Dear Mr. Daily Prayer Approver, SA Stabschef Ernst, B.S. MS MBA MPHIL PhD, PhDD, DSc, MMSf, consultant, Zen Master of Social Word-of-Mouth
I’m enclosing a convincing block of 25 blanco stories in the hopes of obtaining a permanent professorship at the Faculty of Philosophy of the Phenomenonrepublic of the Balkans (though I couldn’t think of a more meaningless location). I chose this topic because it allows me to represent myself or my perspectives on life and contemporary literature better than the philosophical saints would have in their eternal battle for absolute nirvana…
I could never believe, sir, Dr. Application, that the subject of existence could be discussed in a different way. Each reader will use my philosophical system and method to grasp the pearl of a sense that will warm his soul to the final breath and sigh from the empty shell of existence I offer.
Boris K.’s “History of Written Words on Empty Paper” (1957).
“It doesn’t feel like home,” (Phenomenorepublic Library) (1979)
“I Love You, Transparent” (Transgender Study) (1946)
“Never underestimate the lethal power of the bleeding creature, the women’s studies, The monastery of the harlots of the last days, Got mit uns, 1976.” –“What’s the point of alienation?” The author of (École Primaire Socrates et Démosthenes) (333. p.n.e) is unknown.
“Reflection of Nothingness on the Nihilist Executioner’s Ax” (Henry VIII Sparknotes) (1857), author: Anne Boleyn
“Letters to an Idle Robot,” Odd Future Urban Cookie Collective College, Lecturers, Belgrade, professors Lowlife, Twerp, and A True Nobody
Travelogues, Uday Hussein, “From the Cradle to the Kalashnikovs”
The ancient Japanese writing, “Manual for Seppuku”
There was once a critic who was so well-known for his criticism of Masterpieces of World Literature that the Guild of Acquisitors and Traders of the Phenomenopublic erected a monument in his honor, and since then he has grown very conceited – he undermined writers by any means necessary, abusing his honorable position. He was a voracious reader and a terrible writer all at the same time!
Then something unusual happened: angry books, unrelentingly criticized, decided, at least some self-respecting ones, such as Mein Kampf and thus the Epic of Gilgamesh, to refuse to be read, let alone commented on. Due to the newly composed trash commercial book for nerve relaxation (“The Art of War”) , the Bible, as well as Master and Margarita and Der Steppenwolf, remained closed. This “poor wretch” refused to read great works of literature. The newspapers joined them as well. The written letters reacted angrily:
“On behalf of all the authors who have been satirized and tortured over the centuries, we books have decided to embark on a path of outrage!” They clapped their hands as well. The critic became depressed – he wouldn’t have had to read, but books were chasing him everywhere, bouncing after him, slapping him, and some would hit him on the head, falling from the best shelves. That was a mistake!
This victim quickly fell into an unusual state – a mysterious, deep, unknown land of delusions and apparitions, which opened up new vistas for the Critic – at night, he saw things that didn’t exist, he heard noises he didn’t recognize, he trembled for no apparent reason. He was stymied by fear. “That fear escalates until it becomes terror.” I’m in agony, as if a metal hoop is squeezing my temples, and my heart is thrashing as if it’s going to suffocate me.
” The noose is tightening. “They’re getting there!” He opened up to Boris K., the painter, while drinking in the cafe.”
“Who’s going around you?”
Boris K. peering over the rim of his glass at him.
“Books,” the critic said, a provocative and cheeky look on his face.
“I’m feeling… “I felt my power dwindling or… perhaps it’s less emotional and more neurological.”
The critic stared foolishly for a moment, but quickly recovered and burst out laughing, raising a glass to Boris K., who said:
“I assure you that your “great matter” has become a state issue, that books that have been unread for a long time don’t feel good, that they feel dusty, and that it is critical to start a joint session as soon as possible.”
Boris K. appeared to be preoccupied with serious thoughts. Finally, he added:
“I believe it is time for psychotherapy.”
The therapy got off to a rocky start. Boris’s library’s books were initially convulsed by the fashion that tore them apart, and they opened their mouths to inform him that he deserved the torrent of insults that was coming; the critic couldn’t defend himself. Despair gripped his throat.
“You don’t get us!” yelled the books as they jumped around the library. And we, the books, are flawed in the same way that gods and other people are, with all of our strengths and weaknesses. Regardless, we, unlike you, are immortal! I, The Epic of Gilgamesh, am 1700 years old and was carved into clay tablets! I used to be a Sumerian folklore fresco, written on 11 Babylonian tablets! And you accused me of being bad because of the hurriedly carved 12th fragmented tablet. It was written so poorly that the Uruk people could no longer tolerate the abuse of a book written in such a sloppy manner, so an unknown shepherd created a hero willing to oppose it.
“That’s right,” Kafka’s “Trial” grew irritated – and that I, too, have flaws. “I’m burdened, full of annoyance, and ready for psychoanalysis.”
A few more fell far away from Boris’ closet’s top shelf.
“And you mention Paulo Coelho’s books here.
