Existence is so pitiful. The fucking quacks. The diseased needle that sticks into my arm. Once you realise that Life is a mistake, then you realise you have nothing to gain and nothing to lose.
We sell our souls at the imaginary crossroads daily. A new day only exists if you go to sleep the night before, but what if you do not go to sleep and stay awake, do we sell our souls for good?
Nothing to enjoy and nothing to be sad about. My philosophy will be reached and conveyed by the end of this blog entry, not that it matters. If you are a bum in the street, homeless, considered a pitiful life. A junkie. A retard, an aspergers socially inept fuckup with a history, it is alright. A business wo/man. Critical of life, he was critical to life. To live by the sword and die by the sword. What good is there to worry about the next world. What good is there to worry about this world. When pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain. It's so boring to see the slaves at work. The peasents at their best. To believe in a world before and to question and dabble in the world we believe in right now.
Is life celebrated? is it founded on history? events, captured, recorded. Is it survival that has led to the worlds' poets in every working title to wish to exist. To document life through photographs so as never to lose hope that one day their life will feel precious. For a while I questioned this question, what is it I really want, what is it that people want? these days so much data exists that indeed nothing exists at all. Our origins our quest. There is no real answer so we make it up. We appear to appear for the sake of our own appearances.
I've met myself many times before.
Life is a fucking jerk! just a movement. Dead things move. A rock. A planet, an existence, a piece of matter, a spirit, a fucking ghost. Go fuck yourself mentally, orally, sexually, clinically. The pieces of flesh as they mould. Spores. Flesh eating creepy crawlies and the dust of the earth. Ha! We all fucking move. Even death is not stagnant, its stench moves.
Nothing needs to make sense. Your rational fucking retarded schools of science don't matter, we fade away we come back, we fade away, we come back. We live we fade. We breathe. Why do we breathe? So that we do not remain bored. So that we can smell each others own farts and stench. A smell of human vomit that we love and bath in fuck ourselves in.
The brain is our box. Your brain is your box. His brain is his box. The needle is our needle. your needle is your needle. His needle is his needle. She wanted to die.
Dream of falling, down deeper into the dark. Fade, fade away. Fading out again and again and again. we struggle with money this weird element of this weird world. We struggle with health. This weird element of this weird world. We struggle with our minds. This weird element of this weird world. We struggle with the meaning. This weird element of this weird world. It's simple if you understand that there is no point to understanding. It is but simply a mistake.
He cooks the food an extra five minutes for her in his kitchen, and she dies of starvation.
A medium once came to the door many years before I was mistakenly born into this world. She told my mother, she'd have five and a half children. My mother had five children and a miscarriage. The Medium said that one child would make a living from pen and ink. Sometimes I wish I could draw myself out of the bigger picture.
I understand the orgasm as a malfunction in the brain, a glitch, a spasm, something uncontrollable. The circuit boards get shot. A surge of electrical light zig zagging whizzing past transformers and circuit breakers. A Woody Allen sits in the testicular chamber waiting to be exploded. Its function: to create something far from a mistake in our human understanding... a life. A life is a mistake of pure genius. As we understand genius to be insanity and quite often the two are like the dancing devils under the naked sun running hand in hand in a field of blazing grasses.
A mistake, a malfunction of genius: such is the orgasm.
Human beings are but graven images, cast in the image of the creator. According to religious doctrines, Man was created in the image of God. Artists, and creators all aim to create, to build something from the dust of the earth. To burn our hours of life, existence in order to create new lives, new children, new objects of desire to fuck with our eyes and our minds. A fresh vein for the teeth of the needle to bite onto. Creators are Gods among Men! Creating planets, creating businesses, creating fortunes, creating lust, creating greed, creating desire and envy. What a mistake this world has become and it will not last forever though we cling to this want for immortality. Though we would like it so, the world will not be conserved forever.
As man orgasms each time, a part of his life goes into the act of procreating. A part of his own life is removed, now channelled into his sperm to breath new life into orgasm, (forgive the heterosexual use) off-spring, his creation, his next of kin. Ultimately to implant his genes into a holy hole. A scent of desire, a scent arousing sexual impulse. To achieve that state beyond boredom.
