Jean-Luc your abilities amaze me-ities!
Toosday, September 18, 2001 : 03:31 in the afternoon

Patricia utters pertinent lines of dialogue troo-out the film:

• I don`t know if I`m unhappy because I`m not free, or if I`m not free because I`m unhappy.
• It`s sad to fall asleep. Falling asleep separates. Even if you`re lying together, when you`re asleep you`re alone.
• I want to know what`s behind that mask of yours.

Kala catch the stars

hey clown slow down
Sunday, September 16, 2001 : 11:06 p.m.

A MESSAGE TO ALL CLOWNS.

Raprap the Clown should really watch where he puts his feet, no pun intended. I don't appreciate my feet being trampled by humongous clown shoes. And I don't appreciate being embarassed by a clown during a magic trick, when I so politely volunteered when no one else wanted to volunteer, just so that 6-year old kids could gawk at your stupid magic tricks and have a good time. So, to Raprap the Clown, though I admit being smitten by your magic trick of pulling a 500-peso bill out of an orange, be assured that you shouldn't brag about it, cause I can beat you at balloon-twisting anytime, and that I saw you pull a card out of your sleeve during your magic card trick stunt. That's how wars start. All it takes is a clown and an ill-tempered girl.

ART-WISE:

I've been trying to comprehend the manifesto (or according to him, anti manifesto) of Dr. Florentin Smarandache, a mathematician, of his art movement called Outer Art. He's written a very long manifesto with a thousand loopholes. He obviously hasn't read much about Dada, nor found art (whihc is not really a movement, rather, a branch of certain movements). Here's part of what he said...

quote: "If Duchamp's Brut Art was art made by insane but consciously, Outer-Art is made by anti-talented people but uncounsciously. Outer-Art is different from Yves Klein's nothingness ("le vide"); in Outer-Art there exists something. Outer-Art is not happenings, nor action, nor structuralism, nor minimalism, nor installation art." End quote.

I don't know how people just create certain "movements" wtihout any... I don't know... passion maybe, and even background. His manifesto needs research, and may I inform him taht sound poems of Schwitters or van Deosburg's constructive poetry do exist. He published without sufficient research. He could be bombarded by endless debate. I would, but I'm too bored to do so, and I've got bigger (and grander) things on my mind right now.

SPEAKING OF ENDLESS DEBATE:

Been to a youth meeting this afternoon discussing current world events, because the news isn't giving me enough mental satisfaction, and to tell you the truth, I needed focus on something leaning more towards an emotional and moral level, rather than all socio-political because at this point, for me at least, this is a cultural/moral/emotional phenomenon firstly, and political issue only coming next.

I may live to retract my views later on though. I'm very fickle-minded, and right now I'm kind of lost on this subject, really. I'm still processing.

Yet I don't think violence should be the answer, though I don't know what other things can be done to fix this. I feel for the victims, but seeking revenge in a similar manner? I shudder to think of what it will do. Worse, worse things. Violence is not the answer. Recent events should have proven otherwise. And revenge... what is revenge, anyway. I don't understand.

As the saying goes, Easier said than done.

where all is bright.
Friday, September 14, 2001 : 09:13 a.m.

So I listen to Lhasa. The first song plays,, and the percussion of the waves give me the impression that I'm in some deserted beach at night, without a soul in sight. It makes me long for the feeling of total freedom, which is running, sans clothes, to the water's edge. Perhaps, with a lighted cigarette between my fingers. Wading up to my thighs, the salty waves drum against me, and it reaches up to extinguish the flame of my cigarette, leaving me wrapped in silver moonbeams, and the wind is laughing at the demise.

Songs, sounds, they are all a reminder, a time machine. For each song a heart can bleed. For each note, for each curling of one's voice, for each measured capture of breath, lies a story. Because a song is nothing more but a "Once upon a time", and sometimes, it is a "and they lived happily ever after", even though it is a fallacy. In songs, there are no such things as fallacies, all is truthful. The story of a whole lifetime in a lament, a yearning for who you were, where you were, what you are, in between bars and lyrics and rhymess so familiar that you swear you could recreate, had you been a sorcerer.

How can one not see the power of a song? A voice that sings is the plea to find oneself, all this by displacing that familiar voice in one's head, replacing it with high and low pitches, or even wtih distracted humming. Drowning everything, everything, as deep as one can dig to the depths of one's being. And yes, I do believe that songs can bring feelings of love. Because if you love, it becomes your eyes, and you see it everywhere. it's that simple.

But I've gone on for too long... instead, I should just focus on Lhasa, singing, and the strains of her lamentations will be lost in the percussion of waves, just like the feeling it brought at the start of the song.

And it will make me press the Back button to repeat the song . Likea child who wants more. Like a child too idiotic to know that it is only a temporary escape. A portal to the alice-in-Wonderland sort of escape, falling into a hole.

In the strains of this voice I am so mystified in I wonder how i can get through this day. Fuck, I even wonder how i can get through this weekend. I'll probably sleep. Deep, deep sleep, under a blanket of petals I shower myself in, with my thumb slightly touching my palm, with my eyelids closed, because I learned in Kindergarten that that is how people are supposed to sleep. Yet my sleep wil be as peaceful as it is chaotic. My sleep will be in waves, rocking me like a baby in a hammock tied between two trees in a lost paradise somewhere, the lullaby of waters from far beyond fall crying to my feet like hurt feelings I cannot fix,along with my dreams of white and black, gold and rust, amidst Karaoke laughter and whispers of love during deep dark nights unheard, in my heart and in my mind, where all is bright.

That is the promise.
Wednesday, 09122001 : 05:00 p.m.

"The Anonymous 4"
Wednesday, 09122001 : 10:12 a.m.

It's wrong ta suspect, but the news is magnifying everything times one million and it's hard to close thine ears to all this hocus-pocus goin' on. I'm sorry. The Kala I am is fairly amused by this report, though. ("It's all very Dada." - Tristan Tzara)

*******************

Report goes:
How is his health? A few months ago, there were reports he was terminally ill. What became of those reports?

A senior counter-terrorism official said the latest CIA analysis is that he is "a hypochondriac... but then he has chosen a stressful lifestyle and that can manifest itself in strange ways if you are worried about getting a TLAM (missile) up your ass."

Nevertheless, he is known to have an enlarged heart, chronically low blood pressure and is missing toes on one foot from a battle wound suffered in Afghanistan. He is regularly attended by a physician.

*******************

That's the rawest depths of pablum it can sink to, y'hear me? *see highlighted words*

of Course I give my shout out-s to the effervescent Jul m'partner in the process of psychoanalyzing life (to the best of our abilities) and taking part in various forms of escapism, who is somewhere in the way-off desertious zones, who is the exact opposite of th irrevocably impulsive emo-ridden moi in the face of contretemps -- cool calm collected rational (and all that jazz).

i also advise m'good friend Flem (known as the flambouyant "veejay reckless of technodrome syndicate posse Kasimiro 2001" to close pals) to please stay calm and to NOT I repeat NOT retreat to your bomb shelter jeest yet ("Chill out, ya jologs." - Tristan) Har har harrr. Sorry for sounding trivial too-day. I don't exactly feel like toiling and moiling. I guess I'm writing mindless pablum, too.

Kala frustrated by disruption of peace