“You claim we’re in denial because we don’t want to admit we’re not all that great! We hid to avoid embarrassment and rage… “at the top of Boris’ closet, at the back of the boxes”
The Critic now enjoyed that debauched game, amused himself madly indeed, in his element, complacently realizing that his opinion meant a lot to books, with a lightweight layer of shame with which every critic of society entangles only the surface. Fearful and silent anticipation crept into the area, producing a profound sense of calm.
“It’s time to crack open Zen for Beginners.” To understand what is going on, you must first understand your inner selves. The microscopic immortals’ sincerity moves me. Tell me as if I’m your priest – there’s a secret.” You appear to be the type of man who is preoccupied with only one thought:
“How will they react if they discover the truth?”
Boris K. gave him a wink.
“Yes… The books’ sincerity has moved me.”
Your sincerity, Gilgamesh, especially, touched me with your kind words.” Gilgamesh retreated and screamed angrily. He then burst into tears.
“I criticized you with false enthusiasm, intoxicated with pleasure, thinking of nothing else, within the triumph of my glory, in pride for my success, in some cloud of happiness from all that adoration, of all that admiration… What I’ve always admired about you, Mesopotamian treasure, made me feel uncomfortably small and insignificant in comparison to the infinity of the universe and the forces beyond my comprehension… “
As a deep peace reigned, terror and silent anticipation crept into the room.
Boris K. examined the Critic obliquely, with the stiff demeanor of a very careful copyist, his body tilted to one side. When it was Kafka’s turn, he began speaking in a very learned tone, solemnly as in the proclamations, smugly smiling, and concluding with a single eloquent attitude:,
“And I’d never hurt you in any way, Trial.” Except for praise, your neurosis is not for contempt. I actually wanted to write a completely unique filled with repressed and forcibly suffocated rebukes that climb onto the accusation, you knock into the rock of my inner cataclysm with a gnarled stick, during which hopes and expectations rose to the heavens and despair and helplessness fell to hell… yes… my inability… to put it in writing like that! Such a mental illness should not be taken lightly.”
As the Critic spoke, Boris K.’s face lit up with a lighthearted apostolic smile. The critic moved from book to book, singing an impressive hymn to everyone in the patrician poses of the righteous, penitent, hidden envious, and benefactor. The books watched him calmly, uncomfortably calmly, from an unfathomably great distance, from the gap through which patients at nerve clinics are observed, and then, all of the books, along with the shelf, suddenly fell on the Critic’s head. Boris’ ziggurat-like room echoed with the laughter and whispers of deceived books.”
“You little poop, wipe that silly grin off your face!”
(Another ending: As soon as his wounds healed, the critic went to Tibet in search of enlightenment and Buddha-like calm.)
The books agreed to be read again by the critic, who did so, albeit suspiciously.)
Boris K. has been enjoying listening to The Greatest Pieces of Classical Music. While listening to Haydn (So goddamn boring! is what Boris thought) and later watching a documentary on Mahler’s death, he wished to hit Mahler’s head against a stone wall.
Boris K admired Ludwig Van Beethoven, even more than he admired communist leader Che Guevara and union leader Lenin. Seeking to know more about Beethoven’s personal life, he watched a documentary about the life of Ludwig Van Beethoven. Ludwig was adorned with bloodshot eyes… “Beethoven certainly delighted in creating music for mankind. It’s like being God!”
In tears before the monument of human genius, he came up with the idea of writing nine symphonic short stories based on his own exciting life.
“Boris K , the greatest discoveries of mankind are the toilet bowl and the shower”, he remembered the wise words of their inventor after the use of burts and night dishes in the 19th century. The legendary inventor has changed the destiny of humanity in that way!
Next up was Eroica. Boris K. it wrote in a dream. He dreamed he was a teenager in a Flash Gordon suit during a rocket attack fired by an evil emperor. He woke up with a shout, but not before being hit by the rockets. So, Boris K. woke up and wrote it.
Boris did not mind the third novel, which he called “the Pastoral Symphony”. He remembered the good old days, when, on his first visit to Zlatibor, he fell in love with a shepherdess, and then left her when he found out she was an assassin
Boris K. was angry as he wrote the last line of the novella: “And I saved her from the evil bear!” The fourth novella was even easier: “Remember, readers, when Megaimportante put me in jail and forced me to sing key parts of Beethoven’s Fourth as part of a prison ballet,” Boris K. wrote.
At least my voice was warmed up with ” Prille Prolle ” !! But it wasn’t! – Boris sighed, “However, I used my belcanto knowledge to escape from prison disguised as Beethoven.
“During the break I managed to conceal Ludwig’s death from the audience, and since the whole elite was there, no one knew he had died for 200 years.”
Boris rubbed his hands together after finishing the fourth novel. “This will be a hit! I was born to write short stories.” He approached the TV and kissed Ludwig’s frozen picture. (pressing the “Pause!”Pause!”Pause! ” button) Right in the head! “For his work Ludwig, you will receive a laudative,” Boris K promised the frozen TV screen.
While Boris was swept up in visions of all the glory from sales of such ingenious novels, he continued to speak
He dreamed up the seventh novella. He was the star of Woody Allen’s movie. Woody was Boris’ favorite filmmaker. It was jazzy.
