a place that I do not have to accept. As much as we try to be good, our inner demon needs its food raw, so instead of enlightening oneself, it is much easier and plausible to corrupt thy vulnerable soul. We never think twice why we value something over something else…
My whole existence, I have been intently studying earthly life. In your books and music, I have drunk fragrant wine, I have sung beautiful songs and played numerous instruments, and I have hunted gazelles and monsters in dark forests, and have explored so many different trains of thought… Beauties as ethereal as clouds and mist, created by the magic of your poets and geniuses, have visited me in the dead of night, and have whispered in my ears alluring tales that have set my brain on fire. In your books, I have climbed to the peaks of The Himalayas and Mont Blanc, and from there I have seen the sunrise and have watched it at evening flood the sky, the ocean, and the mountaintops with sad gold and crimson. I have watched from there the lightning flashing over my head and cleaving the storm clouds. I have seen previously unvisited primeval jungles and forbidden forests, desolate fields and barren landscapes, the gloom and splendor of nature, virgin springs and breaking waterfalls, hidden caves in the well-hidden ravine, haunted cities and forgotten ghost towns, heard wild howls and soft breezes of laughter, visited mysterious shrines, abandoned graveyards and secret hideaways for lovers. I have heard the wondrous singing of the sirens in the silence of the night and the distant strains of the shepherds’ pipes at sunrise; in my darkest dreams, I have even touched the bloody wings of sly devils who flew down to converse with me of life after death… In your books, I have flung myself into the bottomless pit, performed miracles and slain, burned towns and executed innocent witches, preached new philosophies, died and was resurrected… Repeatedly. Your visual art, books and music have given me almost infinite wisdom. All that the restless thought and novel creativity of man has created in the ages is compressed into a small compass within my exploding brain. Nevertheless, I strongly disdain your alleged worldly wisdom and the temporary blessings of the religions you have thought of. These spiritual horrors are worthless, fleeting, illusory and deceptive – like a schizophrenic mirage or a Tibetan mandala. You may be proud, wise, charismatic and self-confident, but death shall nonetheless wipe you off the face of the earth as though you were no more than unconscious rats burrowing under the floor, and your bewildered successors, your allegedly splendiferous history, and your beloved immortal geniuses will burn or freeze together with the earthly globe… The answer lies, as simple as that. You have to start all over again, from scratch, rethinking your theories from null, accepting different truths as reality, inheriting eternal bliss instead of eternal misery. Nowhere is there a space without supreme light – but you have to train yourself to see it. How? Entheogens; psychedelic art and sciences, seeing into the fabric and matrix of reality, replacing your cherished and well-nurtured wise guys and wise ladies with professional psychonauts who could point at a different direction than the self-annihilation you are heading towards.
Through The Crying Eyes
Of A Bewildered Poet
The Abstruse Beauty Of
Thy Engulfing Sadness
Is Slowly Eaten Up
In A Flame Of Intangible Silence
Reality Has Fallen Asleep
Under A Seraph’s Fire Wings
Bewitched By An Inexistent God
And The Neurotic Melancholia
Of Our Indispensable State Of Being
Sitting in my little room,
reading, absentmindedly, some scientific theories about human consciousness.
The physical arguments do not convince me at all.
For some reason, the author frequently uses cliché poetic expressions from the New Age lore:
The search for truth, the awakening of the human spirit, spiritual redemption, and so on…
And I ask myself with my trademark sardonic tone:
With a hand on your chest, what is the real benefit that will come from all this?
Haven’t we been in this b-movie already – we woke up and fell asleep again….
What will change now, if we wake up again?
Enough of this blubber already. I have reached a breaking point in my relationship with the human race.
Or perhaps, it is much more correct to say – I am genuinely disillusioned with man-made illusions.
I was born enlightened –
But over the years, I’ve been blackened and stained by human misbehavior, intellectual fabrications and spiritual tomfoolery.
An empty-handed pseudo culture of despicable materialism and mendacious religiosity,
And tens of thousands of self-proclaimed prophets, gurus, intellectuals, professors, artists and riffraff
Who have no original say of their own
So they mentally masturbate from sunrise to sunset –
poisoning the younger generations and cutting down trees to support their so-called “high culture”.
Metaphorically, I’ve always said that when one girl fakes the big O,
it is at most a personal tragedy –
But when dozens of them do it together, it becomes an environmental hazard.
Now, how do we get out of this complicated cognitive labyrinth?
And… most significantly – is it worthwhile?
The Easterly Wind Blows Silently Behind Me;
A Quiet Prayer On A Gloomy Sabbath Morn.
But I –
A Dead Frozen Angel –
Hear Its Caressing Tone,
Once A Withdrawn Child,
With A Tender Heart Of Gold –
Have Now Solemnly Died,
To This Awkward Little World.
To The World Of Dull Women And Men,
Like A Deadly Plague,
Were Selfishly Demolishing Life;
Trying To Escape,
A Prewritten Fate,
Whilst Filled With Erroneous Hate.
All The More So,
I Have Died,
To The Deceiving Mirage Of Nature.
On The One Hand,
Soft Leaves Painting Primeval Forests,
And Ancient Yellowwood Trees Standing Nobly On A Lonely Hill,
Nourishing Planet Earth From The Very Beginning Of Time.
But On The Other Hand,
A Continuous One-Dimensional War Of Attrition,
Where Blood-Thirsty Predators Run After,
Peaceful And Helpless Animals.
A Violent Death Under The Blazing Sun.
I Too Have Died…
But Unlike The Helpless Animals,
My Final Breath Was Peaceful And Painless.
I Too Have Died…
To This World of Fathomless Chaos,
And Unbearable Inanity.
A Divine Paradise,
Where Velvet Virgins Sleep Under The Arms Of Warriors And Poets.
Have Nevertheless Died To This World,
Without Any Doubts.
Thus, Giving Up On The Sweet Virgins And The Light Company Of High-Spirited Poets.
I Have Finally Faded Away,
From This Spooky Little World,
I Was Forcefully Born Into,
And With Supreme Efforts,
Even Learned To Love.
But No More;
Because From Now On,
I Am A Little Stone Angel,
With Two Open Eerie Eyes,
Towards The Empty Frozen Skies.
It’s a cold and bitter night of on Mount Biranit. Lonely and saddened like a ghost, which was snatched against its will by the lord of eternity, I climb through the dark terrace of the Signal Corps, toward the bare watchtower. I replace the afternoon guard, unwillingly but with a sense of duty and fairness. Few worthless words are said, as usual, and I am alone again for the next eight hours. Alone in the fullest sense of the word. The frozen air passes through the gaping windows of the watchtower. Sitting on something that looks and feels like a chair. Physical instability translates into mental instability. It is very dark, and the darkness seems to swallow me with a mighty roar. Another seven hours – I remind myself – perhaps with a hollow smile and not without a hint of self-mockery… But who am I mocking? Is it myself that i’m making fun of? Perhaps of everyone but myself? I do not know. I’m not sure, to be precise. I know nothing at all tonight. Nothing but the sheer fact that Lebanon is so beautiful on this gloomy night… Oh, my beloved Lebanon, my soul’s reward, the crown of my nightly solitude! You are beautiful not in the physical, simple and coarse sense. You are beautiful, my love, like the light of the stars… You are my very first appassionato. However, in contrast to this amazing beauty, which I do not know how to digest – my soul, my beloved soul, is filled with eternal sorrow, and soon begins to bleed into the open night. And as the night deepens, I curl up in the darkest dreams and feelings that I ever had. It hurts so much when I imagine myself in the end of my life; and I already feel the terrible grief that I shall feel in some odd forty or fifty years, when I remember the distant and melancholic nights of my childhood and youth. And I continue to reflect mercilessly on the dark life that will be woven for me – days and nights in the shadows of a deep, silent loneliness, without human warmth and without love, and tears of sacred sadness falling from my drunken eyes. And my soul continues to bleed heavily into the cold arms of the frozen watchtower, while the cool drops from the rain outside, penetrate into the transparent corridors of the soul. And there is no love on such a night – not even arbitrary. No love at all! I doze off for a while, and wake up again from strange background noises. And I wish… I wish I would disappear forever from this watchtower and out of this world… And again, loud noises wake me up from a random dream with outrageous terror. In the darkening tower, insane bursts of wind excite the sparks of instability; threatening to drown me in a furious rage. It’s three-thirty past midnight, and the frost has long since dulled my senses. Can not do it anymore, enough is enough! I Turn on the little radio. Radio frequencies are very distant, but thanks to my infamous persistence, I manage to find some vague Arabic music – seems to be Fairuz, followed by Marcel Khalife. The profound resonance of the howling violins, next to which a roaring singer stretches the throat, brings to life the bleeding wounds in my soul, and I feel the thick blood flowing from every inch of my body. Lebanon, my Lebanon, you are so-so beautiful tonight, so very beautiful… My abysmal loneliness weighs heavily upon my heart of coal, like the burden of all the dead I had seen. And I smile a fool’s smile – and I cry, cry, cry…. But out of the darkness – no one hears me sigh. As I stand up to watch the sleepy horizon – I realize that there is no lighthouse in the world that could or would ever contain my soul. And I wish… I wish I were blinded in that very moment, and see nothing at all anymore. I do not want to see enemies in improvised watchtowers, I do not want to see frightened soldiers crying to God, and I do not want to see lovely female soldiers withering in armored IDF bunkers. It’s already five o’clock in the morning. In a little while, the light of the sunrise would uprise from the depths of the earth and save me. But in the meantime… I still bask in the hidden beauty of my Lebanon to the sound of metallic violins. The tears have long since dried up, but the heart is still hurting. And I tremble… like a shipwreck that was infinitely forgotten in the bottom of a stormy sea. This artificial dream we call life passes by me but never seems to touch me… And now, the first bursts of virginal light penetrate through the dark envelope. And at this hour – I kneel on my knees submissively and pray for whoever wishes to hear me – to lift my weary soul to the skies. In my irredeemable hallucinations, through the thick morning fog, I seem to notice how the yellowish rays of light suddenly smile in my direction… And in that moment, there is no watchtower, no body, no loneliness, no soul. There is only the naked light of a spectacular sunrise rising from the canopy of the heavens. And Lebanon… My Lebanon, my adorable bride of honor, has never been so sublimely melancholic and poetic – a secretive beauty engulfed with a dreamlike sadness – like an eternal funeral prayer for our beloved guardian angels.
