J.B. Dazen

Inertia’s for the weak
Feeling incomplete
Decided on a flight to icy London

Touching through a lens
Dancing on a hill
The Prime Minister lives not in London

And the horses, they don’t move
And the guards remain in place
And the distance stays the same out here in London

Surrender’s for the weak
The empire never dies
There’s so much history in ancient London

Turing couldn’t help
But save all humankind
But still they let him die in cruel London

And the plane was cut to bits
And the telomeres repaired
So forever we despair out here in London

I just discovered this story I wrote to accompany my instrumental ‘Sideliner’, which I recently released on YouTube and Soundcloud.

That day he started walking. For no particular reason. He could as well have started sitting. Or sleeping, or cooking for himself. But he didn’t. He just started walking. The odd thing about it was that the only, single thing he did was walk. He never stopped. Not just to sit for a while, or to sleep or to cook for himself. He didn’t even do anything else while walking. He didn’t eat. He didn’t talk. He didn’t even think. 

If one could look through his eyes, one would at first see nothing at all. And at second, one still wouldn’t see a single thing. There was no road to walk on, no houses standing at it; there wasn’t even the tiniest bit of smoke coming from the chimneys of the invisible houses at the non-existing road. Or at least, so it would have seemed, if only one really could have looked through his eyes. But as for now, no one has ever succeeded in looking through a person’s eyes.

However, most people do have the ability to imagine what one is seeing. And here’s one who is going to write down his imagination of what the walking man could have possibly seen.

Of course! He must have seen a road, and houses and smoking chimneys. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to walk. But roads, houses and chimneys are getting boring when you are always walking. So I’m going to tell you the other things he saw (or at least my imagination of them).

My first projection appeares to be quite close. When I enter the head of the walking man, whom people have started calling the ‘Sideliner’ soon, I simply don’t see a thing. So I can’t think of anything else but waiting until I’m starting to see something.

The first thing I experience after some (seemingly absent) time is not a view. It’s a feeling. Not an emotional feeling, but a physical feeling. It’s like my feet are going “bump, bump” against something in a steady rythm. After some time I realise what it is. The feeling of walking. It’s a strange experience to be walking on nothing, coming from nowhere and going to no place.

After a short while, I’m starting to notice something else. This time it is a visible thing. As there has been nothing to see until now, neither darkness, nor light, it stays indefinite for a while. It seems to be a wrinkle in the complete absence of everything. Like somebody has just thrown a stone into it.

But then, the wrinkling starts to get colours and it’s starting to vibrate faster. The absence of everything around it starts to become light. Just light, in its purest shape. Now I’m starting to feel a little vibration in the Sideliner. An emotional feeling hits my imagination: fear. Fear, slowly turning to horror. I can understand that, because the sight in front of me is starting to get quite horrifying. Suddenly I’m also feeling a lot of heat. The wrinkles have become flames. Out of the flames comes a hand. The hand exists of pure absence. Apparently this is too much for the sideliner, because he turns around and starts running. Away from the hand.

But wherever he walks, the hand stays in front of him. It seems that the phenomenon of direction still lies somewhere hidden in the absence. But then there is a new experience. Sound. A lot of sound. A deafening amount of sound. It lasts a few moments, after which it gets more structure. It’s undescribable, but the chaos seems to disappear while the sound is lasting. The hand in front of us gets a human shape, almost divine. It’s reaching out. And suddenly direction seems to enter this confusing environment. The hand seems to disappear. The sideliner starts running slower. He returns to walking, and then turns around. The hand turns out to be very closely behind us. The pure light seems to get troubled. After a short while different shapes begin to appear around us and the hand. Whether we haven’t noticed it before, or it has only just started to show, we don’t know, but the hand gets less divine and appears to be holding another, smaller hand. As the blurry sight gets sharper, arms appear on both hands. One  pointing downwards, the other pointing upwards. The arms get bodies, and the bodies get heads and legs and feet. Walking feet.

We’re walking in a sunny neighbourhood. In front of us, there’s a woman and a little boy. They are talking to each other. At last, their chatter stops as they notice a man walking behind them. The woman speaks to the man. “You’re early today!” The man smiles, kisses the woman and takes up his son. They start talking to each others as they walk into their house. The chimney, all solid and well, doesn’t produce any smoke. There’s no need, for it’s a warm day. A summer’s day.

J.B. Dazen, 3 february 2001, edited 3 october 2005.

Reality is such a weird thing. 

It just keeps going on and we have no control over it whatsoever. 

And we silly beings keep believing that the stories in our heads have got anything to do with it at all. 

We all have different plot lines going on. 

And sometimes they cross and things get ugly or beautiful. 

But most often they just keep bumping into each other without really creating any story. At least not one you’d pay to read. 

I’m going to wait for the Singularity, so I can just think my own story into being. 

I guess I’d be bored in a day. 

In short: I wish you were with me and not someone else and I wish you were here and not somewhere else and I wish we were that movie couple. 

From that good movie.

(saved from my Tweetstream, earlier this morning)

tommilsom:

niggaimdeadass:

• they
• white 

ugh maybe I’m in pain and I have a short temper right now and partly it’s the horrible laci green  social justice thing that’s making me sick of any talk of race or sexuality but jesus christ just

fuck 

off

Exactly my sentiment right now.

I just realized that ‘sick’ is just a qualification. It’s subjective. Not just in some cases, but always. It’s a matter of opinion, not a given fact.

FACT is that you’re inhibited with a virus which causes you to cough, sneeze and excrete fluids from all sorts of body openings. FACT is that we call it the flu. FACT is that most people call that ‘sick’. But who knows. Maybe someone out there really enjoys feeling that way.

FACT is there’s a tumor in your brain. It could make you die. Generally, when things are changing in your body and they make you feel bad, you call that ‘sick’. But there are also stories of brain tumors that enhance all sorts of capacities. Not so bad at all.

FACT is that only ten percent (or less) of people are homosexual. FACT is that something in their brain is wired differently. It makes them want to do stuff that some people are so repulsed by that they call it ‘sick’. Because of that, and simply because of the fact they’re different than most other people, some homosexuals actually believe they’re sick too.

Some people are hyper-intelligent. Just as rare, or even rarer than homosexuality. Most people look up at them in awe. But some hyper-intelligent people would rather get rid of that part in their brain that makes them so smart, because thinking everything over makes them depressed. To them, it’s a sickness.

Being in love can be so overpowering that you’d wish there was an antidote, a simple way to get rid of it. It feels like a sickness. But if the feeling is mutual, all of a sudden there’s no better feeling in the world. That is, for a lot of people. But possibly not everyone.

To call someone ‘sick’ is to judge. You can only decide for yourself what ‘being sick’ means to you. And everyone else should respect that. No matter how different their own experience would be if they put themselves in your place.