During filming, he seduced the main actress, leaving Woody short of a load, shattering the movie plot!
When Boris woke up, he thought: “A novel based on real events!”
In addition to the eighth novella, Boris began writing the ninth. Would that remain unfinished?
Ludwig, don’t even get me started on it. Boris realized, “It will definitely remain unfinished.”
In renouncing the ninth novella, Boris K. set out on a new adventure, renouncing the ninth novella, but not before writing an explanation in the footnote of the unfinished book:
I and Beethoven renounce … as Beethoven renounces his symphonies, so shall I renounce my novellas. And not just one, but all nine! I renounce it. I resent them. We renounce ever knowing ourselves. Europe is at fault.
Boris had a dream in which Beethoven told him that Europe was hypocritically using his anthem and that he should leave the book open to allow the audience to hope that there will be a sequel.
Boris K. has been so stressed lately. Luckily, it is New Year’s Eve, so he has easy access to smoke bombs. The neighbours can hear the hiss, thud, crash!, Whizzz, and heeeee of firecrackers Boris K. sets up and ignites one by one in the house, from the sofa. He has decided that rather than wash dishes, he will simply blow them up. So he launches rockets into the air with a loud bang that break dishes, shatter glasses, collapse walls and turn forks into shrapnel-sharp and tinny enough to pierce the roof and violate the sound barrier. While smoke and the entire colour spectrum spill onto Boris K., an event that could only happen in Neverland, Boris returns to the memory of his first marble. As the neighbours wake in horror from sweet dreams to find themselves fearfully screaming at the vision of an apocalyptic earthquake, Boris K smiles and sinks into a blissful dream.
*Happy New Year’s Eve, Odunde (means “Happy New Year” in the Yoruba Nigerian language) and other holidays! For last year’s words belong to last year’s language. And next year’s words await another voice. – T.S. Eliot, Four Quartets
The otherworldly letters I received from Charles Baudelaire on the nights of August 20 to August 27, 2000
Mon petite marquise,
I see you found me somehow. You have a long reach… your heart is truly aching to be heard and mine constantly aches in search of its songs longing to be heard. This sounds wonderfully challenging my petite marquise and I am eagerly awaiting these bountiful re-words 1st glanced upon inspirationally shared reminder of your gift’s surpassed rarity of achieving one’s goal’s of inclusion’s all encompassing uniqueness of percerving life’s ongoing reflective self empowerment’s abilty’s unto others seeking solaces redemtive fully understood compassionate mysticisms carefully laid before them in hopes of seeing someone’s mirrored imagery right behind them backing their own stories no matter what stands in front of these attempts to be in the moment’s where just knowing someones guiding the hand you’ve held is all that truly matters. Please lets begin chapter’s one’s onwards in and throughout your book of knowledges page by page turn of events.
I will maintain a 2 hour window daily throughout my work week in offering any guidelines acceptably sent back and forth between us until you are completely agreed upon its fruition of beliefs deemed suitably acceptable with your ideas original intents. 1 in the morning before with the 2nd when I arrive back in the Hotel de Lauzun, 17, quai d’Anjou usually before 9 pm. And then the weekend’s like this one past will be my own recuperative times narratives focusing solely on my own similarly poetic journals of rediscovery and literally letting go of what needs of mine allow me to by penmanships sinking like a stones repeatedly cast 1st 2nd and 3rd if my own needs are not met.
And please, if you have any ideas of how mine could be more easily understood in the manner of fluidity I am completely open and have been eagerly waiting for creatively intensifying its representantions effects?
votre ami dévoué, Charles
Please lets take it a much more carefully paced assistance this time in hopes of recognizing eachothers needs in hopes of inspiring one another’s creativity rather than stifling each ideas potential. I know I over stepped my bounds in offering assistance immediately and then having to step back from being overwhelmed with my inability to realistically carrying a weight of responsibility that was in no way meant to be cruel in doing so rather an admittance of my artistic hearts reaching out to help another’s but then breaking each time mine weakened by years of being broken itself by over 30 years of disappointments reoccuring that it simply could not bear your disappointments in mine as well. I have thought regularly of how you were doing but was scared of upsetting you again by visiting your poetry grave in the Cimetiere de Montparnasse
Engaged with ones Beckoning sky’s kissed Encaged with suns Reckoning lies missed
Hunched over gatherings Along freed loved fences lengths Bunched clover, rather brings A strong need of defenceless strengths
Hunger urged Backboneless cuts Wonders purged Lack shown less guts
Souls scared of My poetic responses Tolls, dared love “Show ethnic free nuances”
Woman obsolete Through bliss Am I No man robs, though elite To this damn try
A known readjustment’s Inconclusively thunderous applause Alone we had lust meant “Grin on whose give under us collapsed laws”
Reducing this beliefs brethrens Clevery lasting laid upon hand’s Seducing kiss, beneath heavens Everlasting praid up on lands
Unproven life’s free sentence To try hopeless dependency’s One proven knife’s repentance To my “hope less tendencies!”
