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.:Tuesday, November 29, 2005:.

Got Milk?

Let's make some politics. Shall we?


FEUDALISM: You have two cows. Your lord takes some of the milk.

PURE SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and puts them in a barn with everyone else's cows. You have to take care of all of the cows. The government gives you as much milk as you need.

BUREAUCRATIC SOCIALISM: You have two cows. The government takes them and put them in a barn with everyone else's cows. They are cared for by ex-chicken farmers. You have to take care of the chickens the government took from the chicken farmers. The government gives you as much milk and eggs as the regulations say you need.

FASCISM: You have two cows. The government takes both, hires you to take care of them and sells you the milk.

PURE COMMUNISM: You have two cows. Your neighbors help you take care of them, and you all share the milk.

RUSSIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. You have to take care of them, but the government takes all the milk.

CAMBODIAN COMMUNISM: You have two cows. The government takes both of them and shoots you.

DICTATORSHIP: You have two cows. The government takes both and drafts you.

PURE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors decide who gets the milk.

REPRESENTATIVE DEMOCRACY: You have two cows. Your neighbors pick someone to tell you who gets the milk.

BUREAUCRACY: You have two cows. At first the government regulates what you can feed them and when you can milk them. Then it pays you not to milk them. Then it takes both, shoots one, milks the other and pours the milk down the drain. Then it requires you to fill out forms accounting for the missing cows.

PURE ANARCHY: You have two cows. Either you sell the milk at a fair price or your neighbors try to take the cows and kill you.

LIBERTARIAN/ANARCHO-CAPITALISM: You have two cows. You sell one and buy a bull.

SURREALISM: You have two giraffes. The government requires you to take harmonica lessons.

From a summercamp down town Amsterdam. X X X

.:Lo wrote this at: 1:53 PM:.

"And when the shit came down, she was nowhere to be found..."

.:Lo wrote this at: 1:52 PM:.

.:Tuesday, November 22, 2005:.
Time art meets morality and falls in love.

Richard Wagner has long been vilified and quite unfairly from my perspective, mostly because the moral kaleidoscope is so often thrust upon us from birth, a distant cousin of the appreciation of art, which comes from a deeper, more primal space within us. The difference is that one of them is chosen for us by other people, the other is a point in the evolutionary timeline of our DNA. Certain preferences, lines, colors, shapes, and sounds are pleasurable to the eyes and ears because a few million years ago, learning to recognize and enjoy them helped our monkey forbearers to survive. Since we are no longer monkeys and have some sense of self, those preferences have dimension and of course, since that dimension is based upon a completely unique set of factors, it's all intensely personal. Moral plates are ever changing, colliding, and reforming around new centers of gravity if we are to believe Nietzsche but when it comes to art, one likes what one likes. Sure our tastes evolve, become more refined. For me, it's always been about color and the mysterious eyes that know how to slap it together so poetically. The red tapestry in so many of Vermeer's paintings, those blue, stiff figures and hilarious perfection in Matisse's impressionism, el sueño of Dalí, our salvador that made nouances of color and dreams all collapse in the impossible and my beloved Van Gogh who could somehow exorcise the vibrancy from his paint so that it leaps inside me each time I look at one of his paintings.... or the horizon Rothko succesfully paints on a wall, making colors make love and draw lines into placebos and lullabies. It's too bad you can't touch them because they seem really multi-sensory.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, the truth of this matter is that the only time art and morality meet is when someone sets them up on a blind date and the result is usually a bastard child conceived after too much cheap beer and sex in the torn back seat of a Chrysler.

The art or the artist. Which voice is louder? Probably the one the moves us the farthest in the direction we were headed in the first place.

M E R D A D I A R T I S T A.

Now Playing: Manchester vs. Villa Real. Best served with: Amaretto.

.:Lo wrote this at: 4:49 PM:.

.:Saturday, November 19, 2005:.

...One society?
With liberty and justice for all?
With freedom and justice for everyone?

Forget it. Society was flushed down the toilet, civilization is a fucking failure, ignorance is a weapon of mass destruction and freedom of speech is an integral concept in modern "liberal pseudo democracies" that is used only as advertisement.

.:Lo wrote this at: 6:10 AM:.

.:Tuesday, November 15, 2005:.
Kalt, zu kalt. Herbst Tageschauw.

Bajan las temperaturas y es aqui y ahora cuando el frio se hace inquieto. Es ahora cuando el calor acompañado deja huella, cuando la lluvia moja y la estrella fuga.
El frio es retoño, experto, soñador, absurdo, abstracto, estraño y unico. El frio nos hace sentir humanos, nos recuerda que no somos puros. Nos recorre la medula, la nuca, las tripas, la genetica y finalmente la memoria.
Son dias en los que no hay a quien creerle, ni al cielo, ni al infinito, ni al vecino, ni mucho menos a los titeres que solo mienten diciendo que sera un buen dia...
Estos son dias en los que las luces iluminan sobre una estacion en negativo y un fondo en otono. En los que la oscuridad supera los miedos, las noches se apoderan de las 5, el vertigo se vuelve viento y las manos no dejan de estar quietas.
Son dias sin luz exterior, con velas prendidas, vinos servidos y musica en vivo.
Dias de un otoño que se pudre en su belleza, ausente en su presencia, atrapado en una fotografia.
Son dias que mueren de noche, que mueven mi figura favorita de ajedrez, dias ausentes, victimas de los esplendores reales de una clase de domesticidad divina, dias romanticos, con una lamparita en el centro para el recuerdo, dias sin abrigo pero con bufandas.

