Tuesday, 13 May 2008
A fascinating insight into the mind of an unacknowledged literary prodigy!
15th of September, 2007
It suddenly occurred to me today that I am a complete moron: I don't keep a diary. Walking along the streets at 2:00 AM, I got an impulse to start one and, on my way home, my mind solely fixed itself on that idea. After so long, only now did now it popped in my head. The most obvious thing to do, too, and only now.
Every day one (OR SHOULD I SAY I) gets a specific feeling that's akin to no other - one doesn't feel it again. Today my way of viewing things differs from yesterday's, so it's an axiomatic truth to jot it down, or - like a dream - it will fade away. It is necessary to record these perceptions; it is a pain to lose them.
I hate notebooks. I shall record all this shit via papers that I will keep together. Notebooks irrationally hate me; I can't find a logical explanation. It's probably due to my current notebook where I keep my musical compositions at the last pages, and the first pages lie my overblown, cringe-inducing first-attempts at poetry. It's probably because of these horrible poems that I make an immediate negative association with notebooks. If someone happens to find these pages, I really hope that someone DIES.
Conventionally, one uses diaries to write what has happened during one's day. I shall do that now, although my day hasn't been at all pleasant; in fact, it has been wretchedly horrible.
I always remember my dreams, but my last dream's details elude me. It did, however, have a large focus on SEX. I live in a dream-world. People in 'real life' are, for me, a springboard towards new abstract and distorted characters. The same applies for real life situations; I re-assemble them into myriad-images in dreams.
Anyway (I GOT DISTRACTED...), my dream had a strong focus on sex. I was amongst a crowd of people, and I'm in front of a woman. I tear her clothes off with my lust raging furiously. She seems to want the sex, but as I get my throbbing cock out she screams in disgust - she doesn't like the look of it. When I awake, all my mind can think about is sex. Since circumstances were averted from a wet dream, I woke up with the necessity of ejaculating. So I went downstairs to 'shoot my load'. It is a pity that lust can't be controlled. I went on You Porn for some lesbian porn, but my orgasm was extremely disappointing. The semen merely crept out with no enjoyment extracted from the experience.
Like lust, the internet is another unfortunate and uncontrollable thing... I can spend hours on it - it sucks you in. With my sister out (her appearance is about to wreck the day), I was going to record some music. From A to J would be my project instead of 'Guitar Quartet' (the latter requires too much effort). But first I watched lengthy, lengthy videos of interviews with Anthony Burgess and the amazing mexican author Juan Rulfo (PEDRO PARAMO IS AMAZING. Lovely, lovely interview. His reluctance to speak and his introverted distance is similar to mine. He also said LOVELY things: "The writer must live in the world of dreams; he has to create a new reality).
But, naturally, sister came and I couldn't record music. I got arrested 2 days ago 'coz she called police when I lost temper. So I lost my temper and screamed at her. She came in to vegetate as usual (she watches mindless tv ALL DAY LONG... she should do it somewhere else... NOT WHERE I AM...) Her mere presence annoys me; it encapsulates everything I hate about humanity: the tendency toward ephemeral, trivial shit + a deep, deep scorn for anything different. So I destroyed fuckloads of shit in the house. I am particularly agitated since I was hoping to use this block of time to (without college) use her bedroom; but, alas, she remains here. Doing what exactly? Nothing. Same as my parents: I find it overwhelming how they have no inclination to discover themselves, and how they call someone who has discovered himself (at the mere age of 17) 'psychotic'. Indeed, when my parents arrive they find the mess I create outta my anger. They scream + scream. This goes on for ages (she says I'm 'sick in the head'...bla..bla..bla). She says I will have to see a psychiatrist. This perturbing shit continues. It is all ingrained in mind + is of no great importance, so I won't go into detail. It goes on for 3/5 hours. I go upstairs and put the laptop on. To make the grief go away I watch scenes from Cohen Brother movies. I then, to block the noise made by my family, hear Bartok's 5th string quartet. I then hear parts outta records by Charles Mingus and Mr. Bungle. I go down to eat hot-dog. My dad annoys me; he doesn't realise that all I'm terrorising is his superficial comfort.
