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.

Tuesday, 10 June 2008

Some of my heroes

Mark E. Smith - lead singer for british group The Fall.
Magnum opus: The Fall's 1983 album Hex Enduction Hour.

Julio Cortázar - Argentinian author of short stories and experimental novels.
Magnum opus: the novel Hopscotch which was published in 1963.

Jorge Luis Borges - world-renown author of short stories and man of wisdom.
Magnum opus: the short story The Aleph

Frank Zappa - prolific rock composer, polymath and social commentator.
Magnum opus: the 1972 album The Grand Wazoo

Don Van Vliet - idiosyncratic rock performer and expressionist painter.
Magnum opus: 1969's Trout Mask Replica

Juan Carlos Onetti - Uruguayan novelist who preceded the latin-american 'boom' and was one of the creators of 'magic realism'.
Magnum opus: the novel A Brief Life

Igor Stravinsky - 20th century's most important composer who vigorously reshaped the way we perceive music.
Magnum opus: the 1913 ballet entitled The Rite of Spring

Coen Brothers - Hollywood film-makers who have created numerous post-modern, oddball movies.
Magnum opus: Barton Fink

Harry Partch - Outsider and hobo who created incredibly imaginative and ethnically diverse musical compositions.
Magnum opus: Delusion of the Fury

J. G. Ballard - A maverick English novelist and short story writer who juxtaposes science fiction with surrealism and Freudian psychology.
Magnum opus: The Unlimited Dream Company

Paul Auster - American writer whose novels deal with arbitary and coincidental events.
Magnum opus: the novella City of Glass

Saturday, 7 June 2008

My future oeuvre

See-Saw - An experimental novel which switches in and out from descriptions of the present tense (titled '1' - see) to descriptions of the past tense (titled '2' - saw). The character will be a seeker who strives for an identity, and who is on the fringes of society.
Dream Stairs - A novel which shall follow 'dream logic'; it will be a collection of bizarre, picaresque adventures which will blur any discernible distinction between fantasy and reality. The protagonist will have lost contact with reality, and the novel continues to detoriate as his mind does.
X1 - A collection of short stories written between 2010 and 2015 which shall hopefully be accompanied with illustrations made by some artist I shall encounter in the distant future.
Teenage Ruminations - A collection of short stories written between 2007 and 2009.
Psychotic Hallucinations - A companion piece for 'Dream Stairs' which will also be a sequel of sorts. The novel will have another new character who loses contact with reality, and whose adventures are delusional beliefs occuring inside his own mind. Unlike 'Dream Stairs', however, this novel will solely take place in waking life.
Strandenforp - A collection of short stories which shall all take place in the fictional town of 'Strandenforp'.

I turned 18 today!

I'm an 18-year-old man.
And I like it.
I'm an 18-year-old man.
What are you gonna do about it?

A special lamp for reading
The rough guide to classical music (book)
No Country For Old Men DVD
Lots of chocolate
Comfortable jumper
Comfortable trousers
Los Siete Locos - Roberto Arlt (book)
Los Lanzallamas - Roberto Arlt (book)
Ear plugs
Spanish dictionary

I can also watch porn legally now.

Wednesday, 4 June 2008

My 5 best stories

5. The Pills

I relied on the pills. I don't know what they're called, but they charge my emotions and inspire me. I had writer's block for four years, and these small things boosted my creativity; I wrote five novels in one year. But the pills turned me into a dangerously introverted individual. I detached myself from reality and retreated to the world of dreams, surrealist paintings which were hung all over my walls, and the pianola which played modern music throughout every single hour of every single day. I also experienced hallucinations: I saw blue devils, dead children and golden parrots. The press regarded me as a dangerous maverick prone to being too self-indulgent. My neighbours avoided me as much as they could.

4. David Crapper and Mary Vagina's Love Affair

We should stretch the constraints of any medium, dear audience. We should be vigorously experimental with techniques. And, dear audience, we should not enforce taboos on art! Who’s to say that I’m advocating pedophilia? I’m not! I can hear all you censors! Anyway, a work of art does not channel the thoughts and opinions of a person. This is particularly paramount with fiction – as opposed to, say, a pop song – because it is only meant to portray a certain topic within a certain canvas. If you find this disturbing, you are disturbed with the moral issue of paedophilia – not with the author of the subversive work in question.