Souls scared of My poetic responses Tolls, dared love “Cry no ethnic free nuances “
Embrasse Josseline pour moi
Ma petite marquise, Incredibly well pictured moments of humanity’s inhumane devoutly followed faith within their encouragable society’s abilities of poverty’s eagerly sense less concerned with entrapment than freely offering kindnesses returns. How beautifully choreographed these rarely heard rhythmic beats fall from your uprisings literary thought as if to invite and invoke penmanship’s voice to dance across your tongue of a spoken word longing to heard from your song of choice. Ok my maîtresse Josseline just called and is on her way over. I’d like to pick where we left off when next we converse ? Yours truly prefers to stay anonymous Charles p.s Your secretly sought after poetry’s portrayals turn abouts, opportunity’s beliefs best suited points shared beliefs are offering in this our written life’s transfigurations contracts placed in times accordance of rebuilding these once broken doors of opportunitys that we now stand for by reminiscing poetically of be fronted justices cause to unite peacefully before the those forgotten within reveal themselves rejuvenated by our rights left uncharted perhaps by their own fears blinded efforts to remember love’s potential as well.
p.s I need a loan, My petite marquise.. no more than 200 francs. My lucrative publishing contract is just around the corner, but the situation I find myself in is too difficult to turn to Caroline .. my mother has always been sad about my inappropriate behavior. Oh, what a grief!
Mon cher ami Charles,
Pour reprendre les propos de mon cher ami, Mansa Musa, the ruler of West Africa and the wealthiest man who has ever existed la meilleure réponse à cette question est sans doute “non”
I cannot imagine your monumentally struggles, engagement within to be heard without suppressions ever listening suppressive fears of you and your message’s whispering scream of awakening society’s deafened sense turning a blind eye whenever freedom’s mentioned hope of for all literally scares those self descriptive elites from their point of views never ending nightmares readily changing wills of casting their first stones throne high archy based solely on being dead set against those daring their set in stone’s refusal to be held responsible for holding back free wills neverending dreams to not let go of your hopes to inspire others
amicalement, La Petite Marquise
Though my efforts to change societally influenced attitudes struggles with the minutest comparitive of yours, My own similarity as a small part in our spiritually orated potentialities to change today’s water making attempts of flowing idealisms, recreates its intoxicating effects seen right before our eyes always half cupped optimistically looked up on as sideways towards life’s hand in hand journey to never look down on others as I have, simply because I can.
My selfimposed state of hell which dominated my life’s neverending hell’s of isolation’s keenly placed prison states of thoughts terrifying thoughts into continuing my torture for that 30 years sentence of solitary confinements nightmares of never allowing me to wake from its steely barbed wired fenced in and off from others grasping direly to the hopes of me breaking free. Since then self admittedly starved to bone of sunlights promise of a new day only long for even a moment’s touch of any sensation other than darnkeness preludes of fearfully returning me into its waiting crushing paralyzing me with fears presences always seemingly lurking in its unbeknownst shadows of opportunities once had and lost by mistakes neverending conclusion of its lifelong sentences of documented guilt! My greatest fear is of returning to madnessess reign of terror. My guilt which I have spoken of and finally faced after all those years of running from myself left scars so unbearable to let me live my feeble attempts to secretly bury them within myself represents drove to the brink of a madness so indescribable in its descriptive unforgettable unfathomable certainty of literally a fate worse than death. Blacking out was my only saviour. Leave me alone?!” And BANG !! I hit the floor, Josseline heard the crash, came out and stayed with until I came out of my reverberating position on the floor and looked up at her wondering where I was while convincing her that as I went to get a broom to clean up the mess I had made
“Everything is going to be alright!!”
My thrashing up and down on the bed as each time I bite a small piece of my tongue off while spitting out flem and turning red with heat and eventually waking up to see the fear as I stumble around the place mumbling incoherent words of confusions hinted immently waiting dementia until I finally come out of it completely the next morning. My entire fate is in the hands of the spirit that has guided me since I was 4 years old. I cannot take any opiates due to my elongated method of returning for increasing the dosage to its point of no return. I had been an alcoholic since finding its temporary numbness of childhood tears since the age of 12 years old. My addictive highs led me lows of adjoining suicidal thoughts that have confirmed over and over again its waiting for me if still interested? Time is the only valuable boundary I humbly ask in need of your freely offered suggestions of your invaluably creative words of art. I am in a completely and never more happily challenging at times it seemingly all consuming lover’s relationship. Josseline’s love literally saves my soul from it’s own innate self destructive longing to write an obituary’s requiem of what could have been if only…. I need her needs of my undivided minds attentive states of varying unwearied readiness within its ever changing illusions placed before me so its after effects of realizing what I have either accomplished unknowingly or let’s it been known of her concerns about the lack thereof.
When I make and then mistakenly turn away his guidance of peacefully admitting its making of ammends to my obviously showing after effects while incomplete denial from my part of and in its promised never again reoccurrence is suddenly rebuked by my guiders compliance of asking its presence temporarily depart until I figure things out for myself.