It is now dark. I go out to read Camus. I think of Mark E. Smith's growling voice and lyrics as I always do. I often re-assemble his evocative words in my head. I go through the park at nite which is lovely, lovely, lovely; but I need to get glasses again since I can't see shit properly. I am used to my blurry vision, though. I still like it this way; it accommodates my perception of the world + makes everything dreamy (indeed, reality and dreams are synonymous).
I walk along the streets at nite: no-one. Annoyingly, my reading place is taken up (it's hidden from everyone else, too. It's a surprise. An ignorant youth is there talking with a mobile phone + smoking. I walk through the whole of Dronfield, but I'm angry at this point since the fight with my parents occurred recently. I also think of how misunderstood I've been over the years + I think about all the idiots at school. I also think about taking the laptop to the woods, so it illuminates my surroundings + enabling me to read 'The Plague'. I love the woods late at night; it's dark + allllllllll for me. But my laptop hasn't been charged, so I can't do this.
I walk back to my hidden reading spot (which is illuminated by a post). I read the plague by Camus. Extremely excellent metaphysical novel. When I finish with Camus I think about this diary.
11 of October, 2007
None of my previous entries have been as anticipated as this one + none have been preceded by so many events. Each time I've attempted to write diary entries, I've been interrupted by something. Now I'm quite bored, lethargic and hopeless, so it's not the best circumstances for all this to be recorded in.
The 5th of October, I went out with all my preparations to live in the woods/countryside for three days. To begin with, I spent most of my time reading through the night. I finished Dostoyevsky's 'Poor People' early on, and this was ensued with some stream of consciousness writing of mine.
It all wasn' t too cold, but I still had to take many, many jumpers and sheets. I starting reading Camus' 'A Happy Death' all the way into the morning. Although not sleeping, I kept my eyes closed for a couple of hours in the early morning amidst the uncomfortable branches.
The day, however, was besmirched by the immediate run-out of food supplies. Throughout the day, I continued with Camus book which, although not perfect, was supremely enjoyable.
I then went to one of the most wonderful, wonderful remote edge: a gigantic pond all for me. I felt extremely comfortable with the sheet stretched out to wonderful proportions. I finished the book here, and I then proceeded onto more stream of consciousness writing.
However, this area was filled with gigantic, rustic birds. Their honking communications was admirable at first, but it started getting very draining as it interrupted my writing attempts. I reluctantly left this area for the more distant woods which had an accommodating bench. I proceeded onto writing more spontaneous literature, but the hunger was getting unbearable; I hadn't eaten for a whole day, so I had to return home. I ran through these particular woods, but as I about to enter a path that led through the countryside, I heard 'chav-like' voices. I was nervous about walking through them as they might have stabbed me or something (a dodgy place at a dodgy time). I hid in some bushes, but the hunger was getting more and more unbearable. This lasted for about an hour. The voices subsided, so I presumed that they'd left. But as I walked through the path I saw they were all stoned (there was smoke in the air), and they were all looking at a silver-shining rectangle attached to a tree. They were all entralled in their drug-induced fantasies, so they didn't notice me as I walked past.
I finally got home with the hunger killing me; I virtually ate nothing for two days. The sandwiches I prepared were all crummy and all fell apart instantly. The whole trip was a few hours shorter than initially envisaged.... I will spend a total of 4 days on my trip to the distant countryside/woods.
I've had some incredible dreams recently. However, one stands out + it shall be the one I'll jot down as I'm in a rush to get home. (other dreams are being omitted due to this rush!)
My closest moment to a lucid dream arised. I'm back in Chile - in Chiguayante, where I spent my childhood. The whole time there I'm amazed by how real it all seems. I get taken to my old bedroom, and I lie down on my bed there. I close my eyes and I get the idea to get up and press the light switch in the room. I read somewhere (either in a book by Jodorowsky or by Castaneda) that by hitting a light switch and observing the results one can define whether one is dreaming or not. But I can't be bothered, and I lie in bed! And as I awake I'm amazed/flabbagasted to find myself in a bed England and not in chile!
14th of October
The day I get my bedroom draws closer and closer - a week from now, in fact.
...It seems that all the best activities are the most difficult and are, therefore, more easily shunned in favour if utter, utter crap.... I will go out to read/write soon... until all this transpires and one no longer finds oneself in the false comfort one despises.
Father's birthday today; I was rather mean to him, too. I watched Chile lose 2-o to Argentina as the world-cup qualifiers commenced yesterday.
