Archive for January, 2009
First this blog integrated my blogger.com posts, now it is slowly eating in my LJ. Yes, 7 years of Andrew’s blogging will all be integrated into one blog in the near future. My livejournal posts can be found by going to calendar and starting with 2002. I wrote a lot more then, unlike now where I have go eat lunch, grade 300 papers, make back ups, write 4 lesson plans all before 8 p.m. tonight etc. Also, the security levels have been stripped from my LJs so you can now read about the time I clubbed that kid to death and fucked his dead body limping in the stairwell etc.
Night while swimming across the sea the moment
Which put you in question There is noone else
Finally the truth That you are only a citation Out of a book you have not written Against which you can write at length on your Fading ink-ribbon
The text breaks through
It’s a little cliched, but I like the idea of life as a story, we tend to think of ourselves as in control of our lives when in reality the text being written outside of it frequently over powers us. The link contains more of his stuff.
SOMETIMES WHEN I ENJOY MY PRIVILEGES
For example on the airplane whiskey from Frankfurt to (West)Berlin
I’m overcome by what the idiots at the SPIEGEL call
My raging love for my country
Wild like the embrace of someone believed dead
Queen of Hearts on Judgement Day
and my favorite:
Margarita says my father
Was Howard Hughes a member
Of the next/last Generation
Which doesnt move its ass
From the tv-chair because
Outside lives man the beast
On the screen at least
It is flat and doesnt watch you
Perhaps the most strange thing about the subconscious is the way it can reward us with out our consciousness really being aware of it. It comes as a surprise, waves of relief and pleasure, a slightly stoned feeling. What actions enact the subconscious is always a mystery, a wig, some make up? Flirting with boys? Identity must be mutable because the subconscious’ keys are everywhere, in our imagination our ability to imagine ourselves as others and the fantasies with in. We become like shamans looking for the keys to these moments, when the snakes dissapear and the mind clears and for a second we feel like ourselves.
It’s just about pleasure. The guy fucking the girl down on patpong doesn’t care about intellectual companionship, he isn’t interested in romance, he just likes fucking people in short shorts. Perhaps all these connections are just friends?