Ich bin am schönsten Stern von alles!
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| Thursday, May 25th, 2006 | | 2:14 am |
A Murder of Crows
On the day everything changed, the sky was threatening rain. Gray storm clouds ripped across the horizon like a scar hinting dark violence. The sun hid itself and enveloped everything in an overcast cloud of gray. I woke up and dressed early, the heat driving me down the stairs, past Abbad and Yassam, out the door and into a smothering blanket of humidity. The shattered backstreets and alleys were tight, weaving down past the old stone buildings all stained and smashed. The streets lean in and out like palpitating veins carrying the circulation of commerce. Every wall is a mural of history; old cries of independence and ancient intifada sprayed in the Cyrillic of bullets. The children hop over the potholes like a playground game, their veiled mothers feigning to carefully avoid the cracks. The elders are veiled alike in stained-white and steel gray, leaning precariously like the buildings behind them, watching and silently judging. The unemployed men sit at the doorsteps, talking, pointing, smoking, the sunken eyes behind stubble with same old story: nothing to live for, nothing to lose. All the way the weathered posters of black ski masks and AK-47s urge intifada and endless war as the mosques and shrines stain the colors of heaven. A normal day in a city of Saints and Madmen. The outskirts of the camp are the playground and garbage dump. The fences made to keep us out chain-linked across the horizon, while the barbed wire cuts the sky a thousand shades of gray. The sand dunes are like an oasis in the middle of rotting garbage and sewage. Down by the dunes; the same old game. Watching and waiting. Ring around the rosy. Standing with my friends atop the sand dune, we were high enough to see into the neighboring settlement. We were kings of our own empire of despair and refuse, the kingdom sliding into raw sewage. The jeep swung into focus, stainless steel and bulletproof. “Dogs! Pigs! Sons of swine!” The loudspeaker began to scream in Lebanese Arabic. On instinct, we knew what to do. Kneeling and scampering for rocks, digging deep in old jeans for the perfect stone. Pockets full of posey. Throwing and swinging, hoping to be the one who can boast that they left a scar. But today was different. A Lebanese mercenary’s head slipped between the bulletproof plates, followed by his shoulders, holding an M-16. For an instant, the purpose of the gun seemed divorced and separate from it’s form, a gleaming black rod tube reflecting the gray, held carefully like a child. “Pigs of the Gaza Strip!” There was no noise as the M-16 realized it’s purpose, the weapon was silenced; spraying across the dunes, sand exploding towards me like the waves of the sea. “Dogs!” Murad fell to the sand, his limbs suddenly becoming amphibious, trying hopelessly to swim through the sand; his neck and body ticking back and forth. Ahmed fell forward, his leg bending as he writhed in pain. “Pigs!” Everyone began to run, zigzagging away across the sand. I dug deeper and deeper in the sand, finding the perfect stone, before I began to run. The bullets popped into my back, and I fell back, the gray sky spinning and filling the screen. It began to rain; the sand began to feel like cold ash. Ashes, ashes. The steel-grey sky reflected the gray sand, and I was in the clouds; everywhere. The campesinos stand still and silent in the coca fields as the communists, the military, the right-wing paramilitaries shoot and machete them to death everyday, buried in the soft Colombian earth, lost and never found. Running through the desert, fleeing the Turkish soldiers, starving in the scorching days and freezing nights, the sun as witness, an entire people buried beneath the dust, nameless and forgotten. The screen clears again, and the only thing left is to run. Slipping and sliding, running and hiding, away from the dunes, onto the streets; the screen flipping in and out of grainy black and white; Elona Gay on a hot August summer morning, floating ominously like a murder of crows. Slipping and falling, the mushroom cloud grows, swallowing slowly, the pavement hits, the mushroom shines a million points of burning light, burning the eyes as the screen turns to black. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down. Waking up, the rain patters through the open window in the hospital room. Yassam gets up and walks over as Abbad runs for our parents. The room explodes in movement. “What happened? How did this happen?” father screams at me. “The soldiers yelled that they would give us chocolate and candy. They started to shoot and we threw rocks back. I won’t go again, I am afraid.” The pain of my back joined with the excitement of my words. I was changing the book of history, whiting-out lines and tearing out pages. My feet tingled with the lie. Smashing and distorting history, turning into just another tool of the struggle. The children all blank and ready to believe, everyone needs a martyr. Mother cries and holds Abbad. Yassam stands and looks out the window, steeled away from us, whispering slowly; “the Jewish mothers will suffer like ours”. How would he do it? Cover himself in semtex and C4, old nails and metal, step on a bus and blow and kill everyone in a fireball for some abstract idea that they don’t know about, much less understand? Murad’s procession marches outside, the green and white ribbons flap in the rain as the loudspeakers urge revenge and retribution. Everything has changed. Months later I wake up as the dawn breaks red. Yassam doesn’t see me as he dresses, putting the headband carefully over his hair. He pulls the Kalashnikov from behind the cabinet as I watch, fascinated. He cradles it, cleans it, and looks down the sights. “Quiet,” he whispers. “Don’t tell them where I’m going.” Another David throwing rocks at the Goliath tanks, jeeps, helicopters, and bulldozers, killed on an empty street for the purpose of making a thousand more, bulldozed from the pages of memory. I watch him run from the window, disappearing into the maze. Nothing can change his mind now; pulled deeper and deeper into a dance of death. The sky is a perfect birds-egg dyed the deepest shade of mushroom blue, clear and new. It’s a beautiful day. And the only thing I’ve learned from this hit as the sun shines down: like a silenced M-16, the worst violence we do to one another is silent, like loneliness and anticipation, played out forever on our screens until the end of time. In the end, we all fall down. This is my Vergangenheitsbewältigung. | | 1:59 am |
The Atrocity Exhibition.
Take a walk inside dreamland Kids thinking they’re careless, happy, free Laughing at the homeless guy they think they’ll never be No need to raise them Just turn on the TV Soon they’ll be resonating with complacency It’s been a bad day Let’s start a war After 6 months They won’t even remember it anymore What is this bizarre consuming mess Spreading like capillaries and nerves A numbing static silence A slow loss of dissenting words Wouldn’t it just be nice to think - People get what they deserve? But Johnny turns around and looks at me And he says So what SO what So what? What do I care of far off wars in far off places Of melting icebergs and flat mesas I have my own rat races Took look for new places to exploit and destroy Gernadas, Palestines, Vietnams and Hanois Gods and guns and generals and ranks One great big Bradley tank I have a solution to your postmodernist dilemma I have a new opium to keep you all occupied To save you from the mediocrity of a democracy of hypocrisy of greed, complacency, and cardio myopathies Of your own dumb majority To white-out this Portrait of an Empty Family Go home and smash your TV Torch your flags and your SUV Burn all the textbooks It’s time for some revisionist history Burn every last one of your words Every last one. Why? Because in the wrong hands Books are dangerous Hazardous, reckless, and contagious Burn them all for your sake. One book has more power than every one of your missiles of carbon monoxide every one of your barrels of nitroglycerin cyanide every needle lullaby of sodium barbitride You could ever hope to make. | | Saturday, May 20th, 2006 | | 5:13 pm |
Wir brauchen Mauern Wir brauchen Zäune Ein tausend leer und dunkle Räume Füllen sich mit meiner Alleinsamkeit | | Saturday, February 11th, 2006 | | 6:25 pm |
| | Thursday, October 13th, 2005 | | 6:49 pm |
| | Saturday, October 8th, 2005 | | 12:58 am |
ahaha jthawe that I"m diurnjkkk wow thias is sots wewett | | Sunday, October 2nd, 2005 | | 10:35 pm |
| | Saturday, October 1st, 2005 | | 12:53 pm |
| | Monday, September 26th, 2005 | | 6:03 pm |
| | Sunday, September 25th, 2005 | | 2:16 pm |
| | Sunday, September 18th, 2005 | | 12:19 pm |
| | Friday, September 16th, 2005 | | 6:16 pm |
| | Monday, September 5th, 2005 | | 2:41 pm |
AP BIO DRUGSFUNDRUGSDRUGSDRUGS