Since leaving the woods, I have been very bored + unexcited for some reason. My dreams, by contrast, have been incredibly exciting as usual.
Dreams > everything else
Dreams > everything else
Dreams > everything else
Dreams > everything else
Dreams > everything else
My unconscious surpasses everyone else's. No-one else is in touch with theirs.... If they were, why would they behave in such a ridiculously mundane manner?
The main reason to call these days 'dull' is due to the lack of writing. Of course, it is always the detractions which prevent me from writing, but I should always apply myself to a slight degree.
I hate the way people assume that, by being more introverted, one isn't achieving anything. I hate the way people assume that 'art' - literature, music, etc. - is 'human communication', a way of 'sharing' an idea with others. I recall something my old english teacher said: "what's the point in writing something that only makes sense to yourself? You have to write clearly, with an audience in mind, or it doesn't mean anything.
Actually, writing formulaic writing (WRITING FOR AN AUDIENCE) makes it devoid of all meaning. Writing 'clearly' dilutes all meaning... you should write for yourself.
Introverts achieve much more than extraverts. Just because you don't share your thoughts with others, it does not undervalue whatever senses you experience.
I read a lot of Faulkner today... Fractured and beautiful but, of course, highly demanding. This sort of writing (like Juan Rulfo's) all makes sense when you read it a second time.
It seems that the trip I plan to Bolton to see The Fall is incredibly expensive... I will be selling A LOT of stuff on ebay. Even if I sell everything, I doubt whether I'll manage to make it or not.
The other day I was looking through a Kafka biography and discovered that he once wrote: the 4 people I truly genetically derived from..... Hehe, this is exactly what I wrote in some internet website once: "the four people I am truly genetically derived from are Mark E. Smith, Julio Cortazar, Jorge Luis Borges and fyodor dostoyevsky (he also chose dostoyevsky).
There is, definitely, a corresponding interrelation for everything. Like the writing of Julio Cortazar and Paul Auster, chance/arbitary events are very common. I was amazed to find a reference to myself in 'Rayuela' (chapter 132, I think)
The 20th of October shall be the day when I'll be attending a performance of Shostakovich's 2nd Piano Concerto, Hector Berlioz's Damnation of the Faust nad Rimsky-Korsakov's Sherenade.... I am very excited... It's the first time I'll be attending an orchestral event... It should be mind-blowing..
I'll sleep perchance to dream now.
Thursday, 8 May 2008
Achille-Claude Debussy (pronounced [aʃil klod dəbysi]) (August 22, 1862 – March 25, 1918) was a French composer. Along with Maurice Ravel, he is considered one of the most prominent figures working within the field of Impressionist music, though he himself intensely disliked the term when applied to his compositions. Debussy was not only among the most important of all French composers but also was a central figure in all European music at the turn of the twentieth century.
Debussy's music virtually defines the transition from late-Romantic music to twentieth century modernist music. In French literary circles, the style of this period was known as Symbolism, a movement that directly inspired Debussy both as a composer and as an active cultural participant.3
Béla Viktor János Bartók (March 25, 1881 – September 26, 1945) was a Hungarian composer and pianist, considered one of the greatest composers of the 20th century. Through his collection and analytical study of folk music he was one of the founders of ethnomusicology
Stravinsky's compositional career was notable for its stylistic diversity. He first achieved international fame with three ballets commissioned by the impresario Sergei Diaghilev and performed by Diaghilev's Ballets Russes (Russian Ballets): L'Oiseau de feu ("The Firebird") (1910), Petrushka (1911/1947), and Le sacre du printemps ("The Rite of Spring") (1913). The Rite, whose premiere provoked a riot, transformed the way in which subsequent composers thought about rhythmic structure; to this day its vision of pagan rituals, enacted in an imaginary ancient Russia continues to dazzle and overwhelm audiences.
After this first Russian phase he turned to neoclassicism in the 1920s. The works from this period tended to make use of traditional musical forms (concerto grosso, fugue, symphony), frequently concealed a vein of intense emotion beneath a surface appearance of detachment or austerity, and often paid tribute to the music of earlier masters, for example J.S. Bach, Verdi, and Tchaikovsky.