I now have no where left to run, but the faces of those asking for help and my cowardice in my eagerness to say yes and my delays in doing so after in realizing. I once again have overstayed my bounds of realistically abilities to do so. I wanted to be your hero and foolishly thought my hidden weaknesses would somehow continue your belief in me as one. Truth’s cannot be suppressed until realiziations of my obvious unlimited limits for me personally has become better than ever as my escaping personationations impostering as unto e arrogance. … to have any affect of suturing my torn souls inevitable agenda of literally do or madly face a fate worse than death. Madness itself. I finally faced this hidden secret that I too had for my own sanity erased from my psyches memory.
gros bisous, Charles
This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so. chaleureusement….
Ma petite! How beautiful is and was your true intent all along when seen as yours of a truly reflective heart in search of an artist’s longing to be finally understood in her search perhaps to understand why she has been given this gift to share yet is burdened by her fears that no one else will be able accept its offer from her based freely on their acceptance of what they themselves may or may not be ready to accept? Truly I am honoured and humbled upon your gracious and inspiring belief in my abilities. And yes I believe ours could be an ongoing life’s enhancing looked forward daily challenged and faced together separately and yet their for each other whenever in need of guide in either penmanship or suddenly awakened by one’s momumental poetic moments of need and in to be spurred on by an encouraging word to continue its ideas potentiality through to seev this time and hence each and every time from this and that moment on where it takes you and myself as adventurers in rhyme and who will join us in our soon to be fabled journey. I had awoken in hopes of perhaps sharing with you my thoughtful throughought the night thoughts inspired acknowledgement of your inquiries and was eagerly about to see if they actually rang true with yours? However yours far exceeded any hopes I had dreamt of. I was hoping though I could continue to share these with you? Were you pertaining to how man’s uniquely shared abilities of attaining the highest forms in spirituality can only be attained upon the realization that he is the sole proprietor in this inherent ability to lose himself on this neverending search for why he seems to be eternally a loss while continuously questioning why this time he is always within himself lost Please accept this first acceptance of another’s shared guidance with mine that each beautifully orchestrated language has its uniqueness that transcends translations attempts to clarify when an audiences sought after idealism’s transcending ability is found in their own lifes search to be found and finally understood in at times even one stanza or well worded soliloquy. Beauty truly is in the eye of the beholder and those truly seeking beauty, from what I’ve seen in your gift will truly find it themselves through you when they themselves cannot put to paper what so artistically yours continues to help them grow through and along with your ongoing growth as an artist. Thank you again as the spark of intrigue can ignite the flames of hope’s peacefully offered warmth through its well lit darkneses of inspirationally shared interests and yours in mine calmly and reassuredly has added fires to the flames. At the age of 49 I have experienced 5 physicians shared diagnosis of separate nervous breakdowns. 4 I kept to myself out of fears of being returned to the this life hospital. I had a rare reaction to my addiction to opium which only intensities my isolation’s effectiveness to separate and destroy. Please take care and be reassured that I am earnestly looking forward to our continued conversations
(a few nights later)
Long story short…
The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde was written on a six day cocaine binge, and I … I dream of hanging on a pipe, I am in trouble and in distress, madam. I would praise anything that is immoral, unhealthy and disgusting. You must be tired of my deep self, full of mystery, indefiniteness, horror, dark and vague forebodings. You are but a disorganized and scattered multitude of images and labels that get their meaning and harmony only in the imagination of the creator and thus turn into his subjective reality. Your poetry is a big scandal. See what you made me do! You, demon, martyr and damned. I hope they will deny you access to the church. You are a monstrous mongrel, a lying, ruthless, self-confident black Venus, which I turned into a beautiful girl. I even corresponded with you! If only you had sent me 200 francs … If you’d like to correspond about YOUR official poetry with your picturistic fears of entering oneself into your bravely revealed systematically choreographed attempts to destroy what no man can or ever will. – and that is the eternity of MY moment! – let me tell you something: Artistic freedoms challenges to and for the state to change itself through the blunt force of face to face recognitions of what was and continues to simply because the perpetrators of these horrendous crimes against humanity can.
Revelation is feared And has the power Of fears abilities To change with Or face the inevitable Fear of change alone In being left behind
I would like to begin sharing this voice”s guidance for and with you again but there MUST BE SET BOUNDARIES OF REALIZATION that,( if you Google (Do not think that I do not know what it is! Your deity!) the affects of long term use and subscription withdrawal from opiate) am basically rebuilding and constantly attempting through seemingly never ending day throughout night’s of rigorously reconstructive emotional psychological physical social therapeutically exhaustion. It reached the point of a tartive dyscanatia that required speach therapy at our this life hospital, this life, this life is a hospital! and which also as you could imagine made most aspects of my healing attempts even more difficult to achieve any sense of securing more than temporary states of even the smallest momentary victories . If I hurt I am very sorry and embarrassed by my panicked immediate uncertainty of what I had shout and could even do if my worries became a reality in your written words state(d) unrelenting spiritual and psychological torments?! ….and I can only hope you understand in your heart what mine needs to continue healing itself’s work from within? I’ve mentioned this before I believe? It’s make or break for me Right now! I cannot go near opiates having devices a taken like candy’s habitual problem whose nightly next seconds of nearly losing my mind has me more scared of them than any pain itself.
