Genova, Italy.
How about some starters before the end?
Roadsigns with lambs. Meat on smoked poison. End upon end.
perjantai 11. kesäkuuta 2010
maanantai 7. kesäkuuta 2010
Europa 8.6: Ljubljana, Slovenia
Yellow haze swifling around and through the last gleams of a red sunset. The road awaits. Us, lonely followers of chaos, have nowhere to go. For us there are only mountains. A tent waiting on some hillside, firewood and the blind-deaf terrier warming its mudsoaked fur next to your bruised skin at night. We were looking vertically, something hit us, a bullet between the eyes, turned us towards horizontal illuminations. Now we only seek the upward spiral, the vacuum pulling us from this diseased ground and off until the empty skies. As our boundaries dissolve into knives of energy, we shall want nothing. Full.
Hitchiked from Prague to Vienna. The river of Donau crawled muddy and wild. A church across the stream, which one, theyre starting to look the same. Sounds of Mozart in the air, echoing through deserted churches, houses, squares of white chalk, the doombell chime. White wine and the feel of something irreversible. These choices are permanent. Western culture has chosen wrong. Were headed for disaster. But for now, let us enjoy this warm summer. Make the most of this short bloom of a sinned organism. Please forgive us our stupidity. We do not now how to sit, only how to run and scream. This is our right, the everyday right of suicide. To burn out and look at the two sunsets.
Hitchiked from Vienna to Ljubljana. Strolling around the Alpes in a car, an old austrian gentelman driving, didnt speak any english so we sat silently and watched the scenery. He is a fan of classical music. He played us Sibelius, talked about his acquintance with finnish art, we just nodded. He showed us his home, a tall cabin on a green hill, a cat, three dogs, picket fence. Beams of light through leaves of life. Thought about happiness. Thought about staying on these mountains, putting up a tent on some hill and watching life pass you by. What is more relaxing than giving up? Maybe when everything is over and I face only one option, Ill come here. Make a new profession as an applethief and a spiritual guide for these small villages.
22.00 we got on a truck. Watched white lines cut us, one after the other.
Hitchiked from Prague to Vienna. The river of Donau crawled muddy and wild. A church across the stream, which one, theyre starting to look the same. Sounds of Mozart in the air, echoing through deserted churches, houses, squares of white chalk, the doombell chime. White wine and the feel of something irreversible. These choices are permanent. Western culture has chosen wrong. Were headed for disaster. But for now, let us enjoy this warm summer. Make the most of this short bloom of a sinned organism. Please forgive us our stupidity. We do not now how to sit, only how to run and scream. This is our right, the everyday right of suicide. To burn out and look at the two sunsets.
Hitchiked from Vienna to Ljubljana. Strolling around the Alpes in a car, an old austrian gentelman driving, didnt speak any english so we sat silently and watched the scenery. He is a fan of classical music. He played us Sibelius, talked about his acquintance with finnish art, we just nodded. He showed us his home, a tall cabin on a green hill, a cat, three dogs, picket fence. Beams of light through leaves of life. Thought about happiness. Thought about staying on these mountains, putting up a tent on some hill and watching life pass you by. What is more relaxing than giving up? Maybe when everything is over and I face only one option, Ill come here. Make a new profession as an applethief and a spiritual guide for these small villages.
22.00 we got on a truck. Watched white lines cut us, one after the other.
torstai 3. kesäkuuta 2010
Europa 3.6.2010: Prague
Tracing my bloodtrail back to the hostel. A night that is pleasantly forgettable. Leaning against some 17th century guesthouse, staring down the wet corridors, counting the dripping blood, drip, drip, red on black with a small current softening our thick fluid. Standing on the corner, feeling the bloodtrail scroll its way down my face, I thought about the feeling of being lost. It's not so unpleasant once you get past the harsh beginning. The feeling of roots, of bars, of containers is unbearable in the long run. Lost is the warmest form of terror.
Kafka had the joy of borning in the beginning of the 20th century. It was that time, the certain presence of spirit in Europe (also in Prague) that encouraged him to bloom in opposite to his tremendous constrains. It's no wonder these famous loners write as if in a state of trans. What else can you do when your whole existence boils down to a beam that nearly burns the paper (and its readers) away? Plan, make a sketch? You can only reach the limits of your mind and existence, and after this realization expand into beautiful language, forms, colours etc. But Kafka was in at least one sense lucky. In our time he wouldn't make it. The thing that kept Kafka from killing himself was a certain inner light consisting of belief in a purpose without purpose, a man who still walks in the garden of Eden, and the garden serves, man does not, the packt is broken. But whatever we don't say out loud, something inside us speaks the code. Some say the code of Kabbalah.
2010 A.D, Kafka wouldn't survive to his 16th birthday. He would propably stop eating as a little boy and stay that way until his untimely death. The portrait of a sad child starving without any need to. It's a smart move to stop eating in a world that serves only shit.
There are too much people here to even consider the possibility of a closer contact. They come and go, say a few words and are gone. I mostly go. Maybe that is the PATH: endless, revolving series of going away. The same theme varied by time, like watching 10 horror movies and trying to review them individually.
Thought about jumping off a bridge. A lot of bridges here. Beautiful settings. Charles Bridge is always filled with tourists. Read Camus's The Fall and you'll see why this is so appealing.
Youth culture has no humanity left. Even Prague is just an enormous butcher's shop. How nice it would have been to live eighty years ago when sexuality was shrouded in a vaporizing mist, when touches had more meaning than the act of one thing leads to another. Eroticism is so boring I get enough of it just by watching. Seeing is free, touching requires schooling, teachings of tactics I don't give a fuck about. I must be a whore to enter this game. So be it.