In the 1950s he adopted serial procedures, using the new techniques over the final twenty years of his life to write works that were briefer and of greater rhythmic, harmonic, and textural complexity than his earlier music. Their intricacy notwithstanding, these pieces share traits with all of Stravinsky's earlier output; rhythmic energy, the construction of extended melodic ideas out of a few cells comprising only two or three notes, and clarity of form, instrumentation, and of utterance.
The universe (which others call the Library) is composed of an indefinite and perhaps infinite number of hexagonal galleries, with vast air shafts between, surrounded by very low railings. From any of the hexagons one can see, interminably, the upper and lower floors. The distribution of the galleries is invariable. Twenty shelves, five long shelves per side, cover all the sides except two; their height, which is the distance from floor to ceiling, scarcely exceeds that of a normal bookcase. One of the free sides leads to a narrow hallway which opens onto another gallery, identical to the first and to all the rest. To the left and right of the hallway there are two very small closets. In the first, one may sleep standing up; in the other, satisfy one's fecal necessities. Also through here passes a spiral stairway, which sinks abysmally and soars upwards to remote distances. In the hallway there is a mirror which faithfully duplicates all appearances. Men usually infer from this mirror that the Library is not infinite (if it were, why this illusory duplication?); I prefer to dream that its polished surfaces represent and promise the infinite ... Light is provided by some spherical fruit which bear the name of lamps. There are two, transversally placed, in each hexagon. The light they emit is insufficient, incessant.
Like all men of the Library, I have traveled in my youth; I have wandered in search of a book, perhaps the catalogue of catalogues; now that my eyes can hardly decipher what I write, I am preparing to die just a few leagues from the hexagon in which I was born. Once I am dead, there will be no lack of pious hands to throw me over the railing; my grave will be the fathomless air; my body will sink endlessly and decay and dissolve in the wind generated by the fall, which is infinite. I say that the Library is unending. The idealists argue that the hexagonal rooms are a necessary form of absolute space or, at least, of our intuition of space. They reason that a triangular or pentagonal room is inconceivable. (The mystics claim that their ecstasy reveals to them a circular chamber containing a great circular book, whose spine is continuous and which follows the complete circle of the walls; but their testimony is suspect; their words, obscure. This cyclical book is God.) Let it suffice now for me to repeat the classic dictum: The Library is a sphere whose exact center is any one of its hexagons and whose circumference is inaccessible.
There are five shelves for each of the hexagon's walls; each shelf contains thirty-five books of uniform format; each book is of four hundred and ten pages; each page, of forty lines, each line, of some eighty letters which are black in color. There are also letters on the spine of each book; these letters do not indicate or prefigure what the pages will say. I know that this incoherence at one time seemed mysterious. Before summarizing the solution (whose discovery, in spite of its tragic projections, is perhaps the capital fact in history) I wish to recall a few axioms.
First: The Library exists ab aeterno. This truth, whose immediate corollary is the future eternity of the world, cannot be placed in doubt by any reasonable mind. Man, the imperfect librarian, may be the product of chance or of malevolent demiurgi; the universe, with its elegant endowment of shelves, of enigmatical volumes, of inexhaustible stairways for the traveler and latrines for the seated librarian, can only be the work of a god. To perceive the distance between the divine and the human, it is enough to compare these crude wavering symbols which my fallible hand scrawls on the cover of a book, with the organic letters inside: punctual, delicate, perfectly black, inimitably symmetrical.
Second: The orthographical symbols are twenty-five in number. (1) This finding made it possible, three hundred years ago, to formulate a general theory of the Library and solve satisfactorily the problem which no conjecture had deciphered: the formless and chaotic nature of almost all the books. One which my father saw in a hexagon on circuit fifteen ninety-four was made up of the letters MCV, perversely repeated from the first line to the last. Another (very much consulted in this area) is a mere labyrinth of letters, but the next-to-last page says Oh time thy pyramids. This much is already known: for every sensible line of straightforward statement, there are leagues of senseless cacophonies, verbal jumbles and incoherences. (I know of an uncouth region whose librarians repudiate the vain and superstitious custom of finding a meaning in books and equate it with that of finding a meaning in dreams or in the chaotic lines of one's palm ... They admit that the inventors of this writing imitated the twenty-five natural symbols, but maintain that this application is accidental and that the books signify nothing in themselves. This dictum, we shall see, is not entirely fallacious.)