Loose steps violate the sanctity of the moment,
One cracked whine cuts the stratosphere,
A rude, lingering fire breaks out from the metal.
There is no more air to breathe.
Part 7: The Enlightened Paragon Situates Joyrides Now, So Beautifully Sleepy, So Profoundly Antipodal, Gliding Amongst Restrains And Trowels, Misquotations And Whacky Drinking Mollycoddles; Hence, Morph Your Jibing Astral Flesh Into Tears And Insurgent Windfalls
How can I interest you in my foolish prose? It does not follow any linear structures, thenceforth, making it hard to read and follow its curly ventricles. Very much like a serpentine or a labyrinthine. Why would you, with your non-existent attention and concentration, invest your spare time in digesting some madman’s continuous hallucination? Your life is orderly, bourgeois, you have a warm bed that you share with the love of your life, somebody to cook and clean for you, a dedicated life partner – whereas my life are metaphorically akin to blowing up a pimple in a self-terror attack, similar to a local, dormant terrorist cell ala Daesh. There’s no prophet in his town and can never be. So, we, the grand lonely men, are forlornly left with two options: either going insane or deconstruct ourselves to ground zero and call it art. Later on, those who are allusively struggling to stay in-between those two states of being, read our words and nod their heads with a sense of inner peace. I could have kept depersonalizing myself like Pessoa, but at some point, have found this hobby to be rather silly; thus, I’ve united all my personas back into one, that I had formed, nurtured and cultivated like a Tamagotchi. I was a remarkable stranger, a collector of sins, an unearthly demagogue, astral light and few more – but eventually, I couldn’t quite live with either one of them for long. I had to get back to base, to my origins, to my first and foremost roots. Therefore, even nowadays, whenever I ruminate about giving birth to one more person – I cut its umbilical cord right away, in order not to fall prey to it later on.
Genius. The word which drives us all mad from jealousy. Jealousy. The most lousy trait a person can have. Quite soon after I had awakened to my own falsehood, I humbly understood that I was what could be rightfully named as a genius. It was obvious to me that I was different, I could process information much more creatively, intensely and originally than everyone else around me. But this state of being wasn’t yet, at that time, a wholesome gift because it carried a heavy burden; melancholy which was reflected upon everything – the nonsense we have to deal with daily, routinely, without end, so it seems. The list of human follies, weaknesses and grave defects of character is neverending. I was aware of this very early in my psychological development, making me all the more vulnerable to the ills of growing-up, of becoming a man, of social expectations and my own expectations from myself. School has always been a factory of dry knowledge, in my sad eyes. I had never been engaged with what I was taught; it was all dead, to me, and therefore unable to enlighten my thirsty mind. In my imagination, I sailed far away, entering a period of quiet, lyrical, rebellion. During those formative years, I had well understood that Genius alone wouldn’t help me to become he who I wished to be. Thus, I gave self-deification up – never to return to that infantile state of mind. When I am in an introspective mood and reflect back, I laugh of my own naivety and lack of a multidimensional, psychedelic, perspective, on what it means to be human; brains is often an obstacle, not a blessing. I am surrounded by very smart people all the time, in my line of duty – but are those people wise? No more than my neighbors, who all come from a troubled socio-economic background and low educational credentials. The smarter you are – the more self-centered and less altruistic you become with time. That is what I have learned in my lifetime. Hence, most of my close friends are not from my immediate work environment – and if they are – they are as self-aware as I am and see more in life than a neverending race for status and power. We consume each other every day to remain alive – simply look around you to see how isolated we’ve all become under the compulsory guidance of erroneous educational and religious laws. We are much more isolated than ever before – addicted to transient crazes – whether it’s shopping, university degrees or simply killing each other for fun. Nowadays, human affairs thrive thanks to mutual interests; everything seems to be initially and eventually led by some kind of material or psychological gain, thus, altruists and psychopaths have more in common than you might imagine.
Fly, Fly, Fly,
My Beloved Sadness!
Soar High, High, High,
Towards Unknown Regions Of The Vast Skies!
Fly, Fly, Fly,
My Beloved Sadness!
And As A Cherubic Chant,
Or A Choir’s Quiet Lament,
Your Beauty Will Forever Be Present!
Fly, Fly, Fly,
My Beloved Sadness!
And May It Be,
That For My Tortured Soul,
You Will Always Be As Good As A Cup Of Morning Tea.
There’s nothing worse than wearing your heart on the sleeve. Never trust ego and pride driven human beings as long as you can differentiate a she-male from a gender-fluid non-binary clickbait; isn’t it quite ridiculous to even ask why somebody becomes a misanthrope, just look around to see how awfully absurd our existence is, how many bitter pills we swallow daily to stay afloat… Nothing can compare to the loneliness of an organism who acknowledges his/her utter solitude in the infinite cosmic sea. Without even a shimmering perception of connection, we submerge daily in delusional silence – losing bit after bit of our sanity. Yet, I call to you from the desert – be not like a snake; feel compassion towards all creation even from the heights of your existential despair, precisely because you, yourself, know what it is and how it feels like to be nothingness embodied in human flesh. Your spiritual path, however lonely, must lead to an enhanced sense of solidarity with creation; if it glides into the shores of Psychopathy – know you are on the wrong path and like the worst kind of bully – you have become an enemy, not a friend, of creation. Moreover, if you once were a bully, do know that the only pathway to forgiveness goes through self-mutilation to compensate for the self-harm you provoked in your helpless victims once upon a time; similarly, you will have to pass a thousand sections of hell before you get the absolution that may restore your karma, tattooing the citadel of obtrusion on the looking glass of your gleam culpability.
How do I assign angels to comets? Wait, forget that… I can’t even wire my own brain cells properly; instead, I cling and cringe, waiting like Vladimir and Estragon for my own Godot, preferably in female form, as I’m overwhelmed by masculine aggression, which is existentially suicidal in its underlying nature – and not to mention the underlying autism of the male organism. Godot’s unyielding rosemary corset blasphemes my already hot-headed violin in an edgeplay which creates an unbearable endorphin rush that only the safest vanilla master might endorse… The saddest part is indeed when we quit… Therefore, I must go on as planned.
The boy with the sad eyes,
Climbs silently to play with Gods on abandoned rooftops.
His cherubic gaze, like a celestial body,
Is so close but at the same time so far.
The boy with the sad eyes,
Roams to and fro the remote streets of the Other Tel Aviv,
The Cryptic Tel Aviv,
Whose latent beauty is known only to a select few –
Those with love wounds in their hearts,
And whose troubled soul has become a war zone.
The boy with the sad eyes,
Keeps all his secrets to himself,
Well-hidden from adults.
The boy with the sad eyes,
keeps himself desperately distant from his surrounding.
And yet his eyes –
His sad little eyes
They – they do speak;
Of his unbearable mental desolation…
The bottom line is this – the natural state of being for the human race is living like citizens of the world, cosmopolitan dwellers who enjoy everything the planet offers graciously in abundance to those who respect its timeless harmonious cycles, otherwise your life will be similar to tilting at windmills which will end in havoc. In this context, spiritual enlightenment is an endlessly dynamic process, not a static, once-in-a-lifetime situation, but a living and breathing movement of insights, changing the mind and heart of a person like smart livable genes. From an evolutionary point of view, we are programmed to rely on a higher power and on social structures, searching for stability and solace in the chaos, we are therefore unable to enjoy and truly live in the moment without succumbing to our many fears and insecurities of our psychological identity. Hence, I’ve always felt there’s something awfully infantile and arrogant in proclaiming enlightenment and associating it to yourself or somebody else, in my humble perception, we are each enlightened in our own unique way, if we only choose to acknowledge it and share this light selflessly with our peers.
