Tuesday, 22 April 2008

Living metaphysically


The world we inhabit in our waking lives is, in fact, a fictional world. The world portrayed by the media is one reality, and it doesn't correlate with the identity and unconsciousness of a certain individual. It is also a superficial waste of time to get preoccupied over political issues.

The outer, western world's most predominant value is that of 'success'. In dreams there are no economic worries: you are yourself 100% undiluted.

The writer's role shouldn't be to replicate the 'reality' we are part of. It is also a terrible mistake to have an audience in mind - to make it 'clear' or to be 'articulate'. You should write for yourself; you should create a new, exciting reality which differs from the ostensible one you are already part of.

Tuesday, 15 April 2008

Writer's block

It seems that the more fucked up and troubled I was before, the more inspiration and motivation I found for my writing. Now that I'm on anti-psychotic medicine medicine, I can't seem to find anything to write about; I can't even a write a mere blog entry.


Books I've read this year (so far):

J. G. Ballard - Empire of the Sun
Roberto Arlt - El Juguete Rabioso
William Faulkner - As I Lay Dying
J. G. Ballard - The Unlimited Dream Company
William Goldling - Lord of the Flies
Samuel Beckett - Molloy
James Purdy - 63: Dream Palace
Gabriel Garcia Marquez - Cien Anos de Soledad
J. G. Ballard - The Drowned World
J. G. Ballard - Concrete Island
J. G. Ballard - Miracles of Life
J. G. Ballard - The Kindness of Women
Paul Auster - Moon Palace
Fyodor Dostoyevsky - The Brothers Karamazov
Samuel Beckett - Waiting For Godot
J. G. Ballard - Running Wild



Monday, 14 April 2008

'What I Believe' by J. G. Ballard

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.

I believe in the mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the sheen on her lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel watched by a tubercular filling station attendant.

I believe in the beauty of all women, in the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.

I believe in the death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic controllers at out-of-season airports.

I believe in the genital organs of great men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips as they regard the cameras of the entire world.

I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.

I believe in nothing.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.

I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.

I believe in adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their disheveled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.

I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives.

I believe in the gentleness of the surgeon’s knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.

I believe in the light cast by video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic insights of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.

I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.

I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

I believe in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker, the Wake Island runways.

I believe in the body odors of Princess Di.

I believe in the next five minutes.

I believe in the history of my feet.

I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.

I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.

I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.

I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.

I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.

I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.

I believe in pain.

I believe in despair.

I believe in all children.

I believe in maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport indicator signs.

I believe all excuses.

I believe all reasons.

I believe all hallucinations.

I believe all anger.

I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

Monday, 7 April 2008


I love shock value, and I love works of art which are specifically designed to upset certain people: South Park, David Crapper and Mary Vagina's Love Affair, Henry Miller, Burroughs, Ballard's Crash, Frank Zappa and Nabokov's Lolita.

When I'm older I will write terrorist novels. I want to fuck up smug values. I want to get into the most politically incorrect wavelength of thinking to assemble literary bombs which will cause mass furores, and I will throw them to narrow-minded elites.

All major works of art have dealt with taboos in some way or another, and all major works of art have broken with convention and tradition. Most values and morals are dumb because they restrain and limit you from progressing. Most groups and identities are dumb because they do not represent the thoughts of a certain individual. You can never be offended as a 'christian' or a 'homosexual', you always will be offended as a person.