There is a literature that does not reach the voracious mass. It is the work of creators, issued from a real necessity in the author, produced for himself. It expresses the knowledge of a supreme egoism, in which laws wither away. Every page must explode, either by profound heavy seriousness, the whirlwind, poetic frenzy, the new, the eternal, the crushing joke, enthusiasm for principles, or by the way in which it is printed. On the one hand a tottering world in flight, betrothed to the glockenspiel of hell, on the other hand: new men. Rough, bouncing, riding on hiccups. Behind them a crippled world and literary quacks with a mania for improvement.
I say unto you: there is no beginning and we do not tremble, we are not sentimental. We are a furious Wind, tearing the dirty linen of clouds and prayers, preparing the great spectacle of disaster, fire, decomposition. We will put an end to mourning and replace tears by sirens screeching from one continent to another. Pavilions of intense joy and widowers with the sadness of poison. Dada is the signboard of abstraction; advertising and business are also elements of poetry.
I destroy the drawers of the brain and of social organization: spread demoralization wherever I go and cast my hand from heaven to hell, my eyes from hell to heaven, restore the fecund wheel of a universal circus to objective forces and the imagination of every individual.
Philosophy is the question: from which side shall we look at life, God, the idea or other phenomena. Everything one looks at is false. I do not consider the relative result more important than the choice between cake and cherries after dinner. The system of quickly looking at the other side of a thing in order to impose your opinion indirectly is called dialectics, in other words, haggling over the spirit of fried potatoes while dancing method around it. If I cry out:
Ideal, Ideal, Ideal,
Knowledge, knowledge, knowledge,
Boomboom, boomboom, boomboom,
I have given a pretty faithful version of progress, law, morality and all other fine qualities that various highly intelligent men have discussed in so many books, only to conclude that after all everyone dances to his own personal boomboom, and that the writer is entitled to his boomboom: the satisfaction of pathological curiosity; a private bell for inexplicable needs; a bath; pecuniary difficulties; a stomach with repercussions in life; the authority of the mystic wand formulated as the bouquet of a phantom orchestra made up of silent fiddle bows greased with philtres made of chicken manure.
With the blue eye-glasses of an angel they have excavated the inner life for a dime’s worth of unanimous gratitude. If all of them are right and if all pills are Pink Pills, let us try for once not to be right. Some people think they can explain rationally, by thought, what they think. But that is extremely relative. Psychoanalysis is a dangerous disease, it puts to sleep the anti-objective impulses of men and systematizes the bourgeoisie. There is no ultimate Truth.
The dialectic is an amusing mechanism which guides us / in a banal kind of way / to the opinions we had in the first place. Does anyone think that, by a minute refinement of logic, he has demonstrated the truth and established the correctness of these opinions? Logic imprisoned by the senses is an organic disease. To this element philosophers always like to add: the power of observation. But actually this magnificent quality of the mind is the proof of its impotence. We observe, we regard from one or more points of view, we choose them among the millions that exist. Experience is also a product of chance and individual faculties.