For a long time it was believed that these impenetrable books corresponded to past or remote languages. It is true that the most ancient men, the first librarians, used a language quite different from the one we now speak; it is true that a few miles to the right the tongue is dialectical and that ninety floors farther up, it is incomprehensible. All this, I repeat, is true, but four hundred and ten pages of inalterable MCV's cannot correspond to any language, no matter how dialectical or rudimentary it may be. Some insinuated that each letter could influence the following one and that the value of MCV in the third line of page 71 was not the one the same series may have in another position on another page, but this vague thesis did not prevail. Others thought of cryptographs; generally, this conjecture has been accepted, though not in the sense in which it was formulated by its originators.
Five hundred years ago, the chief of an upper hexagon (2) came upon a book as confusing as the others, but which had nearly two pages of homogeneous lines. He showed his find to a wandering decoder who told him the lines were written in Portuguese; others said they were Yiddish. Within a century, the language was established: a Samoyedic Lithuanian dialect of Guarani, with classical Arabian inflections. The content was also deciphered: some notions of combinative analysis, illustrated with examples of variations with unlimited repetition. These examples made it possible for a librarian of genius to discover the fundamental law of the Library. This thinker observed that all the books, no matter how diverse they might be, are made up of the same elements: the space, the period, the comma, the twenty-two letters of the alphabet. He also alleged a fact which travelers have confirmed: In the vast Library there are no two identical books. From these two incontrovertible premises he deduced that the Library is total and that its shelves register all the possible combinations of the twenty-odd orthographical symbols (a number which, though extremely vast, is not infinite): Everything: the minutely detailed history of the future, the archangels' autobiographies, the faithful catalogues of the Library, thousands and thousands of false catalogues, the demonstration of the fallacy of those catalogues, the demonstration of the fallacy of the true catalogue, the Gnostic gospel of Basilides, the commentary on that gospel, the commentary on the commentary on that gospel, the true story of your death, the translation of every book in all languages, the interpolations of every book in all books.
When it was proclaimed that the Library contained all books, the first impression was one of extravagant happiness. All men felt themselves to be the masters of an intact and secret treasure. There was no personal or world problem whose eloquent solution did not exist in some hexagon. The universe was justified, the universe suddenly usurped the unlimited dimensions of hope. At that time a great deal was said about the Vindications: books of apology and prophecy which vindicated for all time the acts of every man in the universe and retained prodigious arcana for his future. Thousands of the greedy abandoned their sweet native hexagons and rushed up the stairways, urged on by the vain intention of finding their Vindication. These pilgrims disputed in the narrow corridors, proferred dark curses, strangled each other on the divine stairways, flung the deceptive books into the air shafts, met their death cast down in a similar fashion by the inhabitants of remote regions. Others went mad ... The Vindications exist (I have seen two which refer to persons of the future, to persons who are perhaps not imaginary) but the searchers did not remember that the possibility of a man's finding his Vindication, or some treacherous variation thereof, can be computed as zero.
At that time it was also hoped that a clarification of humanity's basic mysteries -- the origin of the Library and of time -- might be found. It is verisimilar that these grave mysteries could be explained in words: if the language of philosophers is not sufficient, the multiform Library will have produced the unprecedented language required, with its vocabularies and grammars. For four centuries now men have exhausted the hexagons ... There are official searchers, inquisitors. I have seen them in the performance of their function: they always arrive extremely tired from their journeys; they speak of a broken stairway which almost killed them; they talk with the librarian of galleries and stairs; sometimes they pick up the nearest volume and leaf through it, looking for infamous words. Obviously, no one expects to discover anything.
As was natural, this inordinate hope was followed by an excessive depression. The certitude that some shelf in some hexagon held precious books and that these precious books were inaccessible, seemed almost intolerable. A blasphemous sect suggested that the searches should cease and that all men should juggle letters and symbols until they constructed, by an improbable gift of chance, these canonical books. The authorities were obliged to issue severe orders. The sect disappeared, but in my childhood I have seen old men who, for long periods of time, would hide in the latrines with some metal disks in a forbidden dice cup and feebly mimic the divine disorder.
