Trip To The Moon

I found an old Ismail Yassin SciFi movie with robots, rockets and Roshdy Abaza leading a chick on the moon!

Of Dylan Moran, Dylan Moran, and more Dylan Moran.

I love this man. He is my soul-mate, he just doesn't know it yet.

Sunday April 06, 2014 at 11:42 pm

Goodbye, and thanks for all the fish.

Tangible Equilibrium.

Watching Wilhelm  Kempff play is perhaps the closest us mortals will get to beholding an act of creation at work.

Sequitur

Nothing is scarier than a woman who knows who she is, all that she is, and what she wants, perhaps even more so to the woman herself.

What You See Is What You Get.

When I was a kid, I used to stretch in the backseat of my dad's car and watch the stars follow me home every night. I remember feeling safe and having no sense of time. It always made me feel dizzy, but the good kind of dizzy where you don't feel sick but rather like you've been twirling for too long. A couple of days ago I visited grandma for mother's day, and on my way back I tried to lie back and watch the stars follow me home like I used to. I couldn't see any. There were no stars to follow me home that night, and all I could think about was how they didn't follow me home this time because they probably didn't know the address.

Booty Trap.

That sweet moment when your friends find out you have a crush, shamelessly kidnap him then text you saying 'ta3ali m3ana el wad.'

The Empty Jar Club

- Your definition of empty jar is not the same as mine.
- Yes, that's why I didn't get what you were saying the other day.
- I literally mean empty.
- But how does that feel?
- It's like you're full of nothing.
- That sounds like it would feel great.
- Not the good kind of nothing.
- I don't think there's a bad kind of nothing. There's a certain freedom that comes with having no attachments.
- Well it isn't that kind.
- that's why I don't get it.
- You're looking for a certain something to fill the nothing but you don't know what it is or where to find it or if it exists. And till you find it, the nothing is just there and it's unpleasant.
- kind of like me feeling homesick for a home that isn't there? Or that third eye that you always feel is missing on your forehead?
- Hmm maybe.
- We are empty jars.
- We're empty bottomless jars.

Of A Post-Apocalyptic Rainy Night.

Disclaimer: Dear reader, this one is not for you, I apologize for the inconvenience. I read this back to myself and it sounded just as choppy and stripped to the bone as my memory usually is, but then again the sentences fit into little snapshots and they triggered the right images in my head. So go make your own memories and then distort them with adjectives and sentence structure until it's pretty sounding enough that you can't place the memory anymore.

I need  to keep this memory.

I was lost in Zamalek for two hours last night when it started raining.

I was dragged to an outing where I wasn't welcome by an oblivious friend and decided to head home 15 minutes into it, so I started walking around trying to find a main street where I could take a cab or a bus home. It was pretty late, and 5 minutes into it, it started pouring and there was an onslaught of vicious thunder and lightening that split the sky in two every minute.

The streets were deserted, everyone was already home or hiding it out in cafes and shops. The lights were out as well, and other than a couple of forgotten lights here and there, it was pitch dark. There was no living soul as far as the eye could see, save for the occasional gang running around celebrating the rain tribal style. I was soaked through, I had a waterproof sweater in my bag that I put on, but my bag was soaked.

I couldn't see five feet in front of me properly because the rain had rendered my seeing glasses useless, and even without my glasses, you couldn't make out where the street started or ended because of the rain and the darkness. All of my books and college handouts and my cellphone and packet of cigarettes, they were useless, and it was useless to try and save them, but I didn't care. I knew it was dangerous, but I didn't care for that either. I felt liberated. It was a post-apocalyptic walk, without the zombies.

I had no idea where I was or how I'm gonna get home, I was alone with no one (civil) in sight, but I was happy. I knew that any minute I could get mugged or harassed or some car could come and try to pick me up and I wouldn't have been able to fight back, but none of that happened, and I didn't care that it could. It was freezing and I didn't have the right clothes on, but I didn't care for that either. I don't remember feeling more liberated in my entire life. I felt free, and there. There was an air of tangible presence that I haven't assumed in a long time. I felt small and insignificant, and somehow these two made me feel liberated and good. I had no control over anything. I felt like an empty opened jar.

