Avatar, the hodgepodge

Other than the graphics mixed with reality, I do not understand why this movie is getting good reviews?
Haven't people seen any of Hayao Miyazaki's animations?
To begin with, Avatar's ending is so frustrating and all that fighting is stretched way too stretched and it's absolutely annoying.
Now for the hodgepodge...
matrixwithhintsof9/11andbushandhisadministrationversustheobamafolksfightingathecopenhagenmeetingforawarenessfortheenvironmentthewarsiniraqandafghanistanandtheirjustificationandsomemorebullshittingaboutreligionsspiritualitythecreatorandbluealteregoscreatedbygeneticengineering....
There... that's Avatar for you all.

Overall, the movie is a failure.

latest 'joke'...

life is so ironic but mzm doesn't know if it's Fe2+ Fe3+ or just plain iron...
.
.

the wall, the wall

fall of a wall of a hall of a mall
falling on a strolling a little mole
oh why oh why did that mall hall wall fall?
on that little oh so little strolling
mole.

Ladies and gentlemen...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s7mPppJYUwI
Lately and too often