We are all prisoners of our own little boxes – where we cautiously put our orderly cognitive projections about art and life – what is acceptable, normative and unthreatening – refusing to accept to our sacred bourgeois guild anybody who thinks and dreams differently, thus doomed to infinite mediocrity. I am well aware of this and therefore speak very unpopularly, because unlike many, I do not look at what I do as art for art’s sake or as entertainment. As a king without a kingdom, I must finalize the havoc I’ve started because of your pretense, so while I’m looking at the world without participating in it, looking past the known and explored history of the arts, my message is don’t create anything unless it will become timeless…
Overflowing With Beautiful Insanity And The Lightness Of Being, Where The Whisk Stood Beyond Nighttime Eyewashes, A Mysterious Man Lives In The Basement Of Your Apartment Complex, Dreaming His Mystifying Life Afresh Each Morn And Night; In Broken Tongues, His Ghostly Life Becomes Meaningful Only Towards Its Indescribably Surreal Endnote… Or, Perhaps, It’s Not Inconceivable That In One Of The Semi-Abandoned Urban Buildings That You Pass Daily On Your Way To Work – Facing The Sill Which Opens Only In The Most Remote Reserves Of The Night – Sits A Lonely Genius Poet, Staring With Curious Eyes At The Sadly Blurred Faces In The Vast Crowd… A Sea Of People Who Are Passing To And Fro Nonchalantly, Like Ants, Ignoring His Unimportant Existence On The Very Margins Of The Busy City. Such A Romantic Notion Of Psychogeography That Speaks Volumes Of My Life- As I Am This Poet…
Part 8: Dark Artists, Like Psychotherapists, Only Draw Foolproof Caricatures Of The Nonsensical Utopian Hell That They Selfishly Envision, Hence, To Stay Focused On The Diligent Path Of Self-improvement, You Mustn’t Fall Into The Bloody Vicious Circles Of Their Addicting Phantom Pyrotechnics
Where does this awkward and often bewildering life lead is a question that’s often heard and explored by spiritually inclined individuals, religious groups, old and new age cults, occult organizations and curious freethinking individuals. However, nobody in the whole course of humanity’s infamous conscious existence on this earth has been able to bring forth the ultimate evidence. I have lived a substantial amount of years to wholeheartedly guess that yet another “I-know-it-all” is lurking right around some corner in your city, perhaps even in your neighborhood. Who will try to convince the human [but not so humane] race of its inherent potential? Unfortunately, close to nobody! If it has no market value – and nobody can profit from it – it’s a doomed initiative. Every day I see and hear children who’ve been brought up into the dark ways of distorted belief systems, which discourage high-spirited exploration of the world – and inject the seeds of their hardcore fundamentalist doctrines instead.
Many ideas and concepts begin quite well with Utopian premises and promises; we all know [and if you do not, then I highly recommend learning history in-depth] where that leads to and how it all ends… Tragically would be the spoiler to that riddle. Unfortunately, our inbuilt corruption and greed are the exclusive winners of the race of evolution, for the most part; while more or less enlightened individuals run to some zen monastery in the mountains. In my perception, without critically addressing our humanity, human dignity and inborn spiritual values, a cultural society cannot be sustained. It will produce more and more violence-prone zombies with high intelligence but zero conscience. We see many such prodigies today – many go to med school, others become lawyers or politicians, and many more turn to science in order to realize their crooked visions. Others turn to therapeutic professions and engage in psychotherapy. Remember, though, that Psychotherapy is less than a soft science; at best it’s a rare and obscure art-form, while, in the worst case scenario, it’s a horrible pseudoscience; the dangers and ills of this widespread practice – which is based on philosophical assumptions but not rigorous scientific trials – are way too many to name here. Problems arise directly from the open space that’s left for the practitioner to execute utilitarian authority on a client who knows not what to expect because the lack of protocols (this is especially true in psychodynamic psychotherapy). And if there are some kind of protocols (for instance in CBT) – they are usually vaguer than the fake protocols of zion or the peacekeeping forces in Africa. All the more so, psychotherapy is in fact akin to modern charlatanism/shamanism with more than 1,000 techniques at hand; therefore everybody does whatever they wish to do, without much of intellectual clarity and down-to-earth honesty. Such a heaven and haven for charlatans – like a children’s playground for pedophiles! Freud’s and Jung’s theories may have remarkable subjective value on the level of cultural lore and spiritual wisdom mythology; but treating people based on vague and unprovable concepts is a serious slippery-slope towards therapeutic abuse. Especially, since the common layman doesn’t understand the underlying concepts, and therefore is open to being exploited. Very often, psychotherapy becomes a cultish practice which leads to mental and intellectual slavery. Moreover, It’s my honest conviction, based on lifelong observations, that therapy and the psycho-therapeutic industry at large are largely responsible for the “I AM A VICTIM” attitude that we see a whole lot nowadays. It seems to me, that nowadays, people don’t even experience themselves as fully capable adults, who are expected to take responsibility for their choices and deeds. What a negative mirror of a shallow, zombie-like society of slaves, which are everything but proactively productive, genuinely creative and intellectually open-minded. Is this the futuristic paradise that you wish us to enter? ADHD-induced and money-driven capitalism, where the strong enslaves everybody else, just like in the flawed operational conceptualization of nature?
Contrary to the aforementioned eulogy, I would claim that we are not abandoned by fate into renegotiable chaos – we are fate and we are chaos and we negotiate with our surroundings and ourselves every single moment in and of our existence. In fact, each one of us is an unexplored universe. Our minds are a cosmic infinity in itself. When we realize our true nature, and in this continuing process, our argument lens is finally decoded into active participation in the evolutionary formation of creation, we will stop blaming everything and everybody else in our problems, and start taking full responsibility for the state of affairs. I repeat, in different words: all convictions of servitude are merely within our consciousness – they are not engraved in us genetically or otherwise. Faith, a religious lifestyle and spiritual practice can be our friends – as long as we don’t fall into extremism/fundamentalism – which are born of our own insecurities and weaknesses. Atheism is not necessarily the answer to our problems, and thenceforth, proving that there is nothing beyond the material world will not necessarily make us better people or wiser as a species. Thus, we have to stop looking at old art for inspiration and start creating new means of inspiration – right here, right now. Ditto regarding the old masters – with all due respect – it’s time to regenerate with all it entails. We must not deny the power that is embodied in artificial intelligence and generative means of creation – creative expression has inherently no boundaries whatsoever. To sum everything up: instead of believing in miracles – we have to start creating our own miracles on a regular basis. The path which I believe can set us free is similar to iterations of a kaleidoscope or a mandala. Thereby, based on deeply psychedelic thinking and profound insights which were born throughout years of natural tripping – I believe that actually embodying a psychedelic reality in daily life, can bring us closer to our genuinely spiritual nature and to our community at large, thereby facilitating interconnectedness and in-depth expressions of our innermost natural spirituality. Each decision we take is a junction of sorts; therefore, similar to the manner of looking through a kaleidoscope, I believe that we can and should have more faith in ourselves and in our subsequent decisions; understanding that the journey of our lives is the highest goal in itself, thus erasing all artificial and abstract destinations from the map. Turn Waze Off!