I was the last human on earth, and I wasn't expected anywhere. I wasn't worried about. I was completely and utterly alone, and defenseless. And by god it was magic.

I was picked up by a cab that broke down on the bridge, and the cabbie was kind enough to call his cabbie friend and pick me up on the bridge. I left a butt print on the backseat going out, and the second one was in a hurry and splashed water meter-high when he sped off. We were lost there too, since you couldn't see through the windshield and his wipers were broken down, so we could have had an accident any minute. I didn't care for that either. We took a thousand wrong turns and it took another hour and a half to make it home, after ending up in two wrong districts. He'd soaked 6 people who were trying to stop the cab a little too desperately by driving too close. He dropped me off 15 minutes away since he couldn't figure out how to battle one-way streets, they were a little too urban for what he was used to, and elaborately voiced his indignation on the matter.

I ended up walking home in the rain for the second time, this time followed by a couple of bored guys, and later followed by 5 workers on the back of a pick-up truck. But that didn't matter, try as they might, they couldn't ruin my good mood.

I met my dad by chance at the foot of the building. He'd just come back from work at 1:30 am. He started ranting about a couple of issues of his own, and all I could think about was how beautiful this planet would be without its people, trashed and all.

There are so many reasons (stated and left out) why this could be a bad memory, but for some reason, that I can't place or make sense of, it's a happy one.

42.

Re-channel your obsessions, and displace your anger. That, is the secret to life.

Fuck Semantics.

Very few things have gone on for so long without people questioning their existence and/or integrity at one point. What baffles me is how taking people for their word has escaped that. It appears to me that there's an unspoken pact on earth that says 'People are what they say, you should base all of your judgement on that and only look to action for proof if you're the type of guy who washes his hands 8 times while singing REM's Everybody Hurts. If you get fucked over because of it, that's probably because you misunderstood them, were in denial or let a couple of hints slide.' But here's the thing about words, and it's not just that talk is cheap and that actions speak louder than words or all of that crap. It's the fact that actions are in fact the only thing that speak, words don't speak at all. 

Writing is a craft, you wield words and direct thought in a subtle manipulation of accepted beliefs and approaches that would cause people to have a voluntary mindfuck and eat that shit like hot popcorn. Talking is also an art, you can talk people into anything if you talk long enough, hard enough or smart enough. People know all of that, but they seem to only know it when they're on the giving side, then completely forget about it when they're on the receiving side; a convenient human dysfunction that makes it easier for them to fit in, or think they fit in sometimes.

Here's what I think; words are a little more musical than farts, but are taken more seriously for purely aesthetic reasons.

And because people are more inclined to take someone's shit because they're pretty, or let them get away with more shit because they're pretty, or give them things they don't deserve because they're pretty, or believe they're good-natured and good-hearted and fart and poo goodness because they're pretty, the same goes with words. But that's not just it.

Words label feelings that shouldn't be labeled lest they give people a false, effortless & undeserved sense of status. All you have to do is get a twitter account really, then your self-assurance is on steroids. You know all the answers to life, you have it all figured out. You know who you are and what you're doing here and how you're doing it and you're pimping it like you're Poppa Shizzles. Watch out, you'll slap a hoe. You'll slap all the hoes. And people fall for it, instead of the more logical 'Wow you're an egocentric delusional bullshit-spewing subhuman that can't help but pattern their toe-twiddling habit on a performance chart while failing to enact that self-righteous tweet if it came to life and smacked you in the face', they'll always assume 'Hey, look how conscientious she makes herself sound, she must really be all that she says she is. Let's be completely vulnerable with her for no good reason and hand her our asses on a silver platter. After all, she has a string of pretty adjectives that she made up in the heat of the moment to account for her in case she turns out to be a total cunt.'