Counting the drips of blood. Too much passed through my mind, the barriers vaporize. Rusted by five days of drinking with less than six hours of sleep per night. Rusted by nonstop rain, spiced with nonstop smoking. I rush down the small corridors, trying to stop the bleeding with a subway ticket. I stuck it to my eyebrow, it worked there for a while. People said: ''There is some guy walking there with a subway ticket in his face.'' Apart from the red eye, I had also a lot on my mind.
Leaving on saturday for Wienna. From there to Slovenia, Venezia, Marseille and so on. Feels healing to be on the road again.
Went to Kafka museum. Surprisingly good. Recommend to all interested. Also Kafka T-shirts on sale for about 20 euros. Buy now, please.
Kafka had the joy of borning in the beginning of the 20th century. It was that time, the certain presence of spirit in Europe (also in Prague) that encouraged him to bloom in opposite to his tremendous constrains. It's no wonder these famous loners write as if in a state of trans. What else can you do when your whole existence boils down to a beam that nearly burns the paper (and its readers) away? Plan, make a sketch? You can only reach the limits of your mind and existence, and after this realization expand into beautiful language, forms, colours etc. But Kafka was in at least one sense lucky. In our time he wouldn't make it. The thing that kept Kafka from killing himself was a certain inner light consisting of belief in a purpose without purpose, a man who still walks in the garden of Eden, and the garden serves, man does not, the packt is broken. But whatever we don't say out loud, something inside us speaks the code. Some say the code of Kabbalah.
2010 A.D, Kafka wouldn't survive to his 16th birthday. He would propably stop eating as a little boy and stay that way until his untimely death. The portrait of a sad child starving without any need to. It's a smart move to stop eating in a world that serves only shit.
There are too much people here to even consider the possibility of a closer contact. They come and go, say a few words and are gone. I mostly go. Maybe that is the PATH: endless, revolving series of going away. The same theme varied by time, like watching 10 horror movies and trying to review them individually.
Thought about jumping off a bridge. A lot of bridges here. Beautiful settings. Charles Bridge is always filled with tourists. Read Camus's The Fall and you'll see why this is so appealing.
Youth culture has no humanity left. Even Prague is just an enormous butcher's shop. How nice it would have been to live eighty years ago when sexuality was shrouded in a vaporizing mist, when touches had more meaning than the act of one thing leads to another. Eroticism is so boring I get enough of it just by watching. Seeing is free, touching requires schooling, teachings of tactics I don't give a fuck about. I must be a whore to enter this game. So be it.
Counting the drips of blood. Too much passed through my mind, the barriers vaporize. Rusted by five days of drinking with less than six hours of sleep per night. Rusted by nonstop rain, spiced with nonstop smoking. I rush down the small corridors, trying to stop the bleeding with a subway ticket. I stuck it to my eyebrow, it worked there for a while. People said: ''There is some guy walking there with a subway ticket in his face.'' Apart from the red eye, I had also a lot on my mind.
Leaving on saturday for Wienna. From there to Slovenia, Venezia, Marseille and so on. Feels healing to be on the road again.
Went to Kafka museum. Surprisingly good. Recommend to all interested. Also Kafka T-shirts on sale for about 20 euros. Buy now, please.
tiistai 1. kesäkuuta 2010
Europa 1.6.2010: Prague
Faceless babies crawling up the tower. I stepped outside and had to stop and stare. Conqueror race swarming over the tallest monstrosity in Prague. The latest addition to evolutionary discoteque. These babies see everything that goes on under city roofs. This tower used to be filled with Soviet espionage technology.
21st birthday recipe: pivo, prosim (a beer, please), czech cuisine (meat and cabbage rolled inside roasted dough), conversations about Wittgenstein and paths in general, wondering around Vinohrady, trying to get a grip on this strange city. It doesn't work. This city is, for an absinth deranged maniac such as myself, untouchable. If I wanted to CONNECT with these streets, I needed to live here: study, do some real work, wash dishes, work at a construction site, after a hard days work walk around, smell the parks, go see movies. The normal stuff. Adventurers are left out and leave empty handed. Their internal beat is deranged from the outside it wants to concuer. This conqueror worm will burn fast. This is a fact.
I'm starting to get a grip on this language. It's not easy, Ive gotten slow.
Mind control keeps the pressure away. We need to forget the fall that waits behind every step, keep from watching cliffs. Hangover doesn't actually help.
I've visited the same pubs Saarikoski did in 1967. I'm tracing his footsteps by accident. Apart from him, I still havent bought a notebook. Thoughts vanish before the fatal grip, I let them go, there is nothing to report, I am sailing away from reality. These waves that pull me away are beyond words. Prague will be a memory, not a collection of deranged and cryptic scriblings that serve only my need for self-therapy, need to cut these knots with pure reason. But what I write...There is nothing reasonable.
But I'll buy it anyway. It would be interesting to make sketches of these sights, for later use, maybe research for a novel. Something to do besides listening to tourists.
This hostel is full of musicians and maniacs. Party every night.
Dear diary, yesterday I drank tujone spiced absinth. It didn't make me insane, sadly, only really festive, which is rare these days. I ran for four hours in the cold night looking for open bars, pivo, prosim, and left. Met a few social locals, they bought me and my friend a cola-absinth mix and set it on fire. Don't think I've drank anything burning before.
Slow monday night. Now my throat feels sore. Don't have the energy to sit in a cafe.
Absinth was an interesting try. It might be the relaxant I've been looking for, best served after that hard days work that I'll never have. I don't think I was born to do, just to BE and look. Flesh and blood, still only a walking camcorder. Maybe with capacity to project.
From a swerven shore to bend of bay,
just as easy to die on a bright sunny day.
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