GodODarkLaughter (2:32:28 PM): hey did you find 8 bugs yet Osin577 (2:32:38 PM): no not yet GodODarkLaughter (2:32:57 PM): yeah there isn't any land outside my trailer park Osin577 (2:33:38 PM): look under the trailer GodODarkLaughter (2:34:08 PM): thats where we keep my drunk abusive uncle Osin577 (2:36:07 PM): if you bring him a beer i am sure he will let you look for a sow bug GodODarkLaughter (2:36:32 PM): yeah he better. Or we'll take him to Detox again. Oh, that always gets 'im. GodODarkLaughter (2:37:17 PM): hey Uncle Joe! PAY YOUR FUCKING CHILD SUPPORT! GodODarkLaughter (2:37:24 PM): oh, family days in the trailer park Osin577 (2:38:07 PM): ya it sounds pretty exciting Osin577 (2:38:21 PM): i thik i am going to try and find some sow bugs GodODarkLaughter (2:38:49 PM): yeah have fun. Make sure they don't sneak out in Modern Euro and attack the juniors or anything AP Bio first assignment. HELLS YEAH | | Friday, August 19th, 2005 | | 7:31 pm |
Re: Race to the Bottom
Dear Verizon Wireless, I was recently in the consumer shithole capital of Minnesota/America/The World (Mall of America) on one of those wonderful family field trips that we all love, hopping about happily amongst the Abercrombie and Fitches and CD stores, when I happened upon the wonderful public stage you had set up on the bottom floor for public performance. I was immediately taken aback at the brilliance of such a venue: provide wonderful live music for the kiddies, and try to sell them wireless cell phone plans at the same time. On this particular day, Verizon had taken it upon itself to hire a trio of wannabe gangsta rappers to perform and swoon the audience to background recorded music in an attempt to perform live entertainment. Anywho, the rappers, with basketball jerseys and off-center hats in tow, had begun crooning love songs to the audience. While I’m sure that it’s great for the kiddies to provide live rap music, I hate to think about what the elderly nun in the selected downstage audience was thinking about how gangsta one enjoys “taking it slow with maaaaaa girlllll” or how the girl in question makes him feel “togeeeeeeeeeeeeeettttthhhha.” How this nun in particular feels about her girls is beside the point, but I would urge you in the future to make sure that the songs chosen do not have the type of painful crooning inherent in the songs played by JORDAN 23 and his so-called “homeskillets.” This is in addition to the fact that the background music was prerecorded and the promotion of such fashion is likely harmful to our youth in general. One could have, mind you, at any time hopped on down and around the corner, where the Radio Disney platform had decided to bring in a teen acoustic guitar duo to perform whom everyone had heard of except for me. (I think I stopped listening after the preteen girl fans began chanting and the announcer kindly reminded us of how Radio Disney is THE site for cool new music). While there is no question that if the competition between Radio Disney and your performance stages boiled down to size, equipment, and aesthetic presence, you would kick Radio Disney’s ass, one must always be reminded that quality, even in music, matters more than anything else. Sincerely, Saint_Lithium Concerned Consumer | | Saturday, August 13th, 2005 | | 4:30 pm |
| | 3:07 pm |
| | 2:53 pm |
| | Friday, August 12th, 2005 | | 5:52 pm |
| | Tuesday, August 9th, 2005 | | 12:03 pm |
Save the motherfucking forest
http://www.thebookstandard.com/bookstandard/news/publisher/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1000977812J.K. Rowling writes in the introduction to the Canadian version of the new Harry Potter book, "The forest at Hogwarts is home to magical creatures like unicorns and centaurs. Because the Canadian editions are printed on ancient forest-friendly paper, the Harry Potter books are helping to save magnificent forests in the Muggle world, forests that are home of magical animals such as orangutans, wolves and bears. It's a good idea to respect ancient trees, especially if they have a temper like the Whomping Willow.” The environmental activist group Greenpeace released today a statement condemning U.S. publisher Scholastic for not printing its 10.8 million copies of the sixth Harry Potter book on post-consumer recycled paper. Yeah, kids, nice fucking work. While you're reading about Harry's magikal adventures at Hogwarts, you're also raping the earth and killing trees. Thank god the invisible hand will make everything right, right? | | Friday, August 5th, 2005 | | 1:13 pm |
Mein Herz brennt
They have the O.C. in China. Yes, the O.C. God help us all. At least they didn't have a McDonalds in Shangri-La. |
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