Charles, 200 fr
I am sorry to see you are in need of help. But I am at the point in my life where I realize if I am hurting myself in being there for anyone else’s pain and suffering I truly am not offering anything other than the temporarily shared illusion of the ability to do something I simply cannot. I did not realize you attempted to contact me 2 days ago with honestly the words of which I stopped at rather than continuing on to your messaged request having sensed my heart breaking in knowing I can’t be there for yours. I am not a mean woman a coward or acting out of cruelty’s turned deaf ears to your cries Charles. I am simply – bankrupt
This is a compassionate cry from one spiritually connected poetic heart to another hoping yours can remain so in hearing mine cries out for yours but is beaten to point where penmanships sails have set in motion a dawning darkness whose forever changing destructive forces seemingly strengthen in due course their abilities of altering our creativily shared hopes well designed horizon’s reaching out with both our hands but all ways seemingly just out of in doing so. Take care of your unbeatable heart Charles in knowing the connected rhythms within will never be without. And when I saw my potentiality’s moment of a thunderously conclusive readjustment of their theoretically unproven life sentences of hopelessness self dependency’s . I made my supposedly inconceivable mad dash for freedoms inspirationally welcoming arrival within and unless it was to close another chapters reassessment from my points moments by moments others well self preserved moment by moments prospects for healing a well intentioned turning of the pages never to be looked backed upon refusal’s of cant you see it in their eyes kind of sorry of story’s magnitudanalunly accepted acceptance of all those phases out ofv cant and be looked down or back up on! If I could offer you one last peace of advice if you’re interest me has wained, as I too am lost at times in our mutually read uncertainty’s meaningful offered reassuring words of encouragement’s revealing worlds a part of mutually acquired wisdom’s approach to situationally associated uttered states of reflective confusions. Even going back to our originally documented conversations there was always this taste of disolutionments challenges put into perspective when finally understood upon expectations shared narratives of concern. In no way let go of your darknessess lights of rarity’s survival until you are good and ready to do so! I wrote all years to stay alive And now after I decided it was time for my own retrial and errors of sorts. I am ready have recognized the want and need to feel alive at last again! I at one time though when it was deemed the rambling in my irrefutably non sensical manner of tongues my message that not only would seemiglly never seem get across to any included within my message to the masses I would begin to actually heal myself by temporarily bearing this burdaning overwhelmingly proportionalized burdensome crutch of unsustainable nonsupportive reliability of living for others in attempts to heal myself. But honestly I found this an exhaustively neverending source mutually noticed and possibly neverending seemingly unbeknownst needless needing to my hands) to one’self’s washing of my hands thoroughly misrepresented nonreconcilatory turning aways from truly coincidentally running into a person of interests to you m. For talking simpletalk with in away that truly never lasted for more than its temporarily true version of oneself self revered state of importanc’es needs of recognition at the very least It was until I took a step back to see the worlds around and see out right longing.of the people of non- coincidental opportunistically offered simplification of life’s truly treasuring day by day conversations of others individually motivating peoples of interests. If you help even just one similarly outfitted one as such. The wealth of this treasuring inner peace’s Unheard of mirrors.the souls pricelessnesss by looking in to the windows thie once selfendulgent magnitudally lost moment in time while receiving the resways within distances evechainging .
Madness is a state of mind Frightening in the eyes of and never eyes upo of the beholder’s viewers like you . And make no mistakes that all imperfections are perfectly situateted one on one nonconversational right in front the (wo)man If you were able to work for you, Charles! And you’re Take care of ….
Ma petite marquise,
Tears are flowing with your honoured acceptance of my presence in your valiant struggle mon petit marquise Thank you Good night as you have made my dreams come true with its validity”s confided and never before so confirmed belief in from someone whose talents I have never seen before and look up to as my possible mentor of truth’s power in poetic written form. I have never been so proud to be a part of a team. Rest though I am so excited is in need. And I will thoroughly read your letter in a better light when my dimming mechanism is as rejuvenated as me in this brand new light of days ahead to come. I think the time has finally come for me to accept that I am dead.
Cain processed the first olive grove in history and managed to isolate olive oil. Abel was watching him out of the corner of his bloody eyes, getting up late at noon, but making sure that Cain had gathered all his, Abel’s cattle in the morning.
