The insular octopus

Through the sand, they dug and dug. They found a new world, orange and green. Flying fish glided in the air, and the giant octopus guarded the city. In its tentacles were the vulcanoes, smoking, smoking deeply and sighing noir words.

The city it brought on its back was idyllic, roads and fields sprinkled through the landscape with a residual population. The train tunneled through the invertebrate’s eyes and made way to the ocean, passing by submerse skyscrapers. Some who were lucky could provide oxygen for their plants, merrily located in the terraces of the now gloomy buildings. Most of them had orange trees and benches near platanuses. Some wisterias cascaded down structural beams, converging in complex aerial shrubs of purple, violet and white which apart from the spectacle provided shade. Orcas wandered through erstwhile avenues, dolphins invaded sunken apartment complexes, sharks bid their time in old stops.  Far away a caravel, with a symbol of the crusades in the mast, but much less threatening since it was now reduced to a mere anachronism. North of the octopus were ancient mountains, with waterfalls and cozy white peaks. Further down, wineyards that would wield sufficient wine to celebrate the end of the world. Everything looked perfect, people proceeded with their cruise-controlled lives in the village, cutting down trees to light fires. The villagers would piously pray in the church every day, begging the volcanoes not to spill and render the creature motionless. There were yet some other denizens who had escaped the aquatic disaster twenty years past, who were resourceful enough to gather patches of plants and earth from the wandering octopus and created farms in the terraces. Some blocks were endowed with planks, to make use of the adjacent sea – even though the sharks were cursed with eternal hunger. The “terrace-dwellers” would make use of crude boats to reach other platforms and there make use of the space.

Their daily life almost resembled a stasis, a niche of stillness that contrasted with the perpetual motion of the octopus, until the day of the vulcanic spill. It was dawn and the mollusc was in motion – which, proportionally to the size of the island, was fairly slow, about 40 kilometers per hour – and its visibility was negligent because of a high atmospheric humidity, yet the conditions seemed fit to keep on walking through the blue infinity. A great green shadow popped in the horizon, and what was seemingly a little hill soon grew into a gargantuan mass of land. The octopus little time had to evade it, and in a self-defense maneuver jerked the tentacle upwards to avoid an imminent collision. Sadly, the cephaloid’s logic was abstruse and the smoking red ink spilled over the iddylic landscape and charred most of it. The lava soon drained to the ocean, making its bearer heavier and less dexterous. In a matter of hours it sank, and the lava expanded as soon as it contacted the water – a new continent was born. An orange amorphous mass invaded the surface, settled itself in the middle of the ocean and everything was calm and immaculate. Everything, until the arrival of the terrace-dwellers.

Shoegaze away

Unrequited

Well before my fate, I’m lost in ancient sorrows that only suck the silence. Before my face, I’m lost in drunken colors, wandering through your hollow maze. Soon I’ll have to say what I always wondered about our meeting, thoughts and feelings I have caught with a golden net. Without ever noticing, I’ve got locks in my hand, with me, yet the thoughts keep running like a stream – nothing but a living memory lost in the decades of my once golden youth. Just to be clear, I don’t see you, you don’t see me – “I’m just a figment of your imagination”, someone whispers to me and, without even noticing, I’ve got the gods in my head with me. Surrendering to fate, I hear the sound of your song, I reach to the emptiness and – let me be perfectly clear – I don’t need you.

Ode to posessiveness

We’re sinking in the sand

How could that happen – how could that happen again? Were the fuck was I looking, when all this fodder came in, they built an army – to come and find me, beyond of reason, beyond of logic, making it my moment. It’s come to find me, with ten thousand women, pilots flying, kamikaze, half-brained monkeys…

Bombardiers above napalm the bloody soil – space here we come. They pulverize, and we stand alone, irked with the uncomplexity of life, even though we feel love, love for the ones who fell, who were thrown to the sinking sands and pitfalls, to the caves and gapes in the earth. The axis is turning, on suffering, while my headache burns like the sun.

The winter in the settlement fails to provide food for the thousands who got here, who stand still patiently waiting for their deaths. But it’s all about to change. The horses in my dreams are all heading northeast, to the place where peace lies. I have to warn them, warn us, the people and their armed counterparts. It begins – the exodus, the massive migration towards the promised land, where our faces will no longer resemble dying roses, where we shall be nothing but everything… Our sentience lingers in the weary whispers we adress to each other, careless breaths hampering our verbal delivery. The time has come, the shift is here – saturns heeds the warning, getting close to the egoic aspirations of the sun, the caduceus in the king’s frail hand burns with expectancy, a gargantuan fissure opens some scanty miles away from where we’re standing.

It begins.

Depressionella

Aimee Mann – It’s Not

I keep going round and round on the same old circuit, a wire travels underground to a vacant lot, where something I can’t see interrupts the current and shrinks the picture down to a tiny dot.
And from behind the screen it can look so perfect, but it’s not.