Words also externalize things that should be private and utilized for survival and self-acceptance to set people apart by sheer pretence. I'm a firm believer that people are just about as good as it is convenient for them. And most of the time, that goodness only exists in human beings to allow them breathing space to co-exist with what remains of their shitty selves. Their many little good things are there to make their life easier by providing cartiledge between all the other things that make them who they are and help them survive out there, and cartiledge isn't meant to accomodate other human beings, it's put there so you don't experience excruciating pain everytime you want to move around. True goodness takes effort and sacrifice, and isn't limited to things that only affect the host. That comes in at about one in a million, and half the time it's a scam. What words do is that they take those things that only affect the host and make people believe that person has so many celestial kudos and ninja high life score for nothing. So what if you're organized? That means YOU like to live in an orderly fashion, it shouldn't imply that you're somehow better equipped at handling all of the office supplies. Oh, you sit side-saddle? That must mean you're a lady! You wash the dishes? Here, have my babies.

It's taken for granted how people use words to create false form with nonrefutable credibility rather than establish communication. Words are air we shoot around, and there is no guarantee of whether or not they're true, and most of the time they're not because our brains can't handle it. It's bad enough that it has to handle you, it doesn't have to handle all the other reflections of you there will be when you're infinitely mirrored by voicing all the things you know about yourself to other people who will do the same about themselves and handle you accordingly only to prove you were right about what you thought, thus providing new but identical input that has to be processed and re-released into an inexhaustible loop until you eventually fry your brains before making it to lunch. If a person tells you they're reliable, it's a 90% chance they're about as fickle as an ADHD-afflicted squirrel tripping off crystal meth, and it's meant to be that way so that they don't wake up one day realizing they're an ADHD-afflicted squirrel tripping off crystal meth and put a bullet through their ADHD-afflicted meth-choked squirrel heads.There is no way of knowing someone by talking to them; that's like going out in the real world and buying groceries with monopoly money. Talk isn't cheap, it's utterly worthless; if you really want to know someone, all you have to do is sit back and watch what they do about different things, or what a good friend likes to call 'watching the booty in its natural habitat.'

Words assign people imaginary values that everybody else considers facts. He said he's not pissed, there's no way he could be pissed! She said she's not hurt, that must mean she's not hurt. She said she'll keep my secret, she'll take it to her grave. He said he'll never leave, he definitely put a ring on it. She said she'll always be there for me, there's absolutely no reason why I should take care of myself like a grownup when I can pathetically fall to pieces and depend on her to put me back together. He said he despises cheaters, he's probably busy because he's an undercover operative on a top-secret mission in Iraq. He said he's honest, he's definitely not lying about his thrice-dead grandmother. She said she hates politicians, that must mean she's a total saint who's incapable of dirty work. She said she feels very strongly about bullying, she probably never bullied a person in her life! Well guess what? If they call themselves tolerant, chances are they've just listened to all of Lennon's discography and would take an axe to Yoko's head any day of the week if it means they'll tap that. No matter how honest a person is, there will still be a barrier between who the person is and who the person thinks he is. The only way a person's words will completely convey all that he is without alteration and with complete clarity is if the person is in fact an idea. No such clarity exists within the realms of men, because that barrier is put there so we could live with ourselves. It's a safety valve; because if you really see who you are you'll go all Dorian Gray on your ass and it won't be pretty.

Words also build and burn bridges when they aren't trusted to carry out trivial business transactions, which doesn't make a lot of sense. You wouldn't trust people with your money unless you have their neck handed to you on signed contract that would cost them half their property and two kids but you'd trust a person with your own emotional/physical/mental/psychological wellbeing on their word? Is it just me or does the world need to get its priorities straight?

Words also give people credit they don't deserve, and have done nothing to be eligibile for. They provide a slot that's just the right size for people to fill with all the things they like to hear and really want to believe about you.There is always that one person we've known long enough to realize that nothing they say means jackshit. They start talking and it's all white noise, because you know from experience that they speak for the same reason that a dog chases its tail; they just can't help it. What people don't realize though is that we are all that person, to different degrees. We may not be that confused puppy, but then again we'll probably chase that red dot like our lives depended on it and cough up hair balls until we choke on our own aquaphobia.