Abel was a cheap drinker and a destructive creature, unleashing cataclysmal force and tremendous violence at every step. As they say for Edgar Alan Poe nowadays, he drank like a barbarian.Then Abel would walk among the cattle, in a large cloth raincoat, reminiscent of some Arabic ifrit, having breakfast in the early afternoon, bread, cheese and bacon, puffy from lazy laying around
“Let’s go, beasts,” he muttered, holding a wide-brimmed hat in one hand and scourge in the other, to sit under the Erebus tree in utter boredom, carving various wooden objects with a “made in heaven” knife, pouring prehistoric booze down his throat from a wooden cup he carried in a canvas bag. The cattle knew that Abel was coming because he was announcing his arrival with a skilful crackling of the whip. The cattle would then be upsetWhenever Abel swung his whip, the cattle would pounce on him to defend themselves, and Abel would hollered for them to take off. He was screaming so loud:
“Let go of my fingers. Cain, heeelp! This cattle is biting my fingers!Let my foot off Get off me! “
But the cattle bit his hand and left a mark on him…Abel often abused cattle in moments of leisure. During the break, he would complain to the Almighty. It would seem that time was something Abel had plenty of.”Why didn’t you make some shepherdess for me, to spin, sew, tie and drink together on the pasture?” Abel used his spiky and particularly cruel whip to make his cattle move away from the pasture near the yard, and to go to Cain’s field, and when he drank too much he chased Cain with iron forks used for collecting manure: “Why do I have to carry manure to the manure all the time! Come on, tell me a story to cheer me up. ””I should tell our mother – Cain complained, kept whining, saying Abel had attacked him.But still, Cain would do Abel’s work when Abel fell asleep, drank too much, wiped straps of straw and dry leaves from the ground, and then one day decided to complain to the Most High – he engraved his submission in Aramaic on a large rock:
1. a sin against one who has grapes in the tubers
“Sir, as a diligent farmer, as someone whose oysters in the tavern are never empty, I must complain that Abel stole my pot from the tavern again and drank all the wine from my vineyard, and what he cannot drink, he is sorry. to spill .. so it shouldn’t go to waste and leave it all for tomorrow.It’s like a poison soaked into the ground- and I plowboy am diligent, there are always grapes in the tubers. As a sacrifice, I am giving you a very expensive brandy “Paradise” to help me in my difficult trouble – Abel will drink it all anyway.
2. The sin of the rabbits
Sir, Abel whip drives rabbits to my orchard and a variety of venison to damage my fruit. I protected the orchard by fencing the fruit with galvanized wire, and that didn’t even work.Rabbit raids on my orchard are his favorite pastime.I take lard, then heat it in a cauldron in the orchard, and put fishmeal.It worked. Rabbits scratched on the fat, but they didn’t bite, I guess it was too greasy… But heresies!The lower branches on the apples and pears, they happened to be damaged and everything was bitten
.3. Abel, the firestarter
Sir, Abel is a sociopath. He started a fire several times, trampled the sprouted wheat and burned the stubble in my fields. They are not worth a fence or a scarecrow. There is a hole in his psyche. He is manipulative – our parents trust him completely – he is insincere, egocentric and suffers from a lack of guilt. He is cynical and exhibitionist. Father, Abel is a destructive, perverted being. In addition, I must add that he is also an alcoholic. If you don’t do something, an unstoppable circle of crimes will take over your pastures.
Then the voice of God thundered behind the clouds, and the voice of God said,”Shoe goes on, shoe goes off. Go and walk with your sins,as in bad shoes . You see a speck in your brother’s eye, and a log .. hmm. What did I want to say .. Ah, yes! Uh. Cain, what did you do!How hast thou charged thy brother with accusations to establish what is rusty, decayu to him! And..I’ve got a pebble in my shoe, too. And–it’s too painful. Just it’s just too tedious to discuss.”
“I’m just saying ..”
“A drunk in the bunkhouse, and a circus following me – Just like in the movies, huh… nevermind. What did your father and mother tell you?”
“They say I’m a liar! They say that Abel does all that is righteous in the sight of Yahweh. All three of them sit all day and drink my wine under Erebus tree”
“Hmmm … – I’ll give you a test. – Beg for the favor of Jehovah and soften his face! Bring a gift to the altar. Whose gift I am more pleased with, I will bless him and give him the title to be the first priest of all the highlands, lord of all fields and crops, and whip made of flames, cattle and other treasures – and now go, walk on my land and no longer cuckoo on your brother”
And they both did what Jehovah told them. After that, there was war over all the days from then until this time, and it was a sign that Jehovah judged well, expelling the one who first attacked and killed, to the settlements east of the Erebus trees, because he found guilt in the murderer whose the tribe further expands and multiplies.To this day a distant cry is heard from the shadow of the exiled:
“Devil’s exorcist! Let go of my fingers!Let go of my fingers!Abel, heeelp! “
Abel sees it all from the sidelines, looking at his mark at the strip in the shape of a trefoil knot. THE MELOI KHRYSEOI (Golden Sheep) were a flock of vicious, golden-fleeced sheep with poisonous bites, a sheep that Abel especially loved to beat.
Then Abel laughs and laughs and laughs, but from time to time, every few centuries, he is looking so serious.
Some countries were ruled by the Inquisition. Others were subject to questionable privatizations. Boris K’s country was exposed to inexplicable phenomenizations. For Boris K, a man with no permanent occupation, phenomenization was so unexpected that he had no choice but to come to terms with it.
He got into different time periods without the use of a time machine. He found himself performing strangest of jobs without ever applying for them. He kept adapting to the situation, akin to a player advancing to the next level in an unpredictable computer game.
“What have I ever done to deserve the things happening to me?” Boris K. wondered. “I am no different than any other semi-skilled worker who got carried away by the idea of equality in our Republic. I enthusiastically neglected to further my education for the sake of blind faith in “better times” when the voice of the small, the ordinary, and the nameless would be heard as well.”
