Thursday, 18 December 2008



Fucking hell, I can get really angry. As I mentioned before in 'profound yet dumb', I am both ends of the spectrum. I am very calm, patient and soft-spoken a lot of the time, but when some incident intrudes with my inner-vison-of-things I get angry and I break things and I get FRUSTRATED.

My mother always interrupts the pinnacles of my life. Yesterday she spoiled my enjoyment of the movie Psycho right in the middle of the infamous shower scene. She came into the house as I was watching it in maximum volume on the big TV. So this made me frustrated and caused me to scream and rant. It's just like the moment when I reached the pivotal moment of my life in November 2007; it's all her fault that my creativity has gone sterile and why I spent 3 months in a psychiatric hospital (although the latter occurence I don't at all see as a bad thing). Aghrrr.

Another frustrating thing is that I lost a large chunk of my film studies which I had to re-write. I'm also frustrated as I haven't had enough time to read with all the fucking college work. im also frustrated as all the people in my college are boring fucking cunts im so fucking angry that im tired of writing properly and im regressing and im bashing out this crap and im losing my sense of grammar... fuck it fuck it fuck it fuck it


I put up some of my poems on my website:

Saturday, 13 December 2008

The internet generation

I can sense a whole generation of strange artists waiting to erupt. The state of mind of generations is cyclical. At the moment it's highly conformist: people don't search for strange, wonderful art; it's all presented to them in a menu where which they consequently digest. There are many ostracized, solitary teenagers who are creating strange art and I can sense that these kindred souls will gain more stature in the mainstream some time soon.

Revolutions and manifestos are dumb because they encourage the subsequent generation to rebel against the established norm. I believe in the individual, not in groups. This generation of 'kindred souls' will not be a collective one, it will be developed independently by each separate individual.

As generations are 'cyclical' (there was a so-called 'boom' of latin-american writers at one point), I can sense that a whole new bunch of solitary outsiders who hide in their remote edges and who regularly post on internet blogs/websites will erupt with powerful new works of art: powerful novels, powerful musical compositions, powerful poetry, powerful paintings, etc. I hope to be a participant of it.

As a consequence of this, Bartok will gain air-play on non-classical radio stations and Pynchon will be devoured by teenagers who don't normally read. Teenagers will no longer go out to get mindlessly pissed; they will go out to seek new, exciting aesthetic things.

All this is probably wishful thinking, but I was delighted when the lunatic who regularly visits my Feedback page linked me onto this letter sent to the new york times which was written by a kid who managed to articulate my daydreams far better than I managed to:

Friday, 12 December 2008

My routine

I originally kept this planned-out routine for myself, but I see no harm in sharing it.



7:30 Wake up
8:00 Catch bus
9:00 Film studies
1:30 Catch 727 to Sheffield + read a ‘light’ guide/literary overview on the way
13:15 Piano Lesson
15:30 Read
18:00 Homework
19:00 Go on computer to hear music or hear music with CD player
19:30 Tea
21:00 Take meds
21:30 Creative writing
23:30 Go to bed


7:30 Wake up
8:00 Catch bus
9:00 English literature
13:00 English Language
16:40 Wank
17:00 Read
19:00 Homework
19:30 Tea
20:00 Music/Computer
21:00 Take meds
22:00 Go for a late-night walk
23:00 Go to bed


7:30 Wake up
8:30 Catch bus
9:00 Maths
12:30 Watch a movie
15:00 Read
18:00 Homework
19:00 Hear music solely with CD player
19:30 Tea
20:00 Practise piano
21:00 Take meds
21:30 Creative writing
22:30 Go to bed


7:30 Wake up
8:00 Catch bus
9:00 English language
12:00 Extra help for English
13:00 Film studies
17:00 Read
19:00 Music/computer
19:30 Tea
21:00 Take meds
21:00 Homework
22:30 Practise piano
23:00 Music/computer
00:00 Read
2:00 Go to bed


11:00 Wake up
11:52 Catch bus
12:30 Extra help
13:00 English lesson
17:00 Read
19:00 Computer/music
19:30 Tea
21:00 Take meds
21:30 Piano
22:00 Creative writing
22:30 Go for late night walk
23:00 Read
3:00 Go to bed


13:00 Wake up
14:00 Go out for a long walk
17:00 Read
19:30 Tea
21:00 Meds
21:00 Computer/music
00:00 Piano
00:30 Creative writing
1:00 Read
3:30 Late night walk
4:00 Go to bed


13:00 Wake up
14:00 Read
15:00 Piano
16:30 Homework
18:30 Piano
19:00 Hear music solely with CD player
19:00 Tea
20:30 Computer
21:00 Meds
21:30 Piano
22:00 Creative writing
23:00 Go to bed

Occasionally I won’t follow this schedule exactly as it will be interrupted by a music concert or a visit to the cinema or a trip to the woods for a number of days. And, on other occasions, I will evade going on the computer for an extensive period of time. Other periods of time I shall consciously avoid this planned-out routine deliberately and do whatever I like instead.

Thursday, 11 December 2008

Truanting is far more educational than attending school/college

Get out of school and go for a walk to the beautiful woods or the wonderful countryside: it is far more educational than rotting your brain at the exposure of a wretchedly awful education system.

The only path to acquiring any real knowledge is by being an autodidact. Discovering things on your own is far more enlightening than getting at it together with a whole group of people who are all on the same obsolete wavelengths.

At school all children are taught to do is to scorn and reject anything different as all the work they are given is specifically modified for them to become the same boring cunts they have always been.

Get out of school and go to the library and borrow some Faulkner or some Kafka and read them and be astounded by the infinite possibilities of a real education. Stop following the same dumb trends you are subjected to at school by all your idiotic peers, and instead of conforming to a specific group (a 'mosher', an 'indie' group, etc. etc.) go out and get yourself some atonal music which might make you think. Go out and buy yourself John Coltrane's Ascencion and see if it makes you sneer at all your dumb little conformist friends in the same way I do.

But people will tell me that attending school is a necessity in order for one to be 'employable'. Well, who wants to be employable? Tramps and hobos have the possibility of experiencing pain - a real privilege. After you have climbed the academic ladder and have found yourself with a warm little home, all that awaits you after a day's work is comfort. For a hobo (who hasn't had the slightest education and hasn't attempted to climb the academic ladder), however, after a days wandering what awaits him is experience.

But the only reason for why I'm attending college now is that it opens up the possibility of a university education where I might come across like-minded individuals.


I went to see Isis live last sunday, and it was fucking mindblowing. It was the best concert I've gone to this year; it even surpassed The Fall (!) and the performance of Stravinsky's Firebird I went to see.

I'm currently listening Elliott Sharp's String Quartets. This man is, in my opinion, on a par with John Zorn.

Saturday, 6 December 2008

The darker side of human nature

Humans don’t want to know about the darker side of their condition. It needs to be explored, ignoring the restrictions and limitations of ‘offense’, ‘morality’ and ‘equality’. We all have concealed, disturbing tendencies which reside under the skin. For me, it is far more interesting for art to deal with these hidden ‘tendencies’ than to replicate reality as it is in the way social realism does.

Humans aren't as civilized as they like to think they are. Everything is shrouded amidst comfort to hide away our darker thoughts and feelings, and when we are exposed to these 'darker thoughts and feelings' via subversive art and literature (or even pornography) we scrutinize it and censor it and create furores over it.

Sofia, after reading my minature entitled Vampire Woman, was repulsed and told me that I should keep such lusts 'to myself'. She also said that it was offensive to women and, additonally, demanded of 'what the hell it was about'. I find the prospect of opening the human head and exhibiting its inner-contents extremely appealing. Writing is a tool of discovery and self-fulfillment for the author. The author must ignore any superficial 'clarity' and he must forget of 'impressing' others or being 'articulate'. The reader consequently has the privilege of taking a peek and look at the results.

If something is there - why ignore it?