So here I’m sitting in my car at the same old stoplight, I keep waiting for a change but I don’t know what – red turns into green turning into yellow, but I’m just frozen here on the same old spot… All I have to do is to press the pedal, but I’m not – no, I’m not…

People are tricky, you can’t afford to show anything risky anything they don’t know, the moment you try, kiss it goodbye…
So baby kiss me like a drug like a respirator and let me fall into the dream of the astronaut. Where I get lost in space that goes on forever and you make all the rest just an afterthought (and I believe it’s you who could make it better) – but you’re not.
No, you’re not.
It’s Not.

Jokes of philosophical matter I

Why did the chicken cross the road?

Plato: For the greater good.

Karl Marx: It was a historical inevitability.

Machiavelli: So that its subjects will view it with admiration, as a chicken which has the daring and courage to boldly cross the road, but also with fear, for whom among them has the strength to contend with such a paragon of avian virtue? In such a manner is the princely chicken’s dominion maintained.

Hippocrates: Because of an excess of light pink gooey stuff in its pancreas.

Jacques Derrida: Any number of contending discourses may be discovered within the act of the chicken crossing the road, and each interpretation is equally valid as the authorial intent can never be discerned, because structuralism is DEAD, DAMMIT, DEAD!

Thomas de Torquemada: Give me ten minutes with the chicken and I’ll find out.

Timothy Leary: Because that’s the only kind of trip the Establishment would let it take.

Douglas Adams: Forty-two.

Nietzsche: Because if you gaze too long across the Road, the Road gazes also across you.

Oliver North: National Security was at stake.

B.F. Skinner: Because the external influences which had pervaded its sensorium from birth had caused it to develop in such a fashion that it would tend to cross roads, even while believing these actions to be of its own free will.

Carl Jung: The confluence of events in the cultural gestalt necessitated that individual chickens cross roads at
this historical juncture, and therefore synchronicitously brought such occurrences into being.

Jean-Paul Sartre: In order to act in good faith and be true to itself, the chicken found it necessary to cross the road.

Ludwig Wittgenstein: The possibility of “crossing” was encoded into the objects “chicken” and “road”, and circumstances came into being which caused the actualization of this potential occurrence.

Albert Einstein: Whether the chicken crossed the road or the road crossed the chicken depends upon your frame of reference.

Aristotle: To actualize its potential.

Buddha: If you ask this question, you deny your own chicken- nature.

Howard Cosell: It may very well have been one of the most astonishing events to grace the annals of history. An historic, unprecedented avian biped with the temerity to attempt such an herculean achievement formerly relegated to homo sapien pedestrians is truly a remarkable occurence.

Salvador Dali: The Fish.

Darwin: It was the logical next step after coming down from the trees.

Emily Dickinson: Because it could not stop for death.

Epicurus: For fun.

Ralph Waldo Emerson: It didn’t cross the road; it transcended it.

Johann von Goethe: The eternal hen-principle made it do it.

Ernest Hemingway: To die. In the rain.

Werner Heisenberg: We are not sure which side of the road the chicken was on, but it was moving very fast.

David Hume: Out of custom and habit.

Jack Nicholson: ‘Cause it (censored) wanted to. That’s the (censored) reason.

Pyrrho the Skeptic: What road?

Ronald Reagan: I forget.

John Sununu: The Air Force was only too happy to provide the transportation, so quite understandably the chicken
availed himself of the opportunity.

The Sphinx: You tell me.

Mr. T: If you saw me coming you’d cross the road too!

Henry David Thoreau: To live deliberately … and suck all the marrow out of life.

Mark Twain: The news of its crossing has been greatly exaggerated.

Molly Yard: It was a hen!

Zeno of Elea: To prove it could never reach the other side.

Chaucer: So priketh hem nature in hir corages.

Wordsworth: To wander lonely as a cloud.

The Godfather: I didn’t want its mother to see it like that.

Keats: Philosophy will clip a chicken’s wings.

Blake: To see heaven in a wild fowl.

Othello: Jealousy.

Dr Johnson: Sir, had you known the Chicken for as long as I have, you would not so readily enquire, but feel rather the
Need to resist such a public Display of your own lamentable and incorrigible Ignorance.

Mrs Thatcher: This chicken’s not for turning.

Supreme Soviet: There has never been a chicken in this photograph.

Oscar Wilde: Why, indeed? One’s social engagements whilst in town ought never expose one to such barbarous
inconvenience – although, perhaps, if one must cross a road, one may do far worse than to cross it as the chicken in question.

Kafka: Hardly the most urgent enquiry to make of a low-grade insurance clerk who woke up that morning as a hen.

Swift: It is, of course, inevitable that such a loathsome, filth-ridden and degraded creature as Man should assume
to question the actions of one in all respects his superior.

Macbeth: To have turned back were as tedious as to go o’er.

Whitehead: Clearly, having fallen victim to the fallacy of misplaced concreteness.

Freud: An die andere Seite zu kommen.* (Much laughter)

Hamlet: That is not the question.

Donne: It crosseth for thee.

Pope: It was mimicking my Lord Hervey.

Constable: To get a better view.

*To get to the other side.

Courtesy of