3. Finding The Author

They settled themselves in the car and I felt them getting nearer and nearer. It's funny how you get these strange - somewhat psychic - feelings and thoughts. I know Jane and I know Dennis. I just thought that these two would really get on well together, so that's why I paired them up. Jane kept telling me about this sensation she felt when driving through that bridge, and it immediately clicked - Dennis. He had cut himself off from me and all the rest of his friends to live a life of solitude. I don't know, either, what crime he commited; but I'm still sure I'll see him again - again with Jane. Being an author, I get lots of letters, and I befriend many people this way. I met both Jane and Dennis this way, and I could see a real interlocking similarity between them. They both wrote almost identically. I sent Jane down; I knew she'd do a fine job of it all. I have no idea why Dennis got persecuted.
But they never came, and I got a knock on the door - the police. And I ran away. I ran to be under the bridge, where Dennis had previously been. And I got the strongest sensation I'd ever experienced: Jane and Dennis in a car. They left for my home, and I wouldn't be there, so I presumed that they'd leave alltogether to live together. And I lose my riches and I handicap my writing capabilities, but I know that I've done a good job by fixing them up. So I shall perish with these fish, Kafka, Huxley and Orwell. And I will hope that some writer helps me one day, by getting me out of this hell barricaded by a fervid wildlife.

2. Strandenforp's Drunken, Cerebral Outsider

The overhanging bulb dimly lit the small, crowded pub. A dingy glass caked in muck blurred the image of night; the image of violent waves; the image of wind whirling inanimate objects towards all directions; the image of a light twirling in the distance with the water, overlooking the town of Strandenforp; the unforgivable image of sea augmenting its length towards new, unknown islands which may or may not house more content souls, for the residents of Strandenforp found themselves in a state of abject, desolate misery.
The pub was a hole of solace, as it – despite its modest, limited and cramped room – blocked out the misery of the town. There were two contradicting glasses for the residents of Strandenforp: the glass of drink, embodying the epitome of happiness bursting out with euphoria; and accompanying this glass of merriness came the glass of doom, displaying what they sought to escape at all moments. These two glasses clashed at once and, therefore, raised a standstill: everyone stood silent, mouths wide open and full of drink, eyes ajar with anger. Time stood still at the pub.

1. Victoria red (Novel extract No. 1)

There was a small but excited crowd gathered by the outside of a public park and near the car-park of a building that was hidden by some bushes and a couple of trees. I joined the crowd made up of about twenty people, discovering that this was some sort of musical performance, despite the awkward environment and aura it would be taking place within. The crowd eagerly conversed about 'Victoria Red', an ageing old woman that apparently performed 'mesmerising' shows. I saw, placed on top of the grass, five wooden miniature desks; they were all at different heights and were organised in a circular fashion.
Out of the park's entrance, and into the outer spot of grass, came a ragged old woman with an enormous nose that dangled onto her chin; red un-brushed hair falling off onto all locations of her tatty, grey coat; she always kept her mouth wide open, revealing a set of scraggy, yellow teeth; she wore sunglasses coupled by an American baseball hat; and she carried a bag. Never at a sight of a person had I felt such a fright, and a horrid repugnance covered my mind. The crowd went ecstatic, clapping and hollering like mad: "Victorrrrriiiiarrrrrr!!!!!! Yesssssss!!!!!!!!!!"

Which is your favourite? Have your say here.

Sunday, 1 June 2008

The Mole

shattering the darkness
there's the mole
there's the mole
shattering the darkness
there's the mole
there's the mole

be careful with what you say, joe
recondite is my message
wash the mole, joe
recondite is my message

the nightmare will haunt you forever
don't try to escape
the mole will eat your socks, joe
don't try to escape

cringe-inducing is my message, joe
it will haunt you forever
the mole of death is waiting for the darkness to subside
and for the brightness to collide
resulting in your impending death

don't try to escape



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
Joseph Conrad - Heart of Darkness
Peter Shaffer - Equus
George Orwell - 1984
Aldous Huxley - Brave New World
Ray Bradbury - Fahrenheit 451
Henry Miller - Tropic of Cancer
Lous-Ferdinand Celine - Journey to the End of the Night
Graham Greene - The Power and the Glory
William Faulkner - The Sound and the Fury (for the third time)




"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."

Alex and Beethoven

He's actually not talking about Beethoven in this novel extract, but what the fuck.

Then, brothers, it came. Oh, bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of the lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets threewise silverflamed, and there by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, grvity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage of silk round my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like words of like platinum, into the thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. Pee and em in their bedroom next door had learnt now not to knock on the wall with complaints of what they called noise. I had taught them. Now they would take sleep-pills. Perhaps, knowing the joy I had in my night music, they had already taken them. As I slooshied, my glazzies tight shut to shut in the bliss that was better than any synthemesc Bog or God, I knew such lovely pictures. There were vecks and ptitsas, both young and starry, lying on the ground screaming for mercy, and I was smecking all over my rot and grinding my boot in their listos. And there were devotchkas ripped and creeching against walls and I plunging like a shlaga into them, and indeed when the music, which was one movement only, rose to the top of its big highest tower, then, lying there on my bed with glazzies tight shut and rookers behind my gulliver, I broke and spattered and cried aaaaaaaaah with the bliss of it. And so the lovely music glided to its glowing case.