Science disgusts me as soon as it becomes a speculative system, loses its character of utility-that is so useless but is at least individual. I detest greasy objectivity, and harmony, the science that finds everything in order. Carry on, my children, humanity…
Science says we are the servants of nature: everything is in order, make love and bash your brains in. Carry on, my children, humanity, kind bourgeois and journalist virgins…
I am against systems, the most acceptable system is on principle to have none. To complete oneself, to perfect oneself in one’s own littleness, to fill the vessel with one’s individuality, to have the courage to fight for and against thought, the mystery of bread, the sudden burst of an infernal propeller into economic lilies…
Every product of disgust capable of becoming a negation of the family is Dada; a protest with the fists Dada; knowledge of all the means rejected up until now by the shamefaced sex of comfortable compromise and good manners: Dada; abolition of logic, which is the dance of those impotent to create: Dada; of every social hierarchy and equation set up for the sake of values by our valets: Dada; every object, all objects, sentiments, obscurities, apparitions and the precise clash of parallel lines are weapons for the fight: Dada; abolition of memory: Dada; abolition of archaeology: Dada; abolition of prophets: Dada; abolition of the future: Dada; absolute and unquestionable faith in every god that is the immediate product of spontaneity:
Dada; elegant and unprejudiced leap from a harmony to the other sphere; trajectory of a word tossed like a screeching phonograph record; to respect all individuals in their folly of the moment: whether it be serious, fearful, timid, ardent, vigorous, determined, enthusiastic; to divest one’s church of every useless cumbersome accessory; to spit out disagreeable or amorous ideas like a luminous waterfall, or coddle them -with the extreme satisfaction that it doesn’t matter in the least-with the same intensity in the thicket of one’s soul-pure of insects for blood well-born, and gilded with bodies of archangels. Freedom: Dada Dada Dada, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies: LIFE
– Tzara in Dada manifesto
i never understood
what made your lips on my neck such an intimate affair
until your teeth grazed my pulse
and i realized you could tear open my throat
and make me bleed out in your arms
you chose to kiss
yesterday i went back to school to clear my library debt and visit friends. abel told me that yoka played my podcast for this sem’s adv radio class
which means 17 pairs of ears heard my work. hehe i guess this makes the sleepless nights entirely devoted to audio production additionally worth it. the best part is the cheap thrill of still being a protools illiterate after 3 years =(^~^)=
in some way i miss being in school. in other news astons’ mac & cheese rox and i need to exercise again tomorrow because of hershey’s milk chocolate and seaweed chicken.
4 more days till the end of the month and there is still no news of any acceptance letter……….losing hope
When you’re really into someone, everything will seem new. You’ll forget you’ve done it all before, forget the homogenous blandness of countless first dates rolled into one deflated feeling of wanting to go home and the getting-to-know-you script you’ve read so many times your eyes hurt; you’ll forget it and do it again because it doesn’t matter anymore; this is the first time, the first real time, and you’ll be right there.
When you’re really into someone, you’re going to breathe deeper. You’re going to feel like the air suddenly has more oxygen, I don’t know; something is going to kick your blood into coursing and you’ll feel very almost painfully awake. You’re going to start seeing things differently. You might experience synesthesia and feel a little crazy. You’ll feel like you walked right into the source of light and it’ll be amplified and surreal; you’ll feel like you can’t…
View original post 472 more words
in chronological order, i have dreamt of being pregnant with twin adults, being betrayed and abandoned and witnessing bomb attacks with concrete exploding, littering the place with rubble (yet i managed to find strength to run for shelter nearest to the 2nd attack to retrieve my phone) in the past week.
and it is so fucking uncomfortable to wake up feeling like grass that has just been trampled over by horses
today i had people interrogate me, raise their voices in utmost incredulity and mock me like they were the seraphim for my beliefs. i thought i might burst into flames from all the sin they had so deftly assigned me
the bible is but another literary text, written by human beings. i’ll be the first to admit that my knowledge of the bible is positively marginal. but when people quote leviticus to prove a point it is amazing how paradoxical the whole scene quickly transforms into. because leviticus bans football (what would david beckham do), polyester (wardrobe revamp!), shellfish (oh my god), divorce (too bad if you’re getting abused or cheated on) and the list goes on
i think it is quite safe to say that if leviticus was read verbatim we might have to start making arrangements for accommodation in hell
i am no where remotely close to leading the “christian way of life” but if my religion has taught me anything, it is to “love each other, as I have loved you”. perhaps this is just how christian legalism works; picking out bits and pieces of the word to live by and ignoring the rest when it reveals their failures.
right now being labelled a christian actually makes me feel ashamed of myself. does losing faith in the believers correlate with losing faith in the religion? maybe i should just be agnostic until proven otherwise.
besides this, today has been emotionally concerted and i want to forget how to feel for a while.
just like all human pursuits
struggles sometimes begets failure
i too, am human