Happiness (n.):

Memory Blob.

    Ich wollt ich wär ein Huhn,
    ich hätt nicht viel zu tun.
    Ich legte vormittags ein Ei und nachmittags wär ich frei.
    Mich lockte auf der Welt,
    kein Ruhm mehr und kein Geld,
    und fände ich das große Los,
    dann fräße ich es bloß.

Bach's Coffee Cantata

Liesgen: 

Herr Vater, seid doch nicht so scharf!

Father, don’t be so hard!

Wenn ich des Tages nicht dreimal

If three times a day I can’t

Mein Schälchen Coffee trinken darf,

drink my little cup of coffee,

So werd ich ja zu meiner Qual

then I would become so upset

Wie ein verdorrtes Ziegenbrätchen

that I would be like dried up piece of roast goat.

4

Aria: Liesgen [Soprano]

Flauto traverso, Continuo

Ei! wie schmeckt der Coffee süße,

Ah! how sweet coffee tastes!

Lieblicher als tausend Küsse,

Lovelier than a thousand kisses,

Milder als Muskatenwein.

smoother than muscatel wine.

Coffee, Coffee muss ich haben,

Coffee, I must have coffee,

Und wenn jemand mich will laben,

and if anyone wants to give me a treat,

Ach, so schenkt mir Coffee ein!

ah!, just give me some coffee!

5

Recitative: Schlendrian [Bass], Liesgen [Soprano]

Continuo

Schlendrian:

Wenn du mir nicht den Coffee lässt,

If you don’t give up coffee,

So sollst du auf kein Hochzeitfest,

you won’t be going to any wedding

Auch nicht spazierengehn.

and you won’t go out walking either.

Liesgen: 

Ach ja!

Alright then !

Nur lasset mir den Coffee da!

Just leave me my coffee!

Full Translation Here: http://www.bach-cantatas.com/Texts/BWV211-Eng3.htm

This exists, let's have a moment to appreciate it.

One Day.

Moral Myopia.

"One of the oldest and most universal moral precepts is the Golden Rule: Treat others as you want them to treat you. That mandate shows up in Confucianism and in the Code of Hammurabi. It was reiterated by Seneca and by the Buddha. It appears in the Bible, as the command to love thy neighbor as thyself. It might possibly have been taught to more people than any other notion in history.

It is also, on reflection, a little weird. For a guideline about how to treat others, the Golden Rule is strikingly egocentric. It does not urge us to consult our neighbors about their needs; it asks us only to generalize from ourselves—to imagine, in essence, that everyone’s idea of desirable treatment matches our own. As such, it makes a curiously narrow demand on our imagination, and, accordingly, on our behavior. Morality does not start with the self, it starts when we set the self aside. We dwell in moral myopia; literally and figuratively, we are too close to ourselves."

- Kathryn Schulz.

:)

Here Goes Nothing.

Milestone

GUESS WHO DID SO WELL ON HER GRAPHICS FINAL PROJECT THAT SHE GOT A TEACHER HUG AND BONBONAYA MEN KOL NOO3?

TODAY, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, IS A GOOD DAY. AND I AM AWESOME! AW HELL YEAH!

Happiness

  

My 21st

My Life.

I'm Turning 21 In A Week...Oops?

Of Cacophonysts.

My illustrator friend asked me to create a back story for her species, and I'm terrified by what came out. The vocabulary and spelling were thrown around, so this is no prose. It can be made into prose, but I will not touch it. This is one of those things that should be sealed in a vault, and now it shall be. 

The race is called cacophonysts

They live on a carnivorous planet that feeds them by morning and feeds off of them by night

Survival is a constant struggle, but they bear it anyway because each is promised to their doppelganger, and most would rather survive the cruel planet than leave it to face their own doppelgangers on the neighbouring moon.