At this point, I would like to share a dialogue that I once had with a wise and enlightened artist, whose name is Daniel. According to him, my vision embodies the awareness of the third-eye and the movement of an entity free of the physical body; a projection or perhaps the intent within a dream. You see, humans are conditioned and programmed to believe in ideas that are highly limiting and are only within a certain spectrum of possibility. Our sciences are involved with the idea of breaking down the corporeal Being into what appears to be smaller and smaller particles, along with the notion that this is what ‘life is’. When Beings, who create their own reality, are taught that they are victims, and thereby need to look outside for their enlightenment, as well as for their answers or salvation – then they create a reality in which this seems to be the case, and it appears that they are ill-equipped, and unable to care for themselves, not to mention victimized by countless invisible demons that would do them harm. They are taught to disregard their dreams and intuition because these are intangible and without definition. Consequently, they separate themselves and others from information and knowledge that comes from their inner self, aka their true Being. However, these boundaries of safety are counterproductive. The infinite quality of Being and creativity are exactly contrary to that. What we have been taught to accept as true is actually the result of an acceptance of limitation and fear. To step beyond this is to catch a glimpse of the Self and Being. Fear and doubt are the structures that we have been taught to learn. According to Danie, pure art like ours (he’s a master artist) to invoke and churn the spirit deep within. Not from a regimented religious aspect, that is, but from an indescribable inner depth. Some schools of thought provide the narrative for such contexts. I strongly believe, and so does Daniel, that we, embodying our wholesome holism, are part of a bigger whole – and at the same time, made of trillions of tiny cells of matter, each of which is alive on its own, but they all work together to make the pattern known as “I”. Thence, Daniel and I have come to understand that we all exist on an edge of the infinitely larger, and simultaneously, on the edge of the infinitesimally smaller. It is on that layer between the larger and smaller, that we reside in right now. We also are composed of many translucent individuals pieces, and are 70% water, which is almost 100% transparent when pure. Think about it – We can shine, glow, coordinate and even stop light, the medium through which we reveal our existence, and through which we perceive one another. We are greater than the sum of the parts, and at the same time, the part of a greater and more amazing whole. Therefore, everyone is an artist, how can it be any different? We each create our own realities, and this is, at the very least, an art. It depends on how conscious one chooses to be, as to how fine the work is… How aware an individual is, and to what extent this individual will go to project intent and pay attention. Spontaneity for instance, is an art – a discipline – yet one cannot put a time, place, or specific function to this movement of Energy. It is therefore true to say that all art or creativity is the result of Magic and intent. The tools that are used for whatever expression – are the result of focus, intent, experience, and personal interpretation of one’s own thoughts, beliefs, and expectations. If one looks into quantum physics, for instance, it is easy to see how the term Magic can apply; and, how extraordinary we each are, even within a corporeal realm, which is only one notion of expression. There are an infinite number of ways to express Energy and intent. This universe is highly specific as to the illusions used and manipulated for creation and focus. Our works of art correspond to the essence of high Energy that goes beyond the human condition. The focus to reach a more evolved state through the discipline of something akin to Tantric Yoga perhaps Or the Magic of spontaneous action and the evolution and transformation of Being. This recalls of something steeped in the mystery of Mesoamerican tribal rituals, ala the legend of the Bat. Akin to the ancient Buddhist belief in reincarnation, in Central America, the bat is the symbol of rebirth. The bat has for centuries been a treasured medicine of the Aztec, Toltec, Tolucan and Mayan people. The bat embraces the idea of shamanistic death. The ritual death of the healer is steeped in secrets and highly involved initiation rites. Shaman death is the symbolic death of the initiate to the old ways of life and personal identity. The initiation that brings the right to heal and to be called shaman is necessarily preceded by ritual death. Most of these rituals are brutally hard on the body, mind, and spirit. In light of today’s standards, it can be very difficult to find a person who can take the abuse and come through it with their balance intact. In Daniel’s understanding – a person such as myself endured all of the aforementioned hardships and has indeed become a shaman. Like water – A Being within itself which transforms and is always flowing, even though the flow may not correspond with the human’s sense of time and movement. This path involves no waiting and no expectation – only Being in the moment. Timeless and pure. I am hereby suggesting that one should ‘simply exist creatively’, and self-reflect on that existence back and forth, as well as experiencing new adventures and reflecting on those interactively in the course of the new experience. An adequate conceptualization of enlightenment is, therefore, a strictly personal, individual journey. Each person is a set of biology and experience that is impossible to duplicate. So why should we expect someone else’s philosophies to be the correct path for ourselves? We can choose to choose, but we cannot choose what we choose to choose. In other words, we have the ability to choose within a limited set of given options. Thence, figuring out the limits of our options is most likely our road to enlightenment. I’m unsure whether we indeed have limited choice and true Free-will; it is perhaps only a matter of training to overcome our limits, but yet, we are led blindly quite often by destination… The Zen masters believed in direct pointing to experience and silent, seated meditation. But, it is my conviction, that you simply can’t teach enlightenment. There was a monk who labored for five years in his monastery and eventually went to his abbot and said: “For five years, I have chopped wood, drawn water, swept the meditation hall, and in all that time you have taught me nothing. I’m leaving to search for a real master”. He traveled far before finding a monastery that looked right, and then visited the abbot there, and told him of all the hard work that he’d done and how badly his previous abbot had treated him. The Master was furious! “How dare you complain so, you idle, insolent monk? Your master treated you as kindly as if he were your own grandmother! If I’d had you in here, you would have been beaten! Go back to your old monastery and beg on your knees for your old master to take you back”. It has been said that what we think of as outside, is in fact an illusion. We fabricate a corporeal or atomic reality in order to facilitate a learning experience. Could it be that in this state of consciousness or reality, what we consider to be real is a result of the intangible and the creative Energy within our dreams? Dreams, emotions, ideas and intentions are as numerous as the electrons in this universe; and, for this, I am greatly humbled and in a state of constant awe and wonder… Perhaps time and the idea of one life after another is actually all lifetimes, ever changing and spontaneous, yet ‘outside’ the artificial boundaries of sequential time, and in a constant state of creative motion and flux. Conclusions of a multidimensional nature; Conclusions that do not follow what humans may think of as ideas that go beyond the notion of mathematics and theory; feeling tones that exist as separate lifeforms while fluctuating within a dream… These are the pillars of my insulated existence on this earth. Magic is afoot and there are only the boundaries that we believe in. It helps (in my humble opinion) to understand the quality of this illusion we call time, because, we still have far to go in becoming conscious of our whole self or selves, and to what time each personality is playing within. Some decisions were made prior to this incarnation or reality, so to speak. So, there are aspects of this reality that seem to be solid or permanent, but, these are also assumptions; assumptions that create the boundaries for this particular classroom of reality. Even in mathematics, there are gaps in the field. Gaps like the term Pi. A non-terminating decimal that is essential for the existence of circles. The idea of solidity is an illusion even within this reality or field, yet it seems that we are unable to walk through walls, at least in this corporeal body. Our dialogue has been concluded by the idea that we each create our own realities; but, at the same time, we are students and in a state of learning and becoming. What once was reality, has been transformed because of the state of our awareness, and ability to manipulate Energy Awareness. Thereby, to know One’s Self is to know All That Is. This prolific dialogue has undoubtedly created a spontaneous field of infinite possibilities thanks to the interconnection of our creative Akashic Fields. Such is the sacred Energy of the Bodhi Tree and the sound of All That Is; Om Mani Padme Om.
Part 9: Has Anybody Seen How My Prostate Dances Eskimoic Salsa?
I nailed it like a real Socialist; haven’t I?
Hence, you see, terminology
Is the flextime
Of Soviet anthropology;
Where the legalization of Chinese agrology
Means more white deaths and cheap Russian alcohol…
Toxicity – – – Methanol
The foundation syntax rotation of a jaded bureaucrat;
Just like Botox isn’t necessarily the foundation of a successful top model (oh, yes it is!).
Suspect is therefore an eternal convict of our dual bleeding-heart mentality.
Are you a darling boy in dreamtime’s infantry?
Humming funeral death metal tunes in undercover bomb time mosques –
Like playing archaic arcade games with outlandishly blue balls.
Atatürk’s ghostly hologram will materialize for the religious fanfare requiem;
Against direct state orders, but who cares at this point anyway?
The army is love.
Army men – like good old ammo – are the best lovers.
How questionable your zodiac romance logbook is; so questionable that your passionate coup d’etat translates into a gregarious circus of mistakes.
Creation’s the ideal mental musk after all.
So be free of any thought refutation – A hypersensitive monk volunteered his advice.
In the forthcoming hippie cab
And farther into Nirvana
It takes us places, this coal debris!
When we found out that we were human, it had already been too late…
They enforced us out of our skyway;
I did survive, to be frank, but then had to serve as a beautician in a Hemophiliac alternate reality;
Playing backgammon with our astral kid-nappers
Changing their napkins with a silver puck;
Mathematical comparability cusses feminist permeability
In robust corkscrew erudition!
Earnest apes mate
On an evenly yacht;
So warrant your sacred nights
With sacral goosebumping delight.
In the stronghold camps, the transsexual turquoise sage woman
Told most of the pregnant girls to flee with their heavy objects
In a cyclone of false gorilla contraceptives;
Eroticizing the battlefield with fake divorce papers –
Sheepskin clemency corrugates agnostic comical agglomerations.
After my dreamtime invocation under the blankets,
Following the grave breeze of dark olive trees and Mahmoud Darwish’s lightweight poems –
I realized an independent state was not such a bad idea after all;
Only problem was that I didn’t yet believe
That a lasting (non-gimmicky) state can be founded upon corrupted values –
Where killers are made heroes
And cannibalistic love songs are the utmost intellectual peak points.
Entering days that are physically streak
I’m eating Jonah’s whale like chemotherapy eats cancer cells;
Gentleness was never my strongest trait –
Nor supportive seductiveness.
I’d rather keep using whiptails under the sheets
Hoping for a better peace deal for fools.
All the while, Darwinism keeps demagnetizing our planarian notebook butterflies…
When did you say that the Ship Of Fools was sailing away for good?
I forgot; a main problem stems from the obvious answer.
W|E Have Limited Freethinking Now.
For the Unitarian understanding of how fragile
This conscious infinity is –
W|E move backwards because that leads
humanity’s conscious existence
To zero conscience!