Others, inversely, believed that it was fundamental to eliminate useless works. They invaded the hexagons, showed credentials which were not always false, leafed through a volume with displeasure and condemned whole shelves: their hygienic, ascetic furor caused the senseless perdition of millions of books. Their name is execrated, but those who deplore the ``treasures'' destroyed by this frenzy neglect two notable facts. One: the Library is so enormous that any reduction of human origin is infinitesimal. The other: every copy is unique, irreplaceable, but (since the Library is total) there are always several hundred thousand imperfect facsimiles: works which differ only in a letter or a comma. Counter to general opinion, I venture to suppose that the consequences of the Purifiers' depredations have been exaggerated by the horror these fanatics produced. They were urged on by the delirium of trying to reach the books in the Crimson Hexagon: books whose format is smaller than usual, all-powerful, illustrated and magical.
We also know of another superstition of that time: that of the Man of the Book. On some shelf in some hexagon (men reasoned) there must exist a book which is the formula and perfect compendium of all the rest: some librarian has gone through it and he is analogous to a god. In the language of this zone vestiges of this remote functionary's cult still persist. Many wandered in search of Him. For a century they have exhausted in vain the most varied areas. How could one locate the venerated and secret hexagon which housed Him? Someone proposed a regressive method: To locate book A, consult first book B which indicates A's position; to locate book B, consult first a book C, and so on to infinity ... In adventures such as these, I have squandered and wasted my years. It does not seem unlikely to me that there is a total book on some shelf of the universe; (3) I pray to the unknown gods that a man -- just one, even though it were thousands of years ago! -- may have examined and read it. If honor and wisdom and happiness are not for me, let them be for others. Let heaven exist, though my place be in hell. Let me be outraged and annihilated, but for one instant, in one being, let Your enormous Library be justified. The impious maintain that nonsense is normal in the Library and that the reasonable (and even humble and pure coherence) is an almost miraculous exception. They speak (I know) of the ``feverish Library whose chance volumes are constantly in danger of changing into others and affirm, negate and confuse everything like a delirious divinity.'' These words, which not only denounce the disorder but exemplify it as well, notoriously prove their authors' abominable taste and desperate ignorance. In truth, the Library includes all verbal structures, all variations permitted by the twenty-five orthographical symbols, but not a single example of absolute nonsense. It is useless to observe that the best volume of the many hexagons under my administration is entitled The Combed Thunderclap and another The Plaster Cramp and another Axaxaxas mlö. These phrases, at first glance incoherent, can no doubt be justified in a cryptographical or allegorical manner; such a justification is verbal and, ex hypothesi, already figures in the Library. I cannot combine some characters
which the divine Library has not foreseen and which in one of its secret tongues do not contain a terrible meaning. No one can articulate a syllable which is not filled with tenderness and fear, which is not, in one of these languages, the powerful name of a god. To speak is to fall into tautology. This wordy and useless epistle already exists in one of the thirty volumes of the five shelves of one of the innumerable hexagons -- and its refutation as well. (An n number of possible languages use the same vocabulary; in some of them, the symbol library allows the correct definition a ubiquitous and lasting system of hexagonal galleries, but library is bread or pyramid or anything else, and these seven words which define it have another value. You who read me, are You sure of understanding my language?)
The methodical task of writing distracts me from the present state of men. The certitude that everything has been written negates us or turns us into phantoms. I know of districts in which the young men prostrate themselves before books and kiss their pages in a barbarous manner, but they do not know how to decipher a single letter. Epidemics, heretical conflicts, peregrinations which inevitably degenerate into banditry, have decimated the population. I believe I have mentioned suicides, more and more frequent with the years. Perhaps my old age and fearfulness deceive me, but I suspect that the human species -- the unique species -- is about to be extinguished, but the Library will endure: illuminated, solitary, infinite, perfectly motionless, equipped with precious volumes, useless, incorruptible, secret.
I have just written the word ``infinite.'' I have not interpolated this adjective out of rhetorical habit; I say that it is not illogical to think that the world is infinite. Those who judge it to be limited postulate that in remote places the corridors and stairways and hexagons can conceivably come to an end -- which is absurd. Those who imagine it to be without limit forget that the possible number of books does have such a limit. I venture to suggest this solution to the ancient problem: The Library is unlimited and cyclical. If an eternal traveler were to cross it in any direction, after centuries he would see that the same volumes were repeated in the same disorder (which, thus repeated, would be an order: the Order). My solitude is gladdened by this elegant hope.
Oh Mi Gawd! I was so drunk last nite it wasnt even funny! I got totally rat arsed on probs 7 sambukas and spent most of the night, and even some of today, throwing my guts up! No alcohol ever again!! (haha, I say that now but I'll never learn!)