Too much orgasm is referred to as jouissance, when pleasure becomes a form of pain. It once happened that I stood under the shower. This is the place where I let my thoughts flow, perhaps there is a connection between water, my head, and magnetic pulses, something electro, water is a healer, it helps me to think. To shout Eureka!!!!! (whilst standing up) Fuck fuck fucking.
I took a wank in the shower. I masturbated pretty physically tensing all the muscles in my body as if squeezing every ounce of life into that feeling of total pleasure of total jouissance. I concentrated with my mind. Orgasm. To reach a more pure understanding of the human body, the human mind and its function of orgasm. There is this empty place where all men go to for a second or a split second as they cum. Some call it a void. Some ridiculous people claim to see God. I call it a return.
Perhaps it was the heat. As I spunked towards that state of return, pure ecstasy, pure orgasm, pure return, I felt my heart beating insanely, mistakenly irregularly. I felt like dieing, going into shock, I lay on the floor of the bathroom hoping it would pass. I felt faint dizzy, is this epileptic. Am I having a heart attack? a stroke? Thus, I truly understood the meaning of jouissance. The pain of ecstasy.
This incident happened over a year ago.
I understood in that near death instance that since we are made in the image of God, and we are all gods ourselves, the world was created in a similar way. God had a giant orgasm. A Sperm. The world was created. A big fucking bang, a big fucking explosion of cum particles atoms. Macro Micro blablabla heroin heroin.
In creating this seed of life, this mistake of genius, God died of some heart attack from the pain of jouissance. This absurdity is only a mistake of genius, a liquid of spermheads trapped in a rubber bag. Alive but dead. We are the sperm in the condom. Alive but dead.
Alive but Dead I dead, the Mistake of Genius. And it is in this image of god, that we continue to fuck and die. We continue to masturbate each other like heroin needles in veins, regardless of procreation or not, because God was not procreating, but wanking the biggest orgasm called life instead, trapping God's spores, God's children and God's animals of the earth into a giant rubber bag, and then dying on the bathroom floor from a heart attack.
Thank you for leaving me to fuck and wank and bleed and piss and shit and sweat and cum. Without these things I would not be a mistake. How primitve we all are to think that knowledge and the quest for it will make us better people. It is only something to make ourselves useful, to feed our hunger our boredom. Again, our procreativity, endlessly spunking into an abyss of nothingness and everything. Mental masturbation. It's all fucking. It's all heroin. A feeling without feeling. A living without living. A world without a world.
So primitive is our living existence. We even educate ourselves to love and to fear eachother. We invent philosophies about economic structures. value. trade. loss. gain. We try to put a value on every meaning. A value on societies. A value on philosophies. A value on the price of an animal - A value on that of a human being. How primitive. Even my words are primitive. Nothing exists. A value on life, a value on death. River Phoenix said, "
I don't want to die in a car accident. When I die it'll be a glorious day. It'll probably be a waterfall."
If I could split up the letters on the keyboard into which ones I type with my right fingers and which with my left, would it matter? I would have calculated a piece of data, but a useless piece of data. However a human being like myself still thought of that idea, does that mean it was useless of me to think of this idea. If an artists has an idea for a piece of work, and they split letters up between those typed with their left hands and those with their right. Does that mean to say every piece of art, an artist makes in this way is useless?
I heard it takes just one person to like your work.
Go rot! you can be whoever you like, you're all still GODS and WANKERS. I'm a GOD.
call me HEROIN you FUCKERS!
Nothing to enjoy and nothing to be sad about. My philosophy will be reached and conveyed by the end of this blog entry, not that it matters. If you are a bum in the street, homeless, considered a pitiful life. A junkie. A retard, an aspergers socially inept fuckup with a history, it is alright. A business wo/man. Critical of life, he was critical to life. To live by the sword and die by the sword. What good is there to worry about the next world. What good is there to worry about this world. When pain is pleasure and pleasure is pain. It's so boring to see the slaves at work. The peasents at their best. To believe in a world before and to question and dabble in the world we believe in right now.
An orchid opening and dying, withering away like rose.
Myself, Leo Cohen and Josephine Lorna Baker holding a banner which reads "Clegg + Cameron a match made in Hell" sign made by Josephine Lorna Baker fairly last minute at home herself.
Simon Ould was there sticking out in the crowd with his UV jacket on... Actually I asked him to take the last picture (big mistake) and he started to dick around with the Camera! Typical Simon style!
