All the way to Jacob

This Be The Verse (by Philip Larkin)

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.

Jason the Freemason

There was a policeman who was six-foot-four
As thick as a pillar, as wide as a door
His first name was Jason
He was a Freemason
Thank fuck he was nailed to the floor

Speaking of piggies...

...some of the oil companies we buy fuel from play a major role in supporting the junta in Burma. This is where you can make a difference. Sign Avaaz.org's global call to boycott Total Oil and Chevron gas stations (with subsidiaries such as Elf and Texaco, truly the scum of the land) until either real democratic reform happens in Burma, or these companies stop funneling money to the current regime.

Boycott and sign the pledge, so that Avaaz can show the companies just how many customers they're losing by continuing to support the Burmese regime.

To add your name and learn more about the boycott, click here.

If not us, who, if not now, when?

Once upon a wretched time, there were three thousand little piggies. There was only one wolf. He wasn't particularly big and he wasn't really bad. But he was proud and he was determined. For the good of all wolfkind, the piggies had to die. The wolf was alone in this and he was hunted, but he wasn't afraid. Or at least he overcame his fear because killing the piggies was what he felt was right. The wolf killed many piggies and some of the other farm animals felt good about that. Alas, the wolf was caught by hunters working closely with the piggies and was put down. Unfortunately for the piggies, he left plenty of offspring. They say his last words were: "My soul will not rest until the entrails of the last piggy are tightly coiled around the throat of the last hunter".

This calls for a celebration.

Sack of Potatoes

The old man stood there, in the middle of the street, staring. He wasn't staring in a particular way or with a particular face. However, he was staring at something in particular. It was a sack of potatoes.
This would be a perfectly normal picture -if rather unusual- had the old man not been talking with the sack of potatoes.
Now, there are several things wrong with the above sentence. For example, why would an old man -in fact, why would a man, woman or child of any age- strike up a conversation with a sack of potatoes, or any kind of container full of vegetables for that matter. However, that could probably be attributed to the old man's senility or dementia (or loneliness I suppose). The other concept that seems wrong, is that he was talking with it and not to it. People do generally tend to talk to inanimate objects, threaten or cajole them if they don't work, curse them when they bang their little toe against them etc. However, they generally never get a reply or at least not one that can be helpful or understood. And they certainly don't expect one.
This old man, on the other hand, was having a rather casual chat with this sack of potatoes. I suppose in a way that's tragic, or at least a bit sad. Poor old guy, so demented and senile, not only was he asking the sack of potatoes what it thought about the weather, he was expecting -and in his head also getting- an answer.
Of course the sack of potatoes never did reply. Or in fact perceive, let alone understand, the question directed at it. It was -in a very anthropomorphic sense- oblivious to the old man. This was not due to lack of trying. Neither arrogance. It was rather due to the combined effect of growing up underground and in the dark and, well, being a mass of vegetable cells with no discernible anatomy, sensory apparatuses or a processing system -central or otherwise- and therefore functioning at a very distinctly different cognitive level of consciousness. Should the sack of potatoes be able to understand the old man and be able to produce a coherent response, it is almost certain that it would be more than happy to indulge in some friendly, casual banter.
Alas, the old man and the sack of potatoes would never truly communicate.

(Several years later and after the old man had died, a very giggly fairy -we suspect she was stoned- granted the sack of potatoes' wish and turned it into a real boy)

They may take our lives but they may never take us seriously

What follows is pretty much a direct translation from a post on prezatv.blogspot.com. Even though it is a greek blog, I think the message is relevant to all, especially europeans and americans.

"Terrorist threats, circulation of radical ideas and recruitment from anti-establishment groups is the pretext that the two biggest political parties in Greece are using to pass a new war-against-terrorism bill in accordance with the European Union. According to this bill, the National Intelligence Agency will be responsible for surveilling the web with the purpose of anti-terrorism enforcement."

In other words, welcome ruffian, goodbye freedom. Goodbye freedom of speech, goodbye freedom of ideas, goodbye freedom of thought. We can't allow this. Spread the news. Do something.

Anathema of Zos (The Sermon to the Hypocrites)

Austin Osman Spare was a fucking weirdo. To say the least. He was an automatic writer and painter. He was also considered a magician by many. His dabbling with the occult is well known and as Terry Pratchett would put it "it wasn't so much dabbling as it was barging in and demanding to see the manager". His writings and drawings can be seen here.

He died poor and alone in some shitty basement in London, I think.

He has spawned many weirdos over the years. Bless his wretched soul.




Here is an excerpt from his work Anathema of Zos (which by the way is very reminiscent of Nietzsche's Thus Spoke Zaratustra):

Hostile to self-torment, the vain excuses called devotion, Zos satisfied the habit by speaking loudly unto his Self. And at one time, returning to familiar consciousness, he was vexed to notice interested hearers-a rabble of involuntary mendicants, pariahs, whoremongers, adulterers, distended bellies, and the prevalent sick-grotesques that obtain in civilisations. His irritation was much, yet still they pestered him, saying: Master, we would learn of these things! Teach us Religion!

And seeing, with chagrin, the hopeful multitude of Believers, he went down into the Valley of Stys, prejudiced against them as Followers. And when he was ennuye, he opened his mouth in derision, saying:-
O, ye whose future is in other hands! This familiarity is permitted not of thy-but of my impotence. Know me as Zos the Goatherd, saviour of myself and of those things I have not yet regretted. Unbidden ye listen'd to my soliloquy. Endure then my Anathema.

Foul feeders! Slipped, are ye, on your own excrement? Parasites! Having made the world lousy, imagine ye are of significance to Heaven?

As I said, fucking weirdo. In the nicest possible way though.