Friday, 5 December 2008

Similarities between Finding the Author and Concrete Island

'Cronenberg stated that while writing the screenplay for Naked Lunch, he felt a moment of synergy with the writing style of William S. Burroughs. He felt the connection between his screenwriting style and Burroughs' prose style was so strong, that he jokingly remarked that should Burroughs pass on, "I'll just write his next book".' - Wikipedia

The moment of 'synergy' I had with J. G. Ballard was posthumous to the completion of my minature entitled 'Finding The Author', rather than during the process of it been written. I don't think my writing style is in the slightest bit similar to that of Ballard's nor is it anywhere near as good, but I was overwhelmed when I encountered his novel Concrete Island as it shared a numerous amount of traits with my own feeble creation.

In Concrete Island the protagonist crashes his car and finds himself stranded in a small traffic island which lies undernearth three converging motorways. He consequently plunges, like my own creation Dennis, into the inner-world of the psyche. But what I found most astounding was the appearence of a character named Jane with whom he copulates with and offers a hope of salvation. This is just like in my own creation where the character with the exact same name, Jane, appears and saves the troubled individual Dennis.

Thursday, 4 December 2008

Being ostracized: its advantages and disadvantages


- When one is 'ostracized' one has a ginourmous amount of time to read. I have almost read a total of 50 books in 2008 alone. Nothing surpasses reading excessive amounts.

- Savouring wonderful, wonderful solitude.

- One has all the time in the world to do whatever one wants.

- Because you spend so much time alone, you have all the time in the world to think so you therefore become far more astute and sharper than everyone else.

- One loses contact with reality and political/current events, which is a good thing.

- The possibility of starting artistic projects without interruption: novels, short stories, musical compositions, etc.

- Since you have been rejected by society, you subconsciously enjoy anything that 'goes against the grain' and you discover a lot of wonderful, strange music and literature as a consequence of that.


- Compulsive masturbation

- The lack of human contact is 'mentally unhealthy' and results in mental illnesses such as depression and psychosis (the latter happened to me).

- Because everyone has rejected you, you gradually become misanthropic and hate all humans and the human condition.

- You loathe certain individuals even though you know nothing about them.

- You talk to no-one except your father.

- The niggling feeling and knowledge that there are like-minded individuals who are on the same wavelength as you, but they're nowhere near around your proximity.

Monday, 1 December 2008

Profound yet dumb

I'm capable of doing the most complicated, 'profound' things yet I remain in essence a dumb person. I am a paradox; I'm capable of reading the most heavy-going philosophical novels yet am incapable of solving simple mathematical exercises which are designed for under-achieving twelve-year-olds or nor am I capable of doing the most blatant, obvious things which most people can do in their sleep.

I'm both ends of the spectrum. My personality is constituted by numerous sub-personalities, and these 'sub-personalities' surface in my clumsy/dumb actions or in my intelligent obervations. They also both surface in my dreaming life and waking life. In my dreams my profound and dumb entities clash and spiral against one another, but in waking life they are manifest solely on their own.

Wednesday, 19 November 2008

Reality is fiction; fiction is reality

I think that it's a good idea to shut oneself off from the outer world of reality, and instead delve into the inner-world of the psyche. I think that it's best to ignore political situations and current-events. All these things become irrelevant when you're a dreamer/seeker in the terrain of the unconscious. One gets to the stage when there is no point in differentiating between what's reality and what's fiction; one gets to the stage where one must build a self-constructed realm which is specifically modified to alter our perceptions of reality.

Fiction/art that draws ideas from reality remains fiction in the same way that reality which draws from fiction remains reality. I really fucking hate it when moronic cunts put a strong emphasis on the societal aspects of a work of fiction. For instance, take James Joyce's Dubliners or the enture oevure by Faulkner: although these works of fiction were inspired by events that occured in the real world, they still stand on their own as aesthetic works of fiction and can be enjoyed whilst ignoring the elements of 'reality' in them.

I hate values and morals. What's the fucking point in imposing these restrictions and limitations on a life which is meant to be lived to its fullest potential? It may sounds hedonistic and selfish, but self-fulfilment exceeds outer fulfilment. People that follow political events and discern a distinction between reality and fiction are solely interested in group development. Solitary pursuits surpass those pursued by groups of people that are interested in abolishing poverty or pathetic bollocks like that.


My blog entries never turn out like what I envision them to be like.

I urge you to read the introduction to J. G. Ballard's Crash or watch David Cronenberg's Videodrome to get a better idea of what I attempted to convey.

Saturday, 15 November 2008

'Rough' writing > 'clear' writing

I love it when a piece of writing is littered with deliberate/undeliberate grammatical mistakes. My fiction (which can be read here) is full of them.

Argentinian writer Roberto Arlt's writing is 'bad' and 'rough', but so what? I can't fucking stand it when writing is deemed less inferior by the dubious reason of it lacking enough 'clarity'. In the case of Arlt, his 'unclarity' is the writing's main strength. I prefer it when writing is more ambiguous, messy and blurred. Cormac Mcarthy is a great example of this: he doesn't use speechmarks, semi-colons and omits a lot of apostrophes. If it's not 'undeliberate unclarity', I also love it when writers consciously deconstruct the structure and form of grammar: Faulkner, Joyce, etc.

'Rough' writing is far more direct and unpretentious and gets down to the main point. I can't fucking stand overblown, flowery language which looks down at rough writing which stands as it is. With 'rough' writing, it is far more harder to discern what's goin' on and results in a far more enjoyable reading experience. I love the novel A Clockwork Orange, for instance, because of this very reason: it's a big strain to read.

I fucking despise academic criteria which acts as the most 'valid' judgement of what makes something good or bad. I hate it when groups of people reach decisions which supress the individual; I hate it when 'high' art is deemed to be more prestigious than 'low'; I hate it when you have to respect everything 'equally' in order for it to be (again) 'valid' or 'fair': if you have something to say, you fucking say it regardless of the outer implications.

Friday, 14 November 2008

My favourite authors and why I like them so much

Here I have written little explanations for why these are my favourite authors.

J. G. Ballard
- He dissects our culture with a perfect scientist's-eye precision. He ilogically uses logic to make 2 + 2 make 5 in an incredibly perverse, deviant manner. He constantly builds an equilibrium between waking life and dreams, and, as a consequence of this, unveils the hidden mechanisms of the human mind.

William Faulkner - He vigorously attacks subject matter from all angles at once. His novels are an intricate maze where time is fractured, making the second and third and fourth reading vital in order to shed light on what preceded the final chapters. He employs a masterful use of the stream of consciousness technique in order to understand the human condition which is in a state of deterioration in the south of the USA.

Paul Auster
- A storyteller of supreme originality and unprecedented power. His most predominant theme is that of arbitrary and co-incidental events. All his characters are seekers who are looking for some sort of truth who are caught up amidst these 'arbitrary' events. Auster fuses these metaphysical and existential issues with the metric pace of crime thrillers to put this across. As a critic somewhere said, he is 'an experimental writer who is also compulsively readable.'

Jorge Luis Borges
- His work is endlessly re-readable: his short-stories can be read again and again with the exact same feeling of sheer amazement. He renovated language, and introduced a way of thinking that had never been conjured up before. He read everything, so he consequently took all his literary knowledge for an intellectual game-play that modified the past. His main themes are labyrinths and infinity, and he interjects his themes into a number of settings: fictional essays, realism, fantasy, parables, poems,etc.

Juan Rulfo
- He makes you feel the poverty and wretched hopelessness of rural Mexico in the first half of 20th century. He gets this done extremely well with either an incredibly simplistic approach or an incredibly complex approach. He employs a linear narrative in the short story collection The Burning Plain but, like Faulkner, in Pedro Páramo he makes time fractured as all the action is set in a ghost town, which ultimately means that there is no discernible beginning or end because the characters are dead and no longer have a sense of time. I urge you to read him if you enjoyed Marquez's One Hundred Years of Solitude.