Este es un frio para no sacar las sabanas a pasear y dejar los brazos entrelazados entre una compañia limitada, esta que se despierta de madrugada acostumbrada a frios del oeste.
Son dias victimas del cambio de colores y la revolucion de matices, dias que hacen el amor en amaneceres indomables y frios que saben de todo menos de contra luces.

...yo no deberia hablar de frio, ni de inviernos predestinados, pero lo hago. Porque en dias como estos, poco se de arte y fotografia, solo de amaneceres, sabanas y compañias... limitadas.

Now Playing: Blues in the Night (Mark Elf)- All the Way (Monty Alexander)- On the Other Side (Kansas)- Wax and Wane (Cocteau Twins). Best served with: Porto.


.:Lo wrote this at: 2:14 PM:.

.:Saturday, November 12, 2005:.
Across The Universe.

From Fiona Apple.

Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru de va om.

Suddenly a rush of thoughts come and I can't get 'em to you fast enough.
They come and go, written in paper or impatiently hoping to be fed to feed, like a mental menu.
I've got them, for you. I've captured them, only for you and I'm sending them... for you too. Across the Universe.
Jai guru de va om.

I've got you a ticket to Mars. The red planet. Bloody red, from the madness of our world into an aberration in our minds with rouge. Dripping wine from blood vessels and getting our cheeks red from the cold icy winter.

I've got you a metaphor of May, where time and space collapse and autumn becomes a rush of wind through your skin and Christmas becomes a rush of saudades through your mind.

I've got you a portrait of Murpheous, because I dreamed a dream of fairytales melting in a glass full of cachaça and running like 40% alcohol and 60% memories at the deepest and most precious places our mind hides from us.

I've got you a Rhapsody in fall. Wrapped up in maple leaves, you know...The ones from the season. Only Yellows, reds and oranges. I've got you the silence of the city when it pauses and the rain of an everlasting storm when it charms us with a ancient sonata.

I've got you a world of fragile images, a tourniquet in a darkroom where only filmnoirs are developedd and a thousand rendez vous take place.Art i fotografies en blanc i negre.

I've got you half a million lectures and literatures. All in cardboard, in between shadows of the mountains we admired and the head ache of the second or third bad written Alcaseltzer.

It's on it's way... Across the Universe.
I expect you to get it. I demand you to seek it.
I want you to go for it.
Bah. Fuck it. It's up to you.

Now playing: White Dovo (Mehdi)- Lullaby (Cocteau Twins)- Painted Black (The Rolling Stones) Best served with: the mail man.

.:Lo wrote this at: 7:34 PM:.

.:Sunday, November 06, 2005:.
Fais que ton rêve soit plus lons que la nuit.
"Dromen zijn waar omdat ze gebeuren,
onwaar omdat niemand ze ziet"- C.N.

L'espoir de la victoire Cela importe mon ami . Vangelis.
I'm dealing with a reality that is intractable and manyfaceted and essentially unknowable. I'm pre-occupied. Like some Freud's essay where you're about to fall from the bridge without safety net, a parachute or a falling angel that reaches you right on time like Klark Kent playing his alter ego. Like a dream in a sub-alternative reality. That's the whole paradox, a transparent or mysterious reality.

I went to Utrecht yesterday. "Yesterday" like that lovely serenade from the four of Liverpool, A song that actually came from a lucide dream hanging around Paul's unconscience.
I went to Utrecht and remembered how my past still keeps me alive and how my future, impatient to assume the world, walks its ambitions on city streets and guides it's vanities while drinking coffee with architects to be and photographers on the road. Like children from Koolhaas and muses from Bassett.

As I rode the bus back to reality, a poem from some dutch writer repeated in my memory an apparently process with quiet nostalgia, I felt like playing twister with immortality, right hand blue, left foot red. But you? are you taking the blue or the red pil? Are you here, there or somewhere else? Are we playing like space monkeys? monkey see, monkey do?
Aanwezig, afwezig (Present, absent) Has your world desintegrated over time? are you counting time or icecream spoons?
Is this summer or winter time?
I'm not concerned, just pre-occupied. I penetrate the mistery of time and I'm far from impenetrable to the migrations of my soul in a lifetime. My life-time.
Yesterday, Utrecht. Today, not @ home and tomorrow makes contact and breaks the moment in Istanbul, Colombo, Paramaribo or even Bali, who knows, do you?

Me, as L'avonturier, a true lover and a dreamer... will wait for victory while gettin' some sleep. I'll wait to be waken up with french kisses and English breakfast, all by Miha, a real gentleman from a cityblock somewhere down in Slovenia, up in heaven or back in Utrecht.

Now Playing: Last Flute (J. Derwort)- Best served with: Beer and cigarrettes in Utrecht.

.:Lo wrote this at: 3:52 PM:.

Dubble Dutch.

-Holanda es bonito.
*uhmm... Pas mal, pas mal.


*Holanda es bonito si.
Lo único malo de Holanda son los holandeses.

-So... What's the strangest thing about Holland?
*uhmm.. The windmills.
>Well, they are useful.
*Yeah...When it's windy.

.:Lo wrote this at: 2:43 AM:.

.:Saturday, November 05, 2005:.
And Now The Storm Is Inside.

He holds himself in the manner of a man unsure of his body and what it can do, under preassure.
It's autumn. She holds an umbrella, more as a disctraction than some vague form of protection.
He sits without moving until she fires bubbles, images and kusjes.
He falls as death comes at him on a sleepless night.
He sees himself in her, lying down in wet clothes, cold and steaming, waiting for hot-chocolate, drained of poetry...

at the end of another season.

Now Playing: Sacrifice (Elton John)- Rebel Rebel (David Bowie)- Best served with: Caffé Latte or Hot fudge.

.:Lo wrote this at: 5:20 PM:.