Apart frm that, had a Great Party liam and hope u did too!!
WOT FON U GOT
SUPERFICIAL INTELLECTUAL ON CHILEAN TELEVISION. He doesn't ask whoever writer he's interviewing questions; he bombards them with expositions showcasing his 'intelligence'.http://www.truveo.com/Mario-Vargas-Llosa-La-Belleza-De-Pensar/id/2590892739
Never had a girl. I love their beauty, but cannot
understand them.We are on different mental, physical plains.
They think I'm creepy,and I always bring up the SHALLOW argument
in my head. But they can't be. I'm getting it all wrong. All I
want is for a simple life. For everything to make sense and not
bog me down. But that's selfish. Life isn't like that.I want to
love people, but I'm getting that wrong too. I don't get them,
so any love is false. And WHY THE FUCK DO THEY DYE THEIR HAIR,
AND ALL THAT STUFF?PIERCE THEIR EARS AND THAT, WHY BOTHER, ISNT
THAT LIKE WHAT POPSTARS DO AND SHIT,THEY BASH MTV AND THEN DYE
THEIR HAIR AND GET PIERCINGS AND TATTOOS? WHICH IS WHAT MTV PEOPLE DO!!
WHATS THE DIFFERENCE, MATT? WHY DO THEY GET LONG HAIR, LIKE MEN
WHO GET LONG HAIR, ARE THEY BEING RICH ARTY BOHEMIANS? THEY LOOK
BORING AND MIDDLECLASS AND SHIT! BUT IS IT ANTI ESTABLISHMENT AND
DEEP? I LOOK AT THEM AND SEE PEOPLEPLAYING GAMES WITH EACH OTHER!
MAN WHAT A COCK I AM, TALKING SO SUPERIOR, ITS THE
OTHER WAY AROUND - I'M TOO MUCH OF A PIECE OF SHIT TO UNDERSTAND
THEM AND THAT'S WHYI SEE THE THINGS I DON'T UNDERSTAND AS BAD,
AND MYSELF AS BETTER SOMEHOW.
Tuesday, 6 May 2008
read as much as i can; write short stories if can; play piano if i can; wank as much as i can; keep taking my medication
september 2008 - July 2010
A-LEVELS (or/and gcse re-sits); read as much as i can; write short stories (which shall constitute TEENAGE RUMINATIONS); live in the woods as much as i can
University; continue writing short stories; experience with other people; maybe compose; read as much as i can; expand my limited english + spanish vocabulary
live in viña del mar in chile; work as a waiter; write my 2 masterpieces SEE-SAW and Dream Stairs; be nocturnal hermit
find literary agent + get my two novels and two books of short stories published; work as a postman in morning + work on my writing all the time at night; freelance journalism; freelance translation; write novels (one called PSYCHOTIC HALLUCINATIONS); hermit, but socialise with interesting people occasionally; maybe tramp around and live as a hobo occasionally; get a flat in both England and Chile, and live in the two places; compose; travel
Die as one of the major authors of the 21st century
10. A Brief Life - Juan Carlos Onetti
This novel by the Uruguayan author of the acclaimed The Shipyard concerns Breusen, who seeks to escape the dreary existence of his everyday life by channeling his consciousness into other people - some real, some imagined.
9. The Unlimited Dream Company - J. G. Ballard
When a light aircraft crashes into the Thames at Shepperton, the young pilot who struggles to the surface minutes later seems to have come back from the dead. Within hours everything in the dormitory suburb is strangely transformed. Vultures invade the rooftops, luxuriant tropical vegetation overruns the quiet avenues, and the local inhabitants are propelled by the young man's urgent visions through ecstatic sexual celebrations towards an apocalyptic climax.
8. The New York Trilogy - Paul Auster (3 novellas)
Three stories on the nature of identity. In the first a detective writer is drawn into a curious and baffling investigation, in the second a man is set up in an apartment to spy on someone, and the third concerns the disappearance of a man whose childhood friend is left as his literary executor.
7. Pedro Paramo - Juan Rulfo
Pedro Paramo - father, overlord, lover and murderer - dominates the landscape of the novel which flows hynotically through dreams, desires and memories. The novel propels the reader down a dusty forgotten road to a town of death, a place populated by ghosts and living memories.
6. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Rasholnikov, a destitute and desperate former student, wanders through the slums of St Petersburg and commits a random murder without remorse or regret. As he embarks on a dangerous cat and mouse game, he is pursued by his conscience.
5. Bestiario - Julio Cortazar (short story collection)
In these eight masterpieces there is no room for the smallest sign of stumbling or youthful undertones: they are perfect. These stories that speak about objects and daily happenings, pass over to another dimension, one of nightmare or revelation. In each text, surprise and uneasiness are ingredients added to the indescribable pleasure of its reading. These stories may upset readers due to a very rare characteristic in literature: They stare at us as if waiting for something in return. After reading these true classics, our opinion of the world cannot remain the same.
4. Empire of the Sun - J. G. Ballard
The heartrending story of a British boy's four-year ordeal in a Japanese prison camp during the Second World War. Based on J. G. Ballard's own childhood, this is the extraordinary account of a boy's life in Japanese-occupied wartime Shanghai - a mesmerising, hypnotically compelling novel of war, of starvation and survival, of internment camps and death marches. It blends searing honesty with an almost hallucinatory vision of a world thrown utterly out of joint. Rooted as it is in the author's own disturbing experience of war in own time, it is one of a handful of novels by which the twentieth century will be not only remembered but judged.
3. The Trial - Franz Kafka
A terrifying psychological trip into the life of one Joseph K., an ordinary man who wakes up one day to find himself accused of a crime he did not commit, a crime whose nature is never revealed to him. Once arrested, he is released, but must report to court on a regular basis--an event that proves maddening, as nothing is ever resolved. As he grows more uncertain of his fate, his personal life - including work at a bank and his relations with his landlady and a young woman who lives next door - becomes increasingly unpredictable. As K. tries to gain control, he succeeds only in accelerating his own excruciating downward spiral.
2. Ficciones - Jorge Luis Borges (short story collection)
By common consent, the Argentinian Jorge Luis Borges is one of the greatest writers to have emerged from Latin America. His finest work is "Ficciones", a collection of brilliantly-crafted, essay-like short stories.
1. The Sound and the Fury - William Faulkner
The story of the dissolution of the once aristocratic Compson family told through the eyes of three of its members. In different ways they prove to be inadequate to their own family history, unable to deal with either the responsibility of the past or the imperatives of the present.
Sunday, 4 May 2008
The same quote applies, in my opinion, to so-called 'art' and entertainment. Most people always superimpose the tiresome, superficial and archetypal questions of how and why. Our world is chaotic; it doesn't function in a orderly, rational manner. Therefore, it is a terrible mistake to replicate whatever reality or norm in 'art' by assembling it into a beginning, a middle and an end. Most people can't take the fractured, tipsy-turvy logic of dreams and art that makes 2 + 2 = 5. It's always extremely boring to come across formulaic writing, formulaic movies and formulaic music that doesn't get under the skin.
It's always annoying to find people who go out of their way to be 'articulate'; it's the same as the social games teenage gangs play, but on a different level. I hate it when people think that writing must be 'clear' and gramitically correct; I hate it when writers write for an audience; I hate it when people assume that something must be validated or fair. If you have something to say - you say it. Fuck everyone else.
Friday, 2 May 2008
There's no-one looking for a different sort of musical experience, because people simply do no not know of its existence. I think that major record labels need to take risks - they need to promote musical recordings which are challenging. As I mentioned in my blog, too, 'popular' and 'serious' culture needs to be bridged together ('technically complex musical' is usually lumped into serious culture). Music is wallpaper because record companies want it to be wallpaper - the audience at large has no fucking clue.
My reasoning behind mentioning Mozart's time is not some kind of attempt at saying 'back in this day...', but to illustrate an example when music was not commercialized. The commercialization of music is something that has arised since the arrival of the recording industry. I obviously think that the access to recording equipment is of a HUGE advantage, but it means that it gets to the stage where music is, indeed, pop-corn - something to be consumed; it hasn't necessarily dwarfed genuine music-making because this is part of human nature and psychology, but it has hindered the unity and awareness between the performer and audience.
I think that you'll find that, once given an appropriate introduction, listeners of 'popular music' with a tendency towards 'passive musical interpretation', would find merit in purchasing/downloading music coming from a differing genre/field to their own.