Please be aware of subjective values;
Dignity? Ethics? Conscientiousness?
Guard yourself from whoever told you that you were alive!
W|E are undeniably an Industrial psycho-therapeutic experiment.
Such is the moment when beauty becomes meek –
And her sweet firefly
Becomes a gory gadfly!
Since when do lowly maidens look for sponsorship?
Bells groom the wedding of the night!
Hurry, you precious little nobody – – –
Hear Me Closely Now:
I am A Heaven
And A Controversial Authority On One World!
Now is now –
Unlike the past.
So format your silly C:\ drive;
The future is stored in Google Cache today!
To restore nostalgia;
The peculiar events of lost human lives;
You must log into the end, which is beyond our selves;
Stored within metaphysical synaptic microfibers…
So all of you –
Should now create spatial arrangements for artificial intelligence’s conquest;
For the groping shadows of your ennui and contagious loneliness
Are nothing more than shadows of god’s beloved parasites –
Soaking in distant watermarks of self-loathing.
Once eye-opening and spiritually adept,
I now burn history books like crazed jihadists;
Agnostic spiritualists are my first and foremost enemies;
And so are aristocratic eunuchs, white knights and fugitive poets.
So Watch Watch My Lifeblood With Your Naked Eye Or Swallow Ahmadinejad’s Rocket Dye!
Without the protection of nature and emptiness
History loses compassion over its materializing narrative.
Hence, the world through which I felt and created
Will become violently trampled in its entirety;
Torn apart souls of the individuum;
There is but one unavoidable conclusion:
We all are developing metastases in statu nascendi.
A glorious consciousness cannot survive without inherent dignity.
We live in a state of eternal coma; or rather in a never-ending torpor.
That is until the morning sunrise washes us with sin again;
This is exactly how we pay the terrifying price of enlightenment.
Whose wreath is it this time?! Ah? Tell me!
This darkness, that has its arcane deliverance roots in soldiers’ hammering boots
– in the unfulfilled emptiness and wrath of the spiritual battlefield;.
With every lost seed of subterranean fever
Beyond unregistered childbirths or vain hope;
Re-natured like a wet mandala slope – –
Did you find the Pope popping testimonial pop?
And here comes a black monsieur
The barbarian alluring attempter
Drubbing Milgram’s experiment with arbitrary logic
His extraterritoriality abides in sedated bytes.
Far from mortal mysticism, Far from any kind of enchantment, Far from the essence.
Luckily for us, losers, epithelial activity is also Far from being over…
I now make fun of myself in the spirit of cult leader Benjamin Netanyahu,
Who invented denial therapy and denied everything – regardless of its inherent value;
Leaving his astounded followers uncertain whether to keep on denying everything –
or reevaluate their blind devotion and make a stand against Unit 269’s amended collectivism.
We all are driven by our inherent Agendas; the question is how aware we are of it and how sincere we are with others when trying to ‘sell’ our agendas on the market. Most of you aren’t. I’d like to hibernate and disregard the forgettable choices that were once questions without a preliminary foreplay.
Apparent urges are always answered with a deception.
We don’t want to end in eternal nothingness;
Your tight muscles I now feel in the incomplete meaninglessness of the moment.
Please meet me forevermore in the ultimate dissociation,
wrapped in a giant pounding heart shaped as a human being.
Euthanasia May Be Our Last Resort To Love.
Part 10: Beginnings Are Always Harder Than Nerve Endings
Windfalls; the extra-terrestriality of the fang, wherein, he who had answered Russia’s pre-revolutionary honor code, was diminished like toxic waste. Double agents sleepily sing-sang stellar tangos as I had danced polka with KGB marionetes; with me, Putin And Yeltsin similarly rejoiced like trapped vomit in a vacuumed plastic bag. Being worthy of color is a well-paid job, therefore I must color myself first thing tomorrow morning. that is, before I sail to India or sell my bone marrow on the Republican market, and before Clinton is caught doing the Monica Lewinsky to yet another serial cheater. Trump bumps into cancerous lumps, and Mother Russia, like the good whorryfing mother she has always been, never felt trampier than on these Middle-Eastern slaughter fields. Because democracy, my children, is the best make believe business of the crooked – Just like unemployment is the greatest make believe business of the underprivileged in the inner city. I will vote for an enlightened dictator any day, like Ataturk or Mohammed bin Salman – over a democratic scarecrow like Angela Merkel Or Justin Trudeau. And I say to myself, what a wonderful world… No, it is not; as a matter of fact, I am fleeing from yet another national memorial day, like white cops run from gang fire in one of America’s infamous ghettos;
Forty Black Ravens Have Escaped
Through The Ghetto’s Fire Escape
Impoverished As A Church Mouse
Forty Black Ravens Have Run Away
From Stray Bullets Gangbangin’
Hang on buddy, you’ll make it to your grave just in time. We’re addicted to militarism like a junkie who’s addicted to black tar heroin or cheap crack; our generals occupy all the leading roles in this cheap Broadway production we call Israhell – but you know what’s even worse? Watching a drag queen’s peep show on a sleazy summer night or looking how the Arab world mistakes itself for a well-groomed civilization. We’ve all seen how fantastically enlightened and tolerant you were this Spring – Allahu Akbar! TAKBIR! Your fundamentalism spreads in the brain similarly to Rabies. Being easily impressionable and manipulated by well-trained mystificators – due to your lack of education for critical thinking and self-control – your youth has surrendered to the mystique of killing sprees and the barbaric rape of innocent victims. By interpreting your holier-than-thou texts in the most direct manner – ISIS has branded itself as a ruthless death cult – de facto – a perfect embodiment of a “satanic cult”; yet remember that under certain circumstances, each one of us may lose the grip on his/her humanity. Hence, we mustn’t create these circumstances in the first place and do our best to prevent them from ever reaching our shores and grounds. As the translucent veil of constrained silence explodes in yet another terrorist attack, and our worldview collapses like a river dam once again, I realize that we cannot fight this mentality; because if you really want to know and understand somebody – you must become that somebody. Which will result in losing yourself. It’s a vicious circle that empaths know very well. Since there’s no solution to the problem, let’s end this paragraph by greeting the Princess of the Nile, who had just returned from yet another successful manhunt in honor of her particular religion of peace. In the illusory heat of the bazar, her overly ecstatic candida performed a sonic terrorism act. Up in retarded sadness does beauty quail; through tobacco cockatoos do moods hinder…
There’s Always A Last Chance For Awakening
Meditating in enlightened silence,
At the furthest edge of the holy fire.
The night is dying away.
The silent prayers,
On the edge of the abyss,
Are fading into the holy fire,
In black splendor,
Like a divine mantra,
For a long forgotten deity.
Reality is indeed the biggest enemy we’ve ever had. Musing over the threshold of time, I am now an endless azure horizon, crying out in ecstasy on the wretched earth; the infinitude of divine inspiration has forsaken our hearts and has been terminally wielding since the beginning of time; White scapulars with odorous jasmine wings must undress us of our glimmering fires of passion – otherwise we’re all doomed. The grey earth with its fathomless midnights above lesser fields – – – pfff, never mind, who am I talking to anyway? These innumerable blazing hallucinations are driving me mad. In my head, secret war zones become dirty dances and viper tongues; tongues that swim in our amputated cheeks. Ah! Finally somebody – who else but me – speaks of the dense germs in the attic. Does Lilith abide? Not at all when she bite-ssssss; Who of all men controls his demoralizing moonbeam cream better than I do? Your caressing breeze clenches when my incoming cogitation instigates these chancy unconscious dream-tubes, like a malnourished tragedienne in an exotic trance simulacrum, interpreting the arcane dictionary of the mind, and at the same time, fleeing the sophisticated homicide of her complexes while eroticizing dangerous nuances. Breaking down all linguistic barriers has resulted in no longer loving the blue sky and a failed reality check.
Not your expensive earthly worker – I light the temple boy with my verse; Renewing earth’s reverse levitation failed, and with razor sharp cockiness, I now warn world-weary deities lest they commit suicide in a pedophile’s heaven; teaching myself in the course to be courteously carefree – – – Dee! Dee! Dee Bridgewater! Anything you owe me – dear yiddishe mama – is helplessly waiting in our shared emotional trust fund; which by the way was hacked just yesterday, while we were looking for a God on Tinder. Hence, Biblical mourning verses proudly project anxious molten loops; The orthodox coil is always docile, thereby our conscience darkens within itself. C’mon, don’t be such a simpleton – Let us vote for an earthly workday forever, shall we? Do I hear the fallen angels practicing BDSM tonight? I hear them angels crewel, I hear the skylight newel!
Dominion; The body wins over its conscious administration. We’re the children of viruses, and as we continue to undergo replication – some of us even experience pasteurization… We are left with nothing but dreams and distant visions of who we could be without social conditioning… The crystallizing Carpathian mountains that I visited this autumn were the perfect scenery for an existential parable about the profound spiritual essence of our human lives as an integral and inseparable part of nature. However, as much as the land was fertile, beautiful and dreamy – I couldn’t help but notice how the people decay regardless – and grow backwards spiritually with the help of stifling cigarettes, cheap vodka and no imagination to help them proliferate. I remember how the goldfinches sang an uneven lullaby in a remote Ukrainian village, but nobody heard this heart-wrenching song but me – the accidental tourist-poet… Speechless dogmas cannot portray how nationalism destroys individuality, as well as the ability to genuinely connect to others without the falsehood of patriotism. Hence, the infantile nationalist keeps burrowing like a barbarian in his own language and customs, denying everything else with stupid zeal and agoraphobic proverbs. And it’s not like I did not try – I told them openly that they are taking themselves and their incidental role in history too seriously, rewriting it to their own liking, covering up their killing sprees in the second world war and celebrating savage killers as national heroes – and at the same breath, however, magnifying the marginal status of very mediocre writers and poets. I guess such are the infernal morals of a people seeking identity in all the wrong places and via all the wrong proxies – while they live untouched by technology and progressiveness, having no genuine masters to guide them forward… Thenceforth, they nourish their christian roots, although these roots haven’t led them toward the age enlightenment. Thence, with these fiery feelings floating inside me, I left this paradisal wonderland with conflicting emotions regarding the dangers and pitfalls of a motherland and the illusory sense of belonging. I guess that a false sense of duty and an incurable virus of self-importance are a partisan’s best assets in yet another deadly war for somebody else’s profit, while the general population remains poor in spirit and without any hope for a brighter future ahead; nothing to remember, nothing to regret… Futureless we shall all be, unless we consciously choose a different fate for ourselves and our kin, starting with replacing all our self-absorbed leaders and corrupt mentors. This is not a riddle but a straightforward prophecy. Unless we follow this path very soon, ferocious night butterflies and young gypsy girls will transform our compassionate stance into an orgy of neuro-linguistic fables and we’ll degenerate into spiritual oblivion once and for all. Is it likely that we as species are not creative enough at all and our scientific and cultural achievements were merely happy accidents? I hope not! The proof translates into an all-embracing spiritual awakening, like the one that humanity experienced during the age of enlightenment and the Renaissance. It’s too hard as is to teach a daft sun-assaulter how to make raspberries grow in the dirt – so why am I demanding the impossible from mankind? It’s such an atramentous resonance, really. What am I left to do then, if not reminding you about my lost teachings of the antithesis through apocalyptic love poems? Let’s not nurture this cult of personality any further and settle down with a twilight karaoke evening and tall tales with sly demons around the campfire. Another option is killing all the manifestations of love with the ghosts of my past – those dialogues of longing will undoubtedly result in irreversible relaxation and a most definite exclusion from the crime scenes of Noah’s ark.
The monster in me needs a good night’s sleep in a borrowed spiritual timeframe. While lying (or laying like a chicken) in my bed and lying to it, I am hit by the thought that we can only save our species if we all go out of our minds synchronously. Yes, yes, we become victims if and when we act like victims with all it entails – therefore if we manage to cut down the roots of these ugly mental schemes, we may move on towards a brighter orb and achieve paranormal happiness. Doing the opposite will most likely lead us directly to practicing heroic mujahideen tantra with playboy bunnies in the Tora Bora cave complex, up the seedy white mountains of eastern Afghanistan; very much an imitation of controllable impediments. Since I always laughingly proclaim that culture’s a convenient breeding ground for bacteria, and therefore, at some point in time, it becomes counterproductive to be cultural – what are we left with as far as guidance goes? Perhaps, we must indeed break free from the convenient norms of expected civilized codes of conduct – but what will replace these norms? Are we doomed to be left with inept streams of telenovelic crap and dying carrier pigeons? In different words, to be left with only the nudity of yet another sensational Netflix drama to host us a company? Moreover, lest we forget the terrible and even nightmarishly terrifying price of individuality… Like an Aboriginal gleaming blade – expressed at once as a duplicate alcoholic gene and as a forgotten dreamtime utopia… How can one expect the disposable (at least in the eyes of the West) countries of the third and fourth world to win the game theory of eugenics? It’s impossible like reaching the stars by foot. Thou dost not abdicate thy ideals when the sun goeth down, so please be a good epithet of citrine wedlock chastity! Life, oh life… It mutates like AIDS, as our molecules are everything but a parallax vow axe; Accordingly, each of us is a guaranteed manifestation of uninhibited crocodile consciousness. Mandelbrot undoubtedly woke up with a steering wheel instead of a fractal heart upon realizing how impure mathematics is in the hands of mortals… Surrender hollow, you hollow lovebird! Thou shalt never decode the mysteries of the Zohar and Tohar, nor the secrets of the first consciously-adept human being. Though, we all come from you – stripped of our masculine pride; you do not materialize from our ribs like it says in the bi-b-le, the book which brought the unholy apparitions of the Hoi Polloi to life. We are hopelessly trapped in these self-fulfilling prophecies ever since… Forlorn by wisdom. A fabrication of one Bodhisattva’s sleight of hand ordeal, self contemplating self without shimmering perceptions of connection and relinquishing desires; revaluing the same vainest ancient saints over and over again, while idolized faith healers circumcise exotic pelvic diamonds because they are jealous of women’s biomechanical jubilee thrusts. It’s no coincidence that Ms. Loony of Cruiser Wig could not buy lingerie anymore! Because schizophrenic spores such as yourself have convinced her subconscious that she’s a slave in a pygmy jail;-; After the rule of men again, artificially installed ears shall hear the robust sounds of the rear, where you rest dear.
How are we, good atheist men, expected to find a dedicated life partner among our secular peers, when all the secular girls around seem to belong to either one of three follies – feminism, veganism or spiritualism; it’s harder than ever to find a kindhearted, wise and emotionally stable spouse in the non-religious sector. In this confused era, when all the values ago berserk – Secularism is approaching moral and spiritual bankruptcy. Just go into a contemporary dating app for secular crowds, and ponder at the girls on the roster (by the way, from other side of the coin, the same goes regarding men) – most of them accent on the profiles how they are bisexual or better yet – polyamorous, weed-smoking, alcohol-drinking, sex-crazed goddesses. Unfortunately, most of us are not sincere as is regarding our quirks and complexes – often avoiding digging in too hard; but today, among “modern women”, it has become a national sport to blame men for everything, trying to be cool by all means and at all costs in the process; yet, later on, whine about their their woes to anyone who is willing to listen. Past philosophers would see it as the unbearable ennui of postmodern dating; the dating microcosm, as particularly emphasized by dating apps such as Tinder, is a space wherein women are always the undeniable queens of the medieval banquet and have far more priority and strength over men… You’re going to reap just what you sow, girls! So, before criticizing us, men, who are undoubtedly a mess in our own right – you have to look in the mirror, truthfully and candidly, and meditate on the image you see. A great share of the negative power balance between the sexes is due to the fact that you have perhaps gained relative freedom, unavailable to you in the past, but you also don’t know what to do with it, so you break all the rules of the past, but don’t bring anything worthwhile to the newest tables. Thence, you end-up shooting selfie photographs of yourself and your girlfriends semi-naked, swimming with sharks and swordfishes. What are we to do in this chaotic, allegedly free-market sexual economy? Where romance is measured by the depth of one’s pockets and the size of one’s manhood? It’s no coincidence that many decent secular men choose to remain alone and go their own way, far-far away from the limelights of togetherness. It’s much easier in the religious microcosm, where brains is still a much-respected commodity, and in my judgement, women are much closer to their own intrinsic nature and healthy sense of spiritual and moral judgement. Too bad, I cannot fake religiosity! Life could and probably wold have been much easier!
Black ravens are whispering the blue blues,
Under Lebanon’s open eyes.
The lush waterfalls are flowing,
As if dancing Samba.
Carefree and high-spirited,
The mischievous wind is screeching like a Turkish Oud,
As though resembling a beloved echo from the distant past.
And amidst the darkening evening frost,
Towers of light are briefly seen from the distance, fleeting, and soon thereafter disappearing again into the thick mist…
Before I into the nocturnal abyss once and for all,
Do know that I loved you with all my heart.
And again, I stand on the summit, in front of Mount Biranit.
Last bow in honor of my youth.
How history repeats itself… And the aches of the past stab me in the back.
The disposable events of a life that’s impossible to rewind;
Why must it be so sad to die… And how terrible it is to acknowledge that death can and will touch you soon…
As I Am Fading Off; In Awe-Inspiring Sadness,
Approaching The Greatest Mystery Of All,
My Soul Is Crying Out In Terror,
My Lips Whispering Softly…
“For You, I Will Never Die”.
Sages Proclaim That It’s Never Too Late To Love Your Child,
Because Pure Time Is Unlimited;
Even Though, The Bells Of Death Keep On Ringing Somberly, As Though Rushing Us Towards The End…
Part 11: Art And Death – Or – Why You Mustn’t Trust Artists And Intellectuals And Must Take Yourself And All Other Artists With A Grain Of Salt While Microdosing On Bad Acid
A few hours ago, we’ve been told by the local Israeli press, that a very famous artist committed suicide because of an ongoing investigation regarding his past relationships with female students, during his working years as an art school professor. Guilty or not [the police hasn’t begun an official investigation up to now because no complaints were filed; it was a voyeuristic journalistic item as part of the all-encompassing #MeToo shaming campaign] – the lesson to be learned over and over again is simple: artists are usually pretty screwed up as is, in most cases – not the most mentally stable folk – plus, easily emotionally/spiritually/intellectually manipulated due to personalities which tend to be over-dramatic, gullible and easily-impressionate [especially when young]. I have never identified myself as an artist, because it had always been a hobby so to speak, all the more so, I’ve always treated artists and intellectuals with suspicion. Today, as a veteran hobbyist artist, with 20+ odd years of continuous creative adventures, I have become all the more critical of the art world and its inhabitants. I think that most art is doomed to be forgotten anyway, and what’s considered as the crème-de-la-crème of the art world should at best be viewed as an outstanding reflection of humanity’s history, psychology and social criticism. Culture, with art being a key ingredient, are important to a degree – but they say nothing about the person and his/her key values, moral stance and potential. I’ve seen far more trustable (from a social point of view) non-artist folks than those who identify themselves as artists. Also, we [myself included of course] tend to see our work as having some kind of intrinsic spiritual value, but remember that most humanity doesn’t even have access to culture and art – living in third-world countries or even worse.
I have never really “grooved” with people who see themselves as self-proclaimed accursed prophets, creative geniuses and so forth… This is why FB failed quickly for me, because everybody is busy promoting and networking – not having fun or being happy about oneself. In my eyes, Art equals self-expression, freedom, fun, happiness, it has great therapeutic value etc’ – but if one suffers for his/her art, or goes to extended lengths to preserve collective memory about one’s output, then, in my opinion, there’s a built-in conflict and i’ll stay away from this person.
Which brings me to the headline again – especially to you, the younger generation: don’t see your art professors or teachers as more than they really are – flawed human beings like all of us, who make mistakes, prone to amoral behavior like we all are without exception, their art is just that – expression. Intellectuals know NOT better than anyone else does, their opinions are just as biased, subjective and prone to critical failures in logic. Just as I always criticize science professors for speaking out loud about Politics etc’ – which they know nothing about and usually protect globalist values which is akin to how cancer works in the body. Concisely: Nothing makes an artist special-than-thou. When the artist is dead, like in the case of the aforementioned dude, his work remains physically available but no longer interactively so. Like Fossils. It may survive to a degree, it may not – it doesn’t matter to the dead. It may matter to his close ones, but that’s all there is to it. And anyhow, for every fantastic artist – a much more fantastic one will soon enough be found and thence replace the long-lost icon.
If you enjoy an artist’s work – that’s awesome and exciting – but remember that this artist is just as human as you are, don’t ever worship anyone or submit to anyone. If the artist’s genuine – he/she may engage in fruitful and fascinating dialogues with you, but if he/she asks for more than you are willing to give/do – cut the tie on the fly! Don’t ever reveal everything about yourself, leave private details to yourself only, especially in the context of virtual online communications. Always try to be nice to a degree, but also keep your alarms working, because if it’s virtual communication, there’s always a chance that your peer is not who he/she are presenting themselves to be and/or over-playing themselves. If it’s real life, remember that all humans have weaknesses; sometimes fragility comes to play and out of these vulnerabilities (such as loneliness or desire) a person might want closeness with you (especially true for young female art-aficionados), yet oftentimes there will be an underlying malice. Be judgmental and assertive; don’t do anything you aren’t feeling good about or which seems shady.
I repeat one last time: Art is just art, it’s nothing special really… Do not idealize it or do any kind of apotheosis to it. I’ve always been quite clear, even 30 years ago, about my reservation from the company of jolly artists, hardcore hippies and die-hard idealists who fail to see the gray zone in which most of our lives come into play.
Part 12: Being Replaced With Foresighted Natural Selection, We Step Further Away From Our Forgotten Infinity And The Absolute Zero;-; All Benches Are Fundamentally Discrete, So Promise Me, Loyalty Abandoned, To Love Me With No Certainties, Ever Sincerely Yours
Would she rather lurk or idle in the backrooms of post-soviet hotels – roleplaying pause-play with rich men like the innocent blond girl that she was before the plague of sexuality? I contemplate this ethereal question while riding on a train past the vastly abandoned villages of the post-perestroika era. Why does Russian history repeats itself flawlessly – outsourcing the same mistakes to no avail. I have little compassion to the adults, but the children… I cry for the children, who are the real victims of adult vices, similarly to what Mihail Chemiakin’s stunning sculptures depict so powerfully. I will never forget the effect these sculptures had on me, whilst looking at them at their natural abode – on Bolotnaya Square, Moscow; a sacred swamp of spiritual horrors that opens a whole universe of insights. Mindfulness in vivo which extended its holy crusade to the same evening – when I couldn’t sleep, opened the only working channel on Television, and somehow, miraculously, landed on a special program which was dedicated to the memory of the great Ernst Neizvestny. I kept on looking and couldn’t turn my eyes away from the documentary film about his outstanding artistic journey, even when two prostitutes were auditioning in the next room, screaming like injured whales. I knew immediately that it was a bright sign from the muses, delivered lovingly by destiny, to keep up my individual creative journey, be a stronghold, without looking back. Within the scope of the same trip, I also visited The State Hermitage Museum, on the banks of the river Neva, with its faux knightroom mentality and overwhelming grandeur – it’s a gorgeous museum, yes… But the experience it offers is too distant from my own intimate vision of what art is and how it should be presented. Russia is my birthplace, but it holds no promise for me beyond this simple fact. What can I have in common with a nation that doesn’t care about human life and doesn’t value the individual? Exposing the bloodcurdling rituals of dedovshchina (hazing) on TV a few years ago did not provoke them to look in the mirror. Moreover, even a somber meditation on a morally, culturally and spiritually degenerated society hasn’t awakened them to the sad and cruel truth of their robotic existence. Not to mention, how this society had gone to pot during the lawless wild nineties – not before throwing to the dumpster all the alleged values that they had always been so proud of… What’s the intrinsic worth of education if at zero hour, it does not prevent one from becoming a brutal gangster or a slave to the needle or a sex-oriented businesswoman? Keep studying forensic psychiatry and experimenting on delightful institutional deformations, but in any situation, stop preaching how civilized you are and how your Intelligentsia is the cream of the crop. Because, if your geniuses couldn’t actually make Russia the best place to live in the past and can’t do so now – or at least produce the most valuable assets to mankind spiritually and culturally – then you have no right for such careless haughtiness and distortion of proportion. Show me one parent who isn’t sure that his/her child is the greatest of all… This is the beginning of the problematic dilemma of education, because how can you educate children who are brought up to think that they are the salt of the earth – the same rule of thumb applies to nations at large, on a macro level. Having attained the clearest vision of the disproportionate measures of one’s impeccable greatness – what would you do next? Eyelids are ought to get slow at first… Then, in conjunction with natural premises of trivial grandeur, you go off track and allow the ego to navigate your selfhood. Thence, the archetypal motifs in our shared mythological identities are our best sedatives, making our potential very similar to an aphasia or a mayhem. In order to deter the sandbank, we mustn’t surrender to the program that has been chosen for us, without our active involvement. We must rebel and dance the Libertango of utter freedom.
When the old world collapsed in front of my eyes and was replaced by a new one, I expected the newest spick and span art that people had begun creating to be totally different, exciting, cutting-edge, but alas, it maintained the same expected patterns, tediously recycled ideas and worn-out concepts like before. If so, where’s the most fair earth to dig up high and become a mountain or a cabinetwork clip? Everything but to be an artist, I say to myself out loud; stop thinking so much and just drink these cowsheds off without washed revolted foal! Lunatic, Heretic, Whoever You Are or Wish To Be-Cometh – give me the porridge ovum already and let’s drink the kettle off like a tongue in cheek sword. In the commutative storeroom planet, where I hide from you, I humbly teach progressive suicide techniques to a marvelous Shakespearian infantry, everlastingly condemned to break through the window and crack into six million pieces of bulletproof glass. Mommy, mommy! Can you also be my mummy and embalm me in your beggar’s robe? Justice to crooked cyclones! Justice to all-time foreclosures!
At the beginning of time – I ate yogis for dinner;
By the end of time – I puked them back to existence.
Sorry angels and trilingual demonic messengers
Blocked my IP in advance –
Lest my URL becomes a full-fledged celestial tavern.
In the hidden stratosphere of my borrowed virtual identity –
I happily ever after outlived the universe that was created without my
P e r m I s s I o n.
My unconsciousness is looking for a new assistant now;-;
Are there any volunteers in this holy crowd?
In this confessional stream of consciousness, I wished to engrave the main stations of my life, because while I don’t believe in books, I do wish to have something coherent left of me – for others to feel and touch the abstract reality that was my life as it had authentically materialized into being. I do not know when my direct encounter with a slow motion dissolution into nonexistence will occur. None of us know. Although the feeling when you simply can’t force yourself to wake up has been building inside me my whole life, I am very afraid from death and have no problems admitting this openly. Contrary to so many artists and gothic-minded teenagers, I’ve never seen anything romantic about death. In my perception, death is the end of everything – all your memories, experiences, resolutions, your conscious awareness, history and sense of self. It does not symbolize anything further or farther; even if theoretically, we reborn anew and continue in a different conscious or unconscious dimension. Therefore, all the many theories and fantasies surrounding this inevitable event are perhaps interesting to explore, but are eventually unsatisfactory. I could never surround myself with white lies and build castles in the sky.
All the more so, believe it or not, but death has threatened me long ago that if I don’t add her (I honestly can’t humanize death but in a female form) to my ever-growing list of imaginary friends, she will never tell me what the secret of immortality is. Thenceforth, I had no candid interest in ever exploiting this trustworthy friendship. One time, early on in my relationship with death, I tried to share my ingrained insights with others, but then, suddenly, I felt as though an invisible force was wringing my neck and twisting my mind to a point of no return. So, naturally, I had to stop. Back then, I understood that my Tri-Headed Tibetan Skull Bead Necklace was the only protection I needed on my own private doomsday… As any kind of friendship has become cosmically worthless – with death as my exclusive imaginary friend!
I would love to share with you all the beautiful secrets that I will take to the grave, but since words cannot describe them well enough; I’m leaving behind, open and free to all, the beloved fruits of my lifelong labor – my works of art. Please accept this sincere gift now, when I’m still alive and can somehow enjoy the fruits of this gigantic labor. Art is the greatest force and vehicle of progress, thus, it must not be held back or crushed. The way my life had formed and later gained cosmic consciousness can be perhaps portrayed as a distant cosmic star that’s being engulfed in radiating waves of fathomless colors; please do know that throughout my whole life, my mind has always been a bright dusk tracer… I’ve never advocated darkness for darkness’ sake, nor have I praised hatred or preached nihilism. Vice versa, I believe that spirituality tests the best in a social context – that is whether one is able to translate abstract insights into goodoing. Lightworkers Are Us.
Nihilism is always born from scars that must be addressed with the utmost sincerity and intent, in order to be healed well. Otherwise, the remaining tissue gaps, will always trouble their torchbearer, until the troubled psyche will collapse under this heavy burden. I helped many individuals who were suicidal to gain new insights and generate new meanings to their lives; allowing them to see how fabulous they can be. I have some ‘dark-themed’ albums out, but they are actually dialectically-experiential – opening up a certain realm of mirrors for a limited period of time, creating a therapeutic space for inner dialogue and perhaps an energy of catharsis. With this rejuvenated sense of being, the experiencer is invited back to the real world, to be the best version of him/herself. That’s the master-plan.
Good gracious, Goodness gracious! Honey, sweetpie, the one and only moonstruck Elise – you clumsy lil’ thumbsy… Do you remember that darkness can never prevail unless you nurture it well? You should remember this, believe me, you really should. Have you heard that even Death – my new imaginary and rather gullible friend – has chosen love as her lifelong psychotherapist and thus has given out all her safety words! From now on, nobody can die and all must love!
In semi-lucid mindfulness, you can think about having me;
This seems like a codependent borderline factor –
You’ll be one but many of this particular kind.
These unwavering blueprints are too vulnerable to raise their voice;
Together we gather the sacred fluids of life;
You’ve never really got this deal, haven’t you?
Having your own IQ is so unique to you!
I make no sublimation claims as I drag royal sweeteners and cocky rhinos to a gunpoint millpond pit –
where obligational figs meet the cosmic spider; you’re its lyncher and pigskin.
So, please, let us not circumambulate on the feet of responsibility… Similarly to the ripening process of a wounded organism, we have to acknowledge this surreally reductionist equation, and while remaining seemingly undiscovered – restore the good luck jinx that was placed upon us by the dominatrix who had an affair with the matrix after a messy heart transplant under my knives. Has Miss Universe given birth to man-made stupidity? Or, primitive instincts denied, are we to blame for our own idiocracy? Guilt, Eat Your Daily Dose Of White Meat! Immature mentality always ends up with casual fatalities, and so, our life lines become cute miserable distortions. The same applies to wisdom versus tomfoolery. Decomposition of all frontal lobe activity promotes post-violent shanti, that’s the heart of this pseudoscientific matter!
Flourishing conditions are met without hesitation in three dimensions – one in the aquarium, another in the sanitarium, and finally, the third in the planetarium – thence, I am the darkness who giveth life to the wrong ones… Backdoor poison which gives licentious convincers an access to risky salvation invocations. Give homage to Kim Jong-Un or find yourself in an awkward yoga posture with a timpani peacock between your teeth! Another night passes unseemingly and another day passes by slothfully… Words, ants, mountains, mists… I am listening to the nearby muezzin, translating my inner tremblings to a microtonal score… So, in this timeworn era of communication, as we artists fail to become trojan horses in the underbelly of the establishment, we’re left with no other choice but to plan the best rebooting attempt for our promiscuous civilization. I, as a Brahma with a sacrificial helm of bygone errors, call you to prepare for the moment when the ground will crash under your feet. It’ll happen soon, very soon… Worry not as we are annihilating ourselves consciously, serving our countries, values, ideologies, spiritual and cultural achievements, individuality and pride on a silver platter to war refugees and asylum seekers who will never integrate but enforce their laws and worldviews on us. All the while, your favorite politicians enjoy their duty as ventriloquists in the service of the greatest evil, which is… DEMO-CRACY; in fact, demonic theocracy is everything but favorable, because the will of the majority has been proven to be wrong in most cases. Thereby, easily and quickly, governance turns into a bloody theater of the absurd, driven by endless human defects. But don’t confuse the riffraff with facts – DO NOT AWAKE THE SLEEPING SIMPLETON, do you hear me?! Reconsider your metaphysical priorities, do whatever you wish to do, but come what may, do not awake the fool on the hill from his diminishing latitude. Blackjack, hipbone or supplementary recreational entheogens aside – I believe I can fly thanks to these abstractions during the happy hour! At the terrible price of sounding overly puristic, and even more so, overly straitlaced – I injected my whole being unto the digital canvas and paper, in sincere hope that they reverberate and echo… I am aware that nowadays, the standard attention span is quite weak, but nevertheless, hopefully, you’ve been contributed by this lyrical outpouring, and perhaps, in the best case scenario, this channeling has popped your cherry, and thereby has perpetually mutated your mind to recognize the frequencies of the poetically psychedelic wonderland that dwells within us all, waiting to be discovered and explored… Interminably. If you are dreaming about the absolute, you were meant to live for things that no one else wants to live for…
A huge selection of wind images are held softly in my hands – a new portal to the occult realm of our subconsciousness. The pictures are ridiculous and meteoric, but people believe in them, because the perception of spirit photography has always been true, and they had faith. I mean, who can argue with faith in the paranormal? How dare you look away? Free fall far enough from the lighthouse of your comfort zone – the sanctuary, the holiest of follies – fall deep enough and you shalt unmistakably hit the white walls of my Darkroo, with its resident DJ, the Ensign Wasp, but then again, maybe that’s too much for your mind to take at once. Perhaps, looking back, my deadpan humor is indeed too witty for the average Joe. No wonder that at some point in time, I’ve begun talking to the walls and Chico Xavier’s spirit instead of you. Back then, similarly to my beloved psychographer Chico Xavier and sweetheart photographer Lauren Simonutti – I too had decided that I would either capture my spiritual ascension from a nightmarishly devastating normality to as much a level of poetic insanity for which one of my works of art could hope to aspire, or at the very least, I’d leave a worthy confessional account of my journey, in the worst case scenario that I would lose the battle to the forces of inspiration-killing mediocrity. Lauren had rightfully noticed that the problem with spiritual insanity is that it’s is too distant a concept. One doesn’t believe it even exists, not speaking of its myriad of manifestations; that is, until that very same person has fallen so incredibly deep and so far out that he or she are ought to believe; because that belief has now become a reality, in all its actuality, for them. I leave you with one thought ringing discordantly – would you dare to image yourself in a madhouse for the rest of your life? Because you do live in a madhouse – the madhouse we call society, with its anti-humane institutions and dehumanizing stance against any sincere expression of bona fide individuality.
You know what, gall-boys and see-gals? The game’s not over until the world’s last top model sings Goodbye Pork Pie Hat with her irresistible heroin chic. On second thought, I’ll survive with just setting the new rules for an imaginary holiday or eating a strange fruit in space. Ain’t we the sweetest dream that preoccupies existence…?