Boris K. was prepared to endure greatest of sacrifices in order to achieve this goal. As one of the deserving participants at the end of the great Revolution he was offered great benefits – which he promptly refused with utter disgust. It was against just such privileges that he had fought in the first place, he claimed, hence benefiting from them would be contrary to his beliefs. So he settled for an assembler’s job on a car factory production line, where he happily worked 12 hours a day fitting mirrors on the passenger doors.
One day he was laid off. Introduction of new technologies and reductions in work force, or at least that was what he was told; he was well aware the real cause lay in that ultimate evil slowly but surely corroding the fabric of humanity – the profit. Disposed of like an exhausted battery, empty hearted and with eyes full of tears, he moved from his humble but furnished apartment to the so-called “Lepers’ Valley”. The place was nicknamed for its inhabitants: hardly true lepers, but merely desperate souls befallen by a fate similar to Boris’ own. It was dubious in which of the two skins they would have thought themselves better off. The ancient buildings huddling together in irregular patterns, the abodes of unhappy families, were not made of concrete reinforced with Pittsburgh steel; they were built with eco-bricks with insulating layers of pure asbestos, which almost certainly guaranteed the tenants a case of lung cancer. As if there was not enough trouble in their lives.
It was in such a building that Boris K. found his new apartment. It was not the vacancy ad that attracted him, but rather the unusual appearance of the landlady – who was in a habit of swatting at the heads protruding from the adjacent manholes using the highest-circulating newspapers of the City.
“Like swatting flies,” thought Boris K, eyes fastened on a greasy rosary. Frau Suzy (as the landlady was called) and Boris K. exchanged just one glance and immediately recognized each other. Brushing his graying hair back, Boris K inquired about the price. The Frau leveled one measuring, scornful look at him, flicking the ash from her cigarette holder straight onto his hole-pocked shoe. Boris K glanced at her defiantly. Frau’s response came in a raspy, ancient voice.
It was a mantra that meant one thing and one thing only and was uttered by the old woman only on the rarest of occasions. Boris K. liked mature blondes with an attitude, so he decided he would start his mission in that very unfortunate place.
Mission? What mission?
You will find out soon enough.
*Phenomenization, phenomenosition, from fenomenon (gr. φαινόμενо, occurence), something observable but utterly mysterious and untraceble, and better kept that way.
Res Publicus Phenomesationem The people of the Republic have fathomed the secret of the phenomenization by the agency of a mysterious clairvoyant gammer: since the Parliament was hit by a lightning at the moment when there were 111 storks on the roof, 222 members in the building and 333 rants under the foundation – the famous phenomenization occured. The thoughts of storks, rats and Members of Parliament commingled in the air and fell to the ground. Thus certain individuals realized they preferred living in the sewer, others keep trying to fly and carry babies, while the rest just keep babbling about politics. Anything is possible in the land of phenomenization.
Fear often recurs, fear often repeats itself, he has tact, he is musical, he likes to preen, very sure of himself, constant grooming. he gets closer and faster to our hairs and says, I’m here, I love you.
Fear is a kind tenant to us, he pays his rent on time, he truly understands us, he cares about our toothache while crying out loud he would alert us to Mrs Flamehead, the landlord, a wicked woman hooked up forever with a broom and with a cloth scarf on her head
You have to run away, says Fear, you have to run away, his words have it a great sound of reprimand, his cold sentences, like icy droplets of sweat, in search of a wet knot made of piles of weakness.
For, living in fear is a death that never ceases.
Kindle ebook of dystopian adventures of Boris K. “The Adventures of Boris K.” by Leila Samarrai is now live and available for purchase in the Kindle Store
This collection of thematically and temporally interconnected stories (which would make some readers hastily declare it a novel), represents a piece which, due to many of its features, stands out from the contemporary Serbian literary production. Boris K. is, just as Josef K., a man stuck in a trial (Victor Pelevin would call it a transition from nothing to nothing), as well as a postmodern coquetting with stereotypes, twisting them, with metatextuality. Situated, not by accident, in Phenomenonpublic, a pseudo-country and a pseudo-democracy, Boris K. is a man whose life, identity, life circumstances, the world around him, all change faster than the statuses on social networks. Boris K. is “a 21st century boy – everybody’s toy”, but, as the English would say, “nobody’s fool as well”. Speaking of dystopias, we must mention Winston Smith from Orwell’s “1984”. Paranoia and societal pressure exist, Oceania where Smith lives is nothing else but a microcosm in the same manner that Phenomenonpublic is. But, unlike Smith, Boris K. has places to go. Nobody is stopping him. His freedom of choice is, at first glance, absolute. But every so often a self-appointed tribune of the plebs a la Megaimportanceshire can appear who will ruin his good fortune. Let’s not forget: there is a strong satirical lining within these stories, predominantly taking aim against liberal capitalism, kleptarchy, corporations, xenophobia, and prejudices of all kinds. And, of course, what the Phenomenonpublicans love most is to wail for their deceased to whom they attribute traits which, during their lifetime, they had not seen. The living are friable – the dead are indestructible. Sound familiar? It should.