They're called cacophanysts because the atmosphere is so thick with a mixture of nobel and outlandish gases that their own movements make music

each cacophonyst is born bound to their doppelganger, that lives on a neighbouring moon

and most would rather live and struggle on the planet than venture to meet their doppelganger and find out the truth about themselves by contrast

fearing confirmations.

It was a wondrous life of sheer denial

They didn't even know they were in denial, and that was their gravity
They were part of that planet as much as it was part of them, and the missing part was filled by their complete lack of selves, for you can't fill what has been annulled.

There are ways for the willing

ways that aren't known except to those who've made that choice

All the willing have to do is go to the elders counsel

The symphorium

The puppet masters

The puppets

The ones who keep the balance, who are the balance

where they lose their identity by leaving the atmosphere, and go to meet their own true identity through a secret spell known by these elders

There are no ways back, for it is said that to find yourself you have to lose it.

Their race is homogenous; they can hardly be told apart. And live in harmony, almost literally

They exist in systems similar to beehives, communicating through harmonizing music by their bodies

and the relationships are fleeting, there are no families, but they're all a family

there are no secrets, no fear, no struggle, no sense of belonging but no sense of alienation

There just is.

And most are content

They have no concept of time nor attachments

nor happiness

They exist like children do, from a moment to the other, caught up in trivial wonders and blowing them up into worlds of their own

Their nervous system was more complex than their minds could understand, for they were mostly intuitive creatures. 
Electric signals were more active than any other species that they could hope to see.
Everything was very..there. The very there-ness was tangible.

He was not.

One of them was born with a disturbance in brain electricity

He was more..placid than the others

He didn't move as much, and was perceived as a mute disturbance.

They couldnt understand how he could be, nor could he understand how he was different

Since there were no mirrors, they had no concept of themselves

other than the one they get through others

His malfunction was a disturbance wherever he was, emitting an aura of inertia for a mile's radius around him

They couldn't communicate with him, and he didn't know what communicating was.

It was almost as if he was a moving vaccuum, that disspelled others with invisible forces. A bubble boy, moving within his own sphere of quietude.

For a community that existed solely on sound, his quietness was disturbing to his kin

They feared what they could not relate to, and he was impossible to relate to. It was rendered even more disturbing by the fact that even the planet reacted to their movements with its atmosphere, and he was their first exposure to an object.

He was the only object.

The symphorium had to intervene

They had to somehow eliminate this vacuum so their community could regain balance again

and they did the only thing they knew how to do

They banished him to meet his doppelganger, or not, they didn't really care, just as long as he was on the moon, there where he couldn't reach nor affect them, or rather, there where he couldn't not affect them.

He didn't realize he was, nor did it make much of a difference to him, save for a change in scenery and a lighter atmosphere, with no sounds

The place was almost like living in a Polaroid, it was perfectly still

He had to relearn how to move all over again

But that was okay because he didn't realize it.

If we were to perceive that moon from a cacophonyst's persepctive, it was an absolute nightmare, the air almost hanging heavy with distress.

The banished would convulse in an effort to make music, get terrified by the lack of it, and repel almost like magnets from their doppelgangers, afraid of learning their own truth.

The doppelgangers couldn't help hanging close, for that's how they were made.

It was also why they were made

Holograms

of their originals

They were hoping to find meaning as much as the banished, the only difference is that they were seeking to start fulfilling their existence as well, for unlike the cacophonysts, they didn't know any different.

They may have been a curse to the banished, but the banished delivered them. 

And neither knew they were the other's bane.

It was a nightmare

One that he couldn't see, nor feel, or understand

He was protected in his own bubble

Protected by his ignorance and lack of intuition. He was not affected. The same reason that caused him to be banished from his planet is the one that protected him on that haunted moon.

He had no truth to find, he had no concept of truth, and the truth wouldn't affect him.

He didn't realize he was. 

He wasn't there, not like them.

He was protected.

AND I WOULD WALK 500 MILES AND I WOULD WALK 500 MORE!