Julio Cortázar
- He replicates the games we all played in childhood with a forthright use of humour. He consequently implements themes taken from childhood into the kind of intellectual game-play set out by Borges, but shrouds it with a deceptively 'realist' setting. These fantastic elements are concealed enigmatically until they finally erupt out of its self-imposed constraints, and have a characteristic which is rare in the short story form (the form which he mastered the most): they seem to question the reader, and seek to involve him/her in the narrative.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky
- His novels are absolutely engrossing right from the very beginning to the very end. He was the precursor to 20th century literature; he was the person who established all the themes that were to be developed by the leading existential thinkers; he was ahead of his time. All the novels I've read by him have imprinted an awe in me, and this sensation of amazement has lingered unsettlingly in the back of my mind.

Thomas Pynchon
- He attempts to cramp the most disparate of elements into a very large container. He's a post-modernist James Joyce who apologetically and violently and abrasively experiments with form. He branches out to many non-literary themes - physics, mathematics, pornography - to achieve an encyclopedic scope and range. His novels are allegedly 'overwritten', but this ambition results in an incredibly rewarding read which is unprecedented by any writer having preceded him

Juan Carlos Onetti
- Passionately unpassionate. I can completely relate with his laziness and his indifference to the rest of the world. I can also relate with his way of looking at 'the other side of things'. He created an imaginary realm called 'Santa Maria' where he intermingled fantasy and reality thus creating 'magic realism'. All his protagonists are anti-heroes, and they are lazy and hopeless cases: people like me.

Saturday, 8 November 2008

I can't fucking stand NOISE

Jesus christ, isn't the fifth of November enough time for bonfire night? Why can't all these moronic cunts stop with the fucking fireworks. I hate these british traditions.

The most precious, rarest thing in the world is silence and it is unfortunately impossible to obtain. How will I ever get any time to get some reading or maybe even writing done? If it's not fireworks, it's fucking lawn-mowers.... agrhh.

I can't wait to live in my own... If it's not mechanical noises, it's noise emanating out of fucking people and televisions.

This is also why I spend so much time listening to music. It helps to cover fucking noise up, but it's a hindrance to my creativity.

I'm attempting to immerse myself in Thomas Mann's 'Doctor Faustus', but it's turning out to be fucking impossible.

Thursday, 6 November 2008

A year ago today.....

A year ago today my mind disintegrated; a year ago today my psychosis developed; a year ago today I reached the culminating point of my life.

I stopped using my diary entries as an emotional outlet, and instead devoted my time solely to my blog. I exchanged many thoughts with a kid called Gareth and Doug. In my posts I was eschewing the distinction between high and low art as well as the academic definition of mental health and psychosis; I even mentioned that psychosis was a favourable state to be in. Unfortunately, all these life-changing posts got deleted and replaced with 'Simon King's no longer conventionally mad' where all my thoughts veered to a psychotic and paranoid state of mind. But only one post was fortunately saved and it was entitled Don't Live In A Boring World which can be read here. I was in such a ecstatic state that I stayed up for three days because I was so amazed that I was incapable of sleeping; I ran up and down the house with my thoughts spiralling towards all directions.

My far-fetched thoughts, unfortunately, got progressively more and more ludicrous. I won't go into them now, but I will write about them soon in a book entitled P. I. C. U.

I believe that I would have been better off without psychiatric intensive care. I had a similar episode once before with all sorts of paranoid and suspicious thoughts, and I got over it. But what I think was the worst thing about having all this intensive care is that it seriously disrupted my creativity which was at its peak. I'm certain that had I not been sent to the intensive care unit that I would within days get to grips with things and subsequently get down to writing short stories and maybe even novels.

I look at the writing before my episode and I look at my writing that I made after my episode, and it seems that I seem to be getting worse. When I first started 'Simon King's Written Outpourings' in July 2007 I wrote rather formidable minature essays, but I'm no longer capable of doing that now.


The very first post of 'Simon King's no longer conventionally mad' started like this. I wrote this a year ago today. My parents printed out bits of this blog and showed it to me at the Derby psychiatric unit. I'm typing it out from a page I have in front of me. It was aimed at the people from my old school who I thought were following my blog and laughing at me. It had the rather odd title of 'For anyone........... validating my ambiguity (I've got a certain sense people are reading me':

I think that I want to add this post to clarify any (if there were any) doubts regarding my mental condition. I deleted this blog in a flurry of emotion, until I realised that it was a wrong thing to do. I thought it all over and realised that there well may be people feeling 'sorry' for me, thinking that the world of the imagination is 'all I have'; it's actually to me having a childhood hallucination that is due to this. This is why I have an inexplicable fascination for 'strangeness' that can't be articulated in a 'normal' fashion. This is also why I've been incapable of learning basic, basic, basic rudiments. I've been trying as hard as I can to make myself, though. If I learn scientific processes, then I will at least get an understanding of logic. When I wrote my so-called novel I knew it was shit, but I knew that if I tried as hard as I fucking could, then I'd at least learn something. I want to deviate with the reality I see. I want to make my reality strange. I also want to look into the future - guess an 'answer', like Ballard has done. I want to get into the most politically incorrect wavelength of thinking to create a 'terrorist' novel, to fuck with 'smug' values. I want to test people's values of reality, which I consider to be wrong. I want people to find answers to themselves via unconventional tendencies (which reside in dreams or drug-induced fantasies). I find the vast majority of fiction I've read to be boring fucking bullshit; I never did anything 'intellectual' as a kid 'coz I didn't know that my cerebral activities were 'intellectual'. My parents are quite liberal-minded, so there was always an option to explore this terrain of 'unconvention'....

I wrote more after that, but it's been lost. Doug, after reading this, asked this question:

'Oh, and SK, I have a question.
Regarding the first post on this zombie blog, do you consider your actual circumstances to be... special, so to speak, or is it more the fact that you have come to the realisation of a truth that exists for most people, but they don't and never will realise it?'

Monday, 3 November 2008


When I was a young boy living in Chile, I was a rabid and avid football fanatic. I've gone through a number of obsessions in my life, and football was one of them. When I have an obsession, this interest predominates on my mind and I'm incapable of thinking anything other than the obsession. My current obsession is literature. At the ages of 5-7 it was superheroes/comic books, from the ages of 11-15 it was music and, the obsession which this blog entry is devoted to, at the ages of 8-10 my main interest was football.

If I were intoduced to football now I'd think it'd be the most idiotic thing on earth, but I maintain an interest in it as it brings up feeling of nostalgia within me. One of the pivotal moments in my life was the 1998 world cup where Chile participated. We would have beaten Italy if it hadn't been for an idiotic decision from the bastard referee.

Chile are now doing brilliantly with Marcelo Bielsa as their manager. They beat Argentina for the very first time! However, I'm also feeling rather depressed at the moment because Fernandez Vial, the team I supported, have gone down to the third division. Some similarly appaling news is that Argentina have hired Maradona as their manager: jesus christ! They heading towards a downward spiral with that decision. When I was young I had an enourmous love for Argentina, and I placed them as my second favourite team after Chile. It annoys the hell out of me how everyone has chosen to forget the Argentinian squad that went out on quarter-finals at the last world cup. They played beautiful, artistic football. They were also, in my opinion, the second best team of all time after Brazil 1970.

I also invented imaginary football prognostics as a child. It was like an artistic outlet; it was somewhat similar to what I imagine musical compositon to be like: very mathematical and intricate. In this imaginary realm, I always made my team Fernandez Vial win.

Saturday, 1 November 2008

My future oeuvre #2

An updated version of this post.

– An experimental novel which switches in and out from a first person perspective to a third person perspective. The first person perspective is a mental breakdown ignited by the memories of a childhood described in the third person.

Dream Stairs – A novel which shall follow ‘dream logic’. There will be bizarre situation after situation, blurring any discernible distinction between what are dream scenarios and waking life scenarios.

X1 – A collection of short stories which shall be written at a later period of my life.

Teenage Ruminations – A compendium of all my writing from the ages of 16 to 19: short stories, poems, diary entries, blog entries, etc. This will also come with an introduction explaining my circumstances and my time spent at the psychiatric ward and other biographical details.

Psychotic Hallucinations –A companion piece for ‘Dream Stairs’. This time there will be another sequence of bizarre events, but they will all solely take place in waking life. The protagonist is an unreliable narrator who is homelessly wandering around the streets. The state of mind of the character - and the structure of the novel - progressively disintegrates until death.

Strandenforp – A collection of short stories which shall all take place in the fictional town of ‘Strandenforp’. This collection will be along the similar vein of Ray Bradbury’s ‘Martian Chronicles’ and J. G. Ballard’s ‘Vermilion Sands’: shorts stories built amidst the same theme.

Erotic Violence – A group of people perform sexual intercourse in the most extreme circumstances and situations. There will be very graphic descriptions of sex. It will all be inspired by Ballard’s ‘Crash’.

Strange Logic – A complex, challenging, ambitious novel which will be around 600 pages long. There will be many different threads of narrative which intersect and weave around one another. It will be inspired by Thomas Pynchon’s ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’, and the fragmented structure of Ballard’s ‘Atrocity Exhibition’ and the work of Burroughs. Some writing constraints, adopted from Georges Perec, will be employed. Stream of consciousness writing will also be interspersed amongst these constructed constraints.

P. I. C. U. – A straightforward autobiographical account of my time spent in the Derby psychiatric intensive care unit.

 'Fuck sake man, stop planning your life out like this. It's sad and pathetic to
talk about all you're going to do when you and me both know you're never gonna
fucking do it. Actualy I'll rephrase that, you're never gonna do EXACTLY THIS.
You're never gonna live the exact stupid presumption of a future you've created,
you could live something similar, better, worse, completely different, anything.
But you aren't going to live the exact life set out in this and some older posts.

And don't say "well duh I'm not gonna live this exact life" because you make these
planning-my-life-out posts for a reason. If it's not because they represent your
fantasy ideal of a future (and that's what it is, the whole romanticised notion
of a travelling hobo artist is so corny and self absorbed) then what is it, why
do you make them? Why do you plan this shit out? Why don't you go do something,
just do it, and let life surprise you? Why the fuck do you have to write THESE
books and be at THOSE points in your life during THOSE time periods? Are you
trying to prove yourself? Trying to set preemptive standards and goals, or
telling yourself that eventually you will have achieved all you desire at this
point in time? So to you, life is your exact desires at this point in time and
nothing more - not a bad thing in itself - but you desire what you believe will
become of you in the future. You just look forward to it in a starry eyed "I'm
gonna be so great" way, and occasionally wank around with a bit of writing or
whatever you do to convince yourself that these goals are progressing. You're
so absorbed in the idea that everything great is gonna happen in the future that
you're ignoring now to some extent.

And what baffles me is, you of all people should know that this is all vain,
that time and the notion of status, rank and progress is irrelevent, that life
is the malleable oblique moment. And yet you insist on writing these stupid "when
I grow up, I'm gonna be THIS!" posts. Why? It's fucking retarded. What, do writing
those particular books give you status? Do they serve your self-perception of a
reclusive individualist who demolishes convention because he's so smart and great?
Do they maintain the bubble? Why do you insist on grooming your public/self
(whichever it is) perception in that way? Are all these questions coming from
the wrong angle? It's just so weird, that you would look at yourself in such a vain,
fantastical, dreamy sort of way, fantasising about how great you're gonna be, then
you turn around and say all that vegetation crap is garbage and that you gotta be
on the edge of your senses at all times with no regard for time, social status, etc.
You know looking at yourself in terms of how great you're gonna be is the same as
yearning for good social status?'



Thursday, 23 October 2008

Discipline and targets


There are two types of writers. There are those who are incredibly well-organised, work for extensive hours, and follow a carefully organised routine and schedule. Then there are those who are lazy and lethargic, write only when a surge of inspiration comes, and live chaotic and unstructed lives. I unfortunately fall into the latter category but, unlike most people that fall into this category, aspire to fall into the former category.

I only write excessive amounts only when I am emotionally/mentally fucked up. I used to write reams every day (although they were mainly diary entries)! After I got discharged from the psychiatric ward, I have found it difficult to discipline myself to write because, now that I am mentally stable, the only way I can get writing done is by sitting down and forcing myself to do so.

Mario Vargas Llosa is very disciplined, and I envy him. His novels are all intricately well-researched and organised; everything is in its place. Then you get writers like Juan Carlos Onetti who is (or was) on the same boat as me, but the only difference is that his intuition and talent is better than mine.


I never fulfill the targets I set out for myself: the other week, I only spent one day/night and a half instead of two at the woods; in the first week of college I set out to write a poem every day, but ended up writing a mere two; I only read thirty pages of Gravity's Rainbow each day instead of the 50 I set myself to read; I was going to read 100 pages of literature every day, but this never came to fruition.

At the rate I'm going now, I'll never get to write any of the novels I have pathetically envisioned in my dumb-little-teenage-cunt-head. My life spent as a novelist: wishful thinking.

Wednesday, 15 October 2008


From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.

I really identify with this poem by Poe. I can spend months and months without meeting or talking to a single individual. I find most people to be incredibly dull; I don't have anything in common with virtually anyone. I am a complete recluse.

Tuesday, 14 October 2008

The people on my bedroom wall

On my wall I have a photograph of me at the age of 8 with my hero Themo Lobos, a picture of Igor Stravinsky, a picture of J. G. Ballard, two pictures of Mark E. Smith, a picture of Borges, a picture of Julio Cortázar, and an image of Paul Auster. I have also got an image which is a compendium of Themo Lobos' drawing accompanied by his signature and a comment as well as paintings by Hieronymous Bosch and Willem De Kooning.

I have met some of these people in several, different ways. Life is full of co-incidental, arbitrary experiences which interrelate us all together. I aspire some day to get somewhere close to the artistic standard all these people have achieved.

My father contacted the legendary children's comic-book artist Themo Lobos to come over to stay at our house, but, more crucially, to give talks to the students of the school my father taught at and that I attended. I literally spent all the time reading and re-reading his comic books; he was the author of my favourite strips 'Mampato', 'Maximo Chambonez' and 'Alaraco' among others. They were very sophisticated for children's comic strips. They have the same element of The Simpsons: you can re-visit it all when you're older and discover certain jokes that went over your head the first time around. Themo Lobos spent almost a week in our house and I was flabbergasted by his relentless quest for knowledge and discovery. It was somehow similar to Borges' child-like fascination for literature that never diminished with old age - not at all erudite, but very inquisitive and curious.

My contact with J. G. Ballard is far more disturbing and enigmatic; I'm not even sure if he does or doesn't know who I am. It's so disturbing that I don't feel like writing about it, but there's still an unconscious, niggling desire for me to do so. I spent 3 days awake in an ecstatic state; I just got the large bedroom which my sister left and I'd gotten to the pivotal moment of my life. I was posting on my blog, and I was running up and down the stairs of my house in amazement. Then my mother took me away and fucked my mind up by igniting my psychotic episode. She told me stuff which made the world seem infinite as if the gates of heaven were opening; she gave me some sort of drug/tablet, and kept telling me 'think clear thoughts, Simon' over and over again. I was very vulnerable due to the lack of sleep, so I naively went along with it. The medicine was having some sort of effect on my brain. I was looking for some sort of answer until I screamed my heart out: CRASH, CRASH, CRASH, CRASH!!! The title of the only Ballard book I'd read at the time. It seemed that this book had disturbed my mind and had somehow clinged to my unconscious, and was now manifesting itself through my screaming. At the time I wanted to fuck my old english teacher up by killing her husband who was a mathematics teacher and start deluding her by making her think she was seeing things from a mathematical perspective (this was more of a aesthetic proposition I was making to the police rather than a literal one) which would eventually kill her. I also deleted my 'Simon King's Written Outpourings' blog and replaced it with 'Simon King's not conventionally mad' and used this new blog as some sort of way to prove my english teacher wrong and beat her at her own game. After I screamed 'Crash' out my mother told me that my english teacher had in fact killed herself after hearing my poignant screaming and that her husband was seeking some sort of mathematical answer. She consequently gave me some pen and paper and told me to write. Here is when I did the dumbest fucking thing: my hand started moving without my control and it seemed like Ballard's writing; he was writing something along the lines of 'I was trying to show [with crash] what young people like Simon are drawn to and are capable of doing' until I intercepted his movement of my hand by writing 'from Simon's point of view (again). Dream Fadeout [the novel which was meant to kill her] was an illusion. I wanted her to be shocked'... and I continued on and writing incoherent rubbish. To this day, I'm convinced that Ballard was somehow moving my hand via the drug I'd taken. Then, after this, I started thinking that my english teacher and the girl I swooned over with my writing were somehow in my house and that we were all going to have some sort of sick, twisted sex with me. I stroked my penis, and they appeared in my room. I stayed in bed while they both sat in my room around me. The girl [which I had manipulated in my pretentious novel 'Dream fadeout'] closed her eyes, gasped, and left the room. I got up to see what was going on and the english teacher snapped 'don't!' I got back to bed and fell asleep.
After this day I got sent to a psychiatric ward in Chesterfield and I kept screaming after Ballard. I was in such a bad state that they sent me to a psychiatric intensive care unit in Derby. While I was there I got a phone call and I cried out: 'who's there?!' And I heard Ballard saying 'your long-gone friend' in a weak, muffled, frail voice; he sounded as if he was seriously ill. After I left the hospital I discovered that Ballard had, in fact, cancer. This was announced after I'd left the intensive care unit, and this seemed to confirm that it was him one the phone.

The day I got sent to Chesterfield hospital, I got taken to a bed and both my parents sat with me. Then Paul Auster appeared with his wife and gave me a pill and told me 'take this'. I did so and he consequently said something I forgot and my father said 'I don't know much about Paul Auster, but I think he says'... (I forgot what he said here) And Auster confirmed it and quoted something someone else said, and then they left and I went to sleep. This was the night before I was sent to the intensive care unit in Derby. He looked like Paul Auster and claimed to be Paul Auster, so he might have been Paul Auster! But I'm not sure.

Cortázar died before I was born, so we never physically met. However, he always said that writing was some sort of contact and that he always had some sort of relationship with his reader. Like Auster, a recurring theme in his work is so-called 'co-incidences' and arbitrary events. So when I found this paragraph in Rayuela, it was a huge co-incidence and revelation as it seemed to include me in some manner: 'Sera cuestión de tiempo. Pero me siento bien, se acabaron los problemas con la portera. Nadie me trae correspondencia, ni siquera la de Nueva Zelandia, con sus estampillas tan bonitas. Cuando se ha publicado un libro que nace muerto, el único resultado es un correo pequeno pero fiel. La senora de Nueva Zelandia, el muchacho de Sheffield. Francmasoneria delicada, voluptuosidad de ser tan pocos que participan de una adventura. Pero ahora, realmente...'
This is a gigantic co-incidence. I am passionately in love with seeking obscure writers such as Morelli (who is talking here) and I'm a young 'muchacho'. And Cortázar, who knows nothing about England or English geography, describes this kid who sounds just like me who happens to discover this totally unknown writer. Bizarre.

I stared into Mark E. Smith's eyes the first time I saw him play with The Fall in Sheffield. Meanwhile, I saw Beefheart's magic band perform and 'Drumbo', who was the singer, kept gazing right into my eyes completely bemused by the sight of a 14-year-old in a beefheart concert.

I don't feel like editing or re-reading this, so this lazy/rushed/incredibly clumsy writing will remain as it is. I'm off to read Pynchon's 'Gravity's Rainbow' now.

Monday, 13 October 2008

String quartets <3

I'm musically illiterate, but I can't help start a blog entry about my passionate love for string quartets.

No other musical medium is more emotionally stimulating than the string quartet. In this medium, the composer assesses his musical vocabulary and experiments with his/hers viewpoint on melody, harmony, rhythm and timbre. The entire development of a composer's career can be tracked through the string quartet as is evident in the works of Ludwig Van Beethoven, Bela Bartok and Elliott Carter. The composer here cramps the most disparate of elements into the smallest container; the composer encapsulates everything he has to offer in a small chamber setting.

My favourite piece of all time is Bela Bartok's String Quartet No. 4. It's so exhilarating....

Saturday, 11 October 2008

Interesting quotes

'I have always imagined that paradise will be some kind of library' - Jorge Luis Borges

'Hell is other people' - Jean-Paul Sartre

'Nature does not extinction; all it knows is transformation. Everything science has taught me, and continues to teach me, strengthens my belief in the continuity of our spiritual existence after death' - Wernher Von Braun

'The suburbs dream of violence' - J. G. Ballard

'When a true genius appears in the world, you may know him by this sign, that the dunces are all in a confederancy against him' - Jonathan Swift

'Without deviation from the norm, progress is not possible' - Frank Zappa

'I do not take drugs. I am drugs.' - Salvador Dali

'Either one does not dream at all or one dreams in an interesting manner' - Friedrich Nietzsche

'But the man that is will shadow the man that pretends to be' - T. S. Eliot

'To listen is an effort, and just to hear has no merit. A duck hears also' - Igor Stravinsky

'Let the writer take up surgery or bricklaying if he is interested in technique. There is no mechanical way to get the writing done, no shortcut' - William Faulkner

Wednesday, 8 October 2008

My new 'about me'

The 'about me' description can only be up to 1,200 words long, and this new one I wrote is longer than that. I think that my current 'About me' description is in serious need of updating, so I'll try to condense/dilute this one.

I am now an angry, reclusive 18-year-old who's detached from reality. I am a solitary outsider who is on the fringes of society. I had a psychotic episode at the age of 17, and I consequently spent three months in a psychiatric ward. I originally begun this blog in 2007 but deleted it, so my first posts (which surpass my more recent ones) have been lost. I have a very strong interest for the dense and the abrasive. I was born in Chile and I live in Sheffield, UK. I used to write fiction, but I'm currently undergoing writer's block. My ambition is to be a novelist. I'm interested in 'terrorist novels'; I once wrote 20 pages of one when I was 16 and they were so bad that they were intended to kill my old english teacher. I read excessive amounts. My favourite writers include Borges, Cortázar, Ballard, Faulkner, Dostoyevsky and Paul Auster. I also have an enormous love for modern classical music. My favourite composers are Bartok, Debussy, Stravinsky and Ligeti. I live in the world of dreams. Dreams and reality are, for me, synonymous: there is no point in differentiating between the two. I am now studying A levels at chesterfield college only because it opens up the possibility of a university education; I have no friends there (or anywhere, for that matter). I am currently on an anti-psychotic medicine called 'olanzapine' which prevents me from being nocturnal or getting inspiration or drinking excessive amounts of coca-cola.-------------- My msn is I'm quite misanthropic, so there are chances that we won't get along too well (my favourite quote is 'hell is other people'), but I do nonetheless enjoy encountering strange and wonderful people.

Everything is always

'Beginning', 'middle' and 'end' are all flawed and obsolete human concepts. The universe, for instance, is infinite; it has no beginning and no end. That's why I mainly (though not always) prefer modernist novels over victorian and romantic ones: they dismantle time and make it all fractured and vigorously attack subject matter from all angles at once.

Everything is always.

Thursday, 25 September 2008

Under the skin

Even the simplest of situations always have some sort of complex labyrinth underpinning them. Everything may seem functional on the surface, but under the skin there are all sorts of clashing/ contradicting emotions and thoughts spiralling all over our minds.

I love the movie Blue Velvet by David Lynch. It begins with the portrayal of an idyllic, quintessentially american suburb. Everything seems to be perfect. But the discovery of an ear triggers a crazy-paced, roller-coaster ride to the hidden depths of the imagination. David Lynch comes from an 'American dream' background, and all his films - and especially Blue Velvet - deconstruct it. In this movie, the dark side of the human condition erupts out of the apparent tranquility which predominates on the surface.

I hate superficial writing; I hate social realism and the hampstead novel. What's the whole point of depicting everything that's on the surface? Humans don't function in a logical manner; we are very complicated creatures. The writer needs to delve into the latent aspects of life: the hidden mechanisms of the inner world of the pysche.

You can't judge people with pre-conceived labels. The types of labels I encounter are found in the world of politics and amongst the teenagers that (unfortunately) surround me day after day. In the playground, there are ostensible relationships within certain 'groups'. Just because you belong to a 'mosher' elite or an 'emo' elite, it doesn't mean that your thoughts and opinions will correlate with the remainder of the people which constitute whatever group you're part of. The same applies to political issues: conservative and liberal ideologies don't dictate whatever opinions you have over a political event.

Saturday, 20 September 2008


I've set a target that I must write a poem each day at college. Within a week, I've only written two. I read in a book by Jodorowsky that it's extremely healthy to write a poem every day regardless of the quality.

They are my first attempts at poetry (I am, predominantly, a prose writer), so don't expect them to be flabbergastingly amazing. In any case, these are the poems I wrote:

Remnants of a Dead Past

Old newsreels churn out the forgotten figments of a dead past.
Memories long gone,
Cyclically repeat
In the abandoned theatre.

Latent truths about our present are terminated.
The soot and cobwebs cake the room.
Endlessly repeated images
Lead to nothing.

Remnants of a dead past linger like a dream
in the vintage storerooms of our archaic minds.

Our childhood,
My childhood,
Your childhood
Are buried within the depths of our memories.
The key to our existence
has vanished.

Memories erupt out of the constraints of the present.
Contradicting times encapsulated into the smallest of containers raise a standstill:

Order is assembled.
Chaos has crumbled.

Dancing To A Forgotten Dream

Remembrance erodes down to the pit.
Forgotten dreams enigmatically replay in the hidden depths of the mind.
Fragments cling to the surface.
But the overall picture is obliterated.

Overwhelming exhilaration for the faded sensations paves its way through onto waking life.
This manifests itself through movement:

Dancing to a forgotten dream.
The yearning to go back to that previous moment where all time is fractured.
Previous experiences latticed onto one whole.
Embryonic reflection.

Contrasting emotions clash against one another.
Free-flowing movement amidst the constraints of consciousness.

Two worlds collide.


College is shit. It's exactly like the time when I was at Norton college doing a first diploma course: I am the most invisible, insignificant person there. I thought that I'd find like-minded individuals now that I'm doing A-levels, but all the people are boring fucking cunts. I hate people who are the same age as me. I spend all my breaks at the library. I don't know how I'm going to withstand this for two whole years.

I am one of hundreds. I don't mean to sound pompous and cocky, but I get the impression that I'm pretty unique. No-one else is on my wavelength. I've found a few people on the internet who are, but that's about it.... ahgrrr.


I'd love to live in a dream throughout the whole of my life. If I had this choice, I'd take it.

I think that a writer needs to live in the world of dreams... That's the most important role of a writer. It's a terrible mistake to replicate the reality we all live in as we see it the news and in newspapers everyday.

What I love about dreams is that time is fractured: all your experiences during your past waking life are latticed and meshed together into one whole. I don't like the interpretations of dreams conceived by Freud, though. I love the strange logic of the inexplicable. My tastes in art - literature, music, film, etc. - are pretty much the same: I like it all to remain ambiguous without any superficial 'message' or' meaning' scrutinizing it. I like it all to remain cryptic and open to interpretation.

In waking life you control your mind, but in dreams the mind controls you... It's when the unconscious takes over and fucks you up...

I've come extremely close to lucid dreams in the past. I remember that I once announced 'this is a lucid dream!', but absolutely nothing happened. I've also got vague recollections of times that I'm aware I'm dreaming and nothing happening.

Waking life's enoyment is always undermined due to obligations. You need to go to work, you need to pay the bills, etc., etc. Waking life also haves the concept of success. By the time one dies living on these terms and constraints, one wouldn't have achieved anything. Tramps, for instance, achieve far more than business men or pseudo-philosophers. The only difference is that they don't have any superficial pridde. I hate it when values and ideologies predominate; I hate it when values disrupt my life of self fulfilment. In dreams, there are no economic concerns: you are your pure self 100% undiluted.


Currently reading: 'Gravity's rainbow' by Thomas Pychon; 'The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night Time' by Mark Haddon (gotta read it for college); 'Enduring Love' by Ian McEwan (gotta read it for college); and a book of essays about J. G. Ballard

Currently listening to a 5-CD box set of Gyorgy Ligeti that I recently bought.


Friday, 5 September 2008

My childhood, imagination and creativity...

I used to have quite an imagination as a child living in Chile. I used my creativity for both introverted and extroverted activities: I was always inventing interesting, inventive games for everyone to play; I was drawing little picture books at the age of six; I used to create whole movies for my friends to act out; I created an entire fictional country called 'simon land'; I used to keep imaginary football prognostics based on the chilean football league where I always made my team 'Fernandez Vial win; I used to move a piece of string around and rant out an entire monologue about Superman and recorded it onto a cassette; I used to create TV stations and I'd fantasize about all the TV programmes they'd show; when I got into music, I created imaginary records inside my head....

I was a total outsider in Chile. I had bright blond hair, and I had the quintessentially British surname of 'King'. When I got to the UK at the age of 11 I was completely ostracized all over again. There's no nation in the world where I really belong to or 'identify' with. I like it that way, really. From the ages of 12 to 15, however, I hadn't really developed intellectually at all. I didn't do much at all during this period, either. I want to explore all this in my novel 'See-Saw' which I will write some time in the future. In the novel, I want to move in and out from a description of someone's childhood in the third person to a reflective description in the first person of a person having a mental breakdown which is triggered by the memories of his childhood...

I hallucinated once when I was either 4, 5 or 6 years old.... That definitely blurred the distinction between 'real' and 'fantasy' for the rest of my life. It also made me a superficially clumsy person, and it may have contributed to the disintegration of my mind and my psychotic episode at the age of 17. I was in my aunt's house in Santiago (which isn't the city where I lived) and each time my cousin shined a light on the ceiling, it opened the wall and it was accompanied by a hand and a malevolent voice. I screamed my lungs out and cried with all my energy when that occurred. I once described it as this: "The light is a path to darkness; its bright, luminous ray of hope opens a new strange world culminating in a hand, which sheds tears out of my eyes, resulting in a never-ending feel of misery".

Despite my immense imagination, I never remembered my dreams as a child. When I turned 15, and when my intellect began developing, I had absolutely flabbergasting and vivid dreams... It is these dreams which
activated my desire to write short stories/novels and make (noisy) music.

Monday, 1 September 2008

Julio Cortázar and the terrorist novel

I didn't invent the term 'terrorist novel'. I heard it used by J. G. Ballard in this excellent documentary which can be watched here.

While I'd say that Julio Cortazár's best writing can be found in his perfect short stories, he proved himself to be among the most original and ground-breaking novelists emerging from the latin-american literary boom of the '60s and '70s. He wrote 4 novels where he vigorously experimented and kept re-inventing his style. Each of his novels created furores amongst the latin-american literary establishment; each of his novels were terrorist bombs designed to re-define and broaden the horizons and possibilities of this literary medium.

Hopscotch (known in spanish as Rayuela) transgresses the literary conventions of the novel by giving the reader an option. This means that the reader's contribution is not passive as he/she is taking decisions on the direction the book takes in the same way that the writer took decisions when he wrote it. The open-ended structure leads to either a linear or non-linear reading of the book. You can either hopscotch your way through it or you can read it from beginning to end. One of the controversies Cortázar created with this book was how he infuriated feminists by calling the passive reader el lector hembra (the effeminate reader). Ultimately, this book was a terrorist novel in the way it questioned the role of the reader and its attempt to cramp as much as it possibly could into the smallest container.

62: A Model Kit disappointed many readers as it did not turn out to be a second part of Rayuela, but instead proposed an entirely new way of approaching the novel as a genre. This time Cortázar gives absolutely no instructions of how to approach the book: everything is up to the reader. The book this time follows another group of intellectuals in various european cities but, unlike Rayuela, is pessimistic in its tone as there's not the faintest trace of hope on 'the other side of the wall'. Its abrasive experimentalism turned out to be a huge failure in terms of sales, and its critics and its audience were completely perplexed by it.

Cortázar's final novel, El Libro De Manuel (which I've yet to read), caused a giant furore by upsetting both the left-wing and right-wing communities of latin-america. It was Cortázar's first political work, and it's also where he first made explicit his recent relationship with socialism and communism. The right-wingers were upset as it didn't correspond with their ideological views and opinions. Meanwhile the left-wingers found it morally wrong to write a book about the political prisoners of Argentina.

If you've yet to read this excellent writer who is not very well-known in either Europe or the USA, I suggest that you purchase the wonderful short-story collection Blow-up. They are so good, in my opinion, that they are to be put beside Poe and Borges.

Sunday, 24 August 2008

What I want to do with my life.

I got sent to a psychiatric ward in Derby for 3 months, and this disrupted and seriously affected m creativity. I was at my peak! I doubt whether I'll manage to get to it again. I was posting prolifically on my blog (which has since been deleted) and exchanged many opinions with an interesting kid called Gareth. My plan then was to write as many short stories as I could and read as much as I could, and spend five years at home with my parents. I then consequently wanted to live life as a tramp, travelling around the world and living a life of pleasure.

After having been sent to the psychiatric ward, I was persuaded by the doctor there to pursue a university education. After leaving the hospital and the ward, I found my creativity to be very sterile. I have, however, read excessively (on some occasions, read 6-8 hours ). I am now going to study A-levels at Chesterfield college; I don't look forward to it at all as I'm afraid it will interfere with my reading. I will drop out if I find that this is the case. If I don't drop out, I will then go on to study english literature at a university (as the psychiatrist told me to do).

In any case, my aspiration is to be a post-man and a novelist. I'd stay up at night to write my novels and I'd go out to deliver the mail in the morning. I'd then proceed to sleep in the afternoon. I'd also live as a hermit and I'd also read excessive amounts. I'll continue to write regardless of it getting published. If this isn't the case, I might live off a woman that can cook and care for me and have sex with me and live in the woods with me. This would be more convenient as it'd leave more time for my writing, and the human company may prevent me from going psychotic. I may also experiment once or twice with LSD to see what the outcome of this is, and see if it may make my writing more fertile.

Novels and short story collections I hope to write (yet have no plan for) are: See-Saw, Dream Stairs, X1, Teenage Ruminations, Psychotic Hallucinations, Strandenforp, Erotic Violence and Strange Logic.

This is a shitty post and I may delete it.

Construction and stream of consciousness

There are two different forms of stream of consciousness: one type that propagates an order and the other which is just a flow of spontaneous energy. Writers that fall into the latter category are Henry Miller, Celine and Jack Kerouac. Writers, on the hand, who fit into the former category are James Joyce, William Faulkner and Thomas Pynchon. For my own tastes, it is these writers - the writers from the former category - which are the most exciting and provide more stimulation for me.

Henry Miller and Celine describe picaresque adventures without any pretensions for assembling an order. This kind of writing, however, is quite risky as there's 50/50 chance of success. There are moments of real inspiration, but at other times one finds that half the pages aren't really necessary as there's too much repetition and monotony.

It may seem paradoxical, but the stream of consciousness technique can be applied with exhilarating results to a form of writing that assembles a construction. The best example I have encountered of this form of writing is in the novel The Sound and the Fury and, more specifically, the first two chapters of this watershed book. The technique dissects two aspects of the human condition, shattering and eschewing the accepted norms of literary convention: mental retardation and a mental breakdown leading to suicide. Benjy is unable of drawing temporal distinctions, meaning that time is fractured: all events depicting the disintegration of a southern USA family are shown in a non-chronological fashion. This perfectly captures the viewpoint of a person with development disabilities. The far more complicated character portrayed in the second section is called Quentin, and Faulkner virtuosically deconstructs the rules of grammar with the character's deteriorating state of mind. It is difficult to discern when time stops and begins as all his thoughts are latticed into one whole. Faulkner perfectly captures two very different thought patterns of mind . The third and fourth chapters shed light in what preceded them, and this makes the second reading vital. The book can be read again and again and again which is rare in the medium of a novel; it's closer to the form of poetry which also demands multiple readings.

I have yet to get to grips with James Joyce's Ulysses (let alone Finnegans Wake), but the other book of his that employs stream of consciousness and assembles an order is the wonderful A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. What I particularly like about the use of stream of consciousness in this book is how the writing style progressively matures as the character gets older, and the switch from first person to third at the very end of the book.

Monday, 21 July 2008


I'm incapable of writing those interesting minature essays I used to make. So here you have yet another list. I'm a pathetic, philistine moron that should die.


10. Cantus In Memoriam Benjamin Britten - Arvo Part
9. Symphony of Wind Instruments - Igor Stravinsky
8. Symphonie Fantastique - Hector Berlioz
7. Tzigane - Maurice Ravel
6. Piano Concerto No. 3 - Sergei Rachmaninov
5. Turangalila - Olivier Messiaen
4. Clocks and Clouds - Gyorgy Ligeti
3. La Mer - Claude Debussy
2. Rite of Spring - Igor Stravinsky
1. String Quartet No. 4 - Bela Bartok

Thursday, 10 July 2008

Top 10 popular music CDs

10. Frank Zappa - The Grand Wazoo
9. Ornette Coleman - Free Jazz

8. John Coltrane - A Love Supreme

7. Eric Dolphy - Out To Lunch

6. Kayo Dot - Choirs of the Eye

5. Otomo Yoshihide - Dreams

4. The Fall - Hex Enduction Hour

3. Captain Beefheart & His Magic Band - Trout Mask Replica

2. Miles Davis - In A Silent Way

1. Robert Wyatt - Rock Bottom

Tuesday, 8 July 2008

5 random extracts

Here are 5 extracts outta books by the writers I chose for my 'TOP 5 WRITERS ACCORDING TO SIMON KING' list. I skimmed through the books recently, and the paragraphs selected are what most impressed me at the time. They are not, however, the definite 'best' or my 'favourite' examples of the authors' writing.


Extract from the novel Moon Palace by Paul Auster

I stood on the beach for a long time, waiting for the last bits of sunshine to vanish. Behind me, the town went about its business, making familiar late-century American noises. As I looked down the curve of the coast, I saw the lights of the houses being turned on, one by one. Then the moon came up from behind the hills. It was a full moon, as round and yellow as a burning stone. I kept my eyes on it as it rose into the night sky, not turning away until it had found its place in the darkness.

Chapter 7 of the novel Hopscotch (Rayuela) by Julio Cortázar

Toco tu boca, con un dedo toco el borde de tu boca, voy dibujándola como si saliera de mi mano, como si por primera vez tu boca se entreabriera, y me basta cerrar los ojos para deshacerlo todo y recomenzar, hago nacer cada vez la boca que deseo, la boca que mi mano elije y te dibuja en la cara, una boca elegida entre todas, con soberana libertad elegida por mí para dibujarla con mi mano en tu cara, y que por un azar que no busco comprender coincide exactamente con tu boca que sonríe por debajo de la que mi mano te dibuja.
Me miras, de cerca me miras, cada vez más cerca y entonces jugamos al cíclope, nos miramos cada vez más de cerca y los ojos se agrandan, se acercan entre si, se superponen y los cíclopes se miran, respirando confundidos, las bocas se encuentran y luchan tibiamente, modiéndose con los labios apoyando apenas la lengua en los dientes, jugando en sus recintos donde un aire pesado va y viene con un perfume viejo y un silencio. Entonces mis manos buscan hundirse en tu pelo, acariciar lentamente la profundidad de tu pelo mientras nos besamos como si tuviéramos la boca llena de flores o de peces, de movimientos vivos, de fragrancia oscura. Y si nos mordemos el dolor es dulce, y si nos ahogamos en un breve y terrible absorber simultáneo del aliento, esa instántanea muerte es bella. Y hay una sola saliva y un solo sabor a fruta madura, y yo te siento temblar contra mi como una luna en el agua.

Extract from the novel The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

It was a while before the last stroke ceased vibrating. It stayed in the air, more felt than heard, for a long time. Like all the bells that ever rang still ringing in the long dying light-rays and Jesus and Saint Francis talking about his sister. Because if it were just to hell; if that were all of it. Finished. If things just finished themselves. Nobody else there but her and me. If we could just have done something so dreadful that they would have fled hell except us. I have committed incest i said Father it was I it was not Dalton Ames And where he put Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. When he put the pistol in my hand I didn't. That's why I didn't. He would be there and she would and I would. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. If we could have just done something so dreadful and Father said That's sad too, people cannot do anything that dreadful they cannot do anything very dreadful at all they cannot even remember tomorrow what seemed dreadful today and I said, You can shirk all things and he saud, Ah can you. And I will look down and see my murmuring bones and the deep water like wind, like a roof of wind, and after a long time they cannot distinguish even bones upon the lonely and inviolate sand. Until on the Day when He says Rise only the flat-iron would come floating up. It's not when you realize that nothing can help you - religion, pride, anything - it's when you realize that you don't need any aid. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. Dalton Ames. If I could have been his mother lying with open body lifted laughing, holding his father with my hand refraining, seeing, watching him die before he lived. One minute she was standing in the door.

Extract from a short story entitled 'The Aleph' (El Aleph) by Jorge Luis Borges

En la parte inferior del escalón, hacia la derecha, vi una pequeña esfera tornasolada, de casi intolerable fulgor. Al prinicipio la creí giratoria; luego comprendí que ese movimiento era una ilusión producida por los vertginosos espectáculos que encerraba. El diámetro del Aleph sería de dos o tres centímetros, pero el espacio cósmico estaba ahí, sin disminución de tamaño. Cada cosa (la luna del espejo, digamos) era infinitas cosas, porque yo claramente la veía desde todos los puntos del universo. Vi el populoso mar, vi el alba y la tarde, vi las muchedumbres de América, vi una plateada telaraña en el centro de una negra pirámide, vi un laberinto roto (era Londres), vi interminables ojos inmediatos escrutándose en mí como en un espejo, vi todos los espejos del planeta y ninguno me reflejó, vi en un traspatio de la calle Soler las mismas baldosas que hace treinta años vi en el zaguán de una casa en Fray Bentos, vi racimos, nieve tabaco, vetas de metal, vapor de agua, vi convexos desiertos ecuatoriales y cada uno de sus granos de arena, vi en Inverness a una mujer que no olvidaré, vi la violenta cabellera, el altivo cuerpo, vi un cáncer en el pecho, vi un círculo de tierra seca en una vereda, donde antes hubo un árbol, vi una quinta de Adrogué, un ejemplar de la primera versión inglesa de Plinio, la de Philemon Holland, vi a un tiempo cada letra de cada página (de chico, yo solía maravillarme de que las letras de un volumen cerrado no se mezclaren y perdieran en el decurso de la noche), vi la noche y el día contemporáneo, vi un poniente en Querétano que parecia reflejar el color de una rosa en Bengala, vi mi dormitorio sin nadie, vi un gabinete de Alkmaar un globo terráqueo entre dos espejos que lo multiplicaban sin fin, vi caballos de crin arremolinada, en una playa del Mar Caspio en el alba, vi la delicada osatura de una mano, vi a los sobrevivientes de una batalla, enviando tarjetas postales, vi en un escaparate de Mirzapur una baraja española, vi las sombras oblicuas de unos helechos en el suelo de un invernáculo, vi tigres, émbolos, bisontes, marejadas y ejércitos, vi todas las hormigas que hay en la tierra, vi un astrolabio persa, vi en un cajón del escritorio (y la letra me hizo temblar) cartas obscenas, increíbles, precisas, que Beatriz había dirigido a Carlos Argentino, vi un adorado monumento en la Chacarita, vi la reliquia atroz de lo que deliciosamente había sido Beatriz Viterbo, vi la circulación de mi oscura sangre, vi el engranje del amor y la modificación de la muerte, vi el Aleph, desde todos los puntos, vi en el Aleph la tierra, vi my cara y mis vísceras, vi tu cara, y sentí vertigo y lloré, porque mis ojos habían visto ese objeto secreto y conjetural, cuyo nombre usurpan los hombres, pero que ningún hombre ha mirado: el inconcebible universo.

Extract from the novel Kingdom Come by J. G. Ballard

The suburbs dream of violence. Asleep in their drowsy villas, sheltered by benevolent shopping molls, they wait patiently for the nightmares that will wake them into a more passionate world...

Sunday, 6 July 2008

I've got no outpourings left....

I've regressed into a boring fucking cunt: I can't write; I can't dream; I can't read. I am the antithesis of what my former-self used to embody. It is a great irony how in my short story 'The Pills', the character can only write with the medication. In 'real life', the 'pills' I'm taking prevent me from writing. I wish I wasn't such a lazy cunt; I lack discipline and craft. When I first started my blog I wrote really interesting, miniature essays. I am no longer capable of doing that now..... I've got no more outpourings left. I'm in a constant state of languidity.

Wednesday, 2 July 2008

10 Death metal albums that rock

A healthy, liberating form of music.

1. Napalm Death - Scum
2. Decapitated - Nihilty
3. Opeth - Deliverance
4. Cannibal Corpse - Bloodthirst
5. Brutal Truth - Extreme Conditions Demand Extreme Responses
6. Meshuggah - Nothing
7. Isis - Oceanic
8. Nile - In The Beginning
9. Gorguts - Erosion of Sanity
10. Godflesh - Merciless

Currently listening to John Fahey's 'America'.

Thursday, 19 June 2008


I desperately want to talk to more interesting people who share the same interests as me (people with a strong interest for the dense and the abrasive) since about 95% of my MSN contacts are boring fucking cunts.

I would like to talk about dreams and the unconscious, the remote edges, modern classical music, modernist literature, the moon, free jazz, death metal, latin-american literature, my own writing, masturbation and Chilean football. I'm getting lonely and I crave appreciation.

There also seems to be a whole generation of reclusive, misanthropic teenagers creating strange art. I would like to meet more of these people in order to create a literary and musical revolution in the future. We should all break with convention, and we should all make the mainstream more exciting (let's get Bartok on the radio and let's make experimental, abrasive novels bestsellers). We should adopt the name of 'the internet generation'.


Saturday, 14 June 2008

My favourite moments in cinematic history

The ending in Barton Fink.

The intermission in 2001 when Kubrick plugs Ligeti to a wide audience, shrouding it all in utter darkness; I love Ligeti in darkness, too.

The ending in 2001 - unsurpassable.

The end of A Clockwork Orange when Alex slooshies lovely, lovely Beethoven... 'I was cured, all right.'

Any scene in The Big Lebowski.

'Springtime for Hitler' performed in the original version of The Producers.

The first episode in The Second Heimat.

The ending in Brazil.

The ending in Eraserhead.

The moment when the kid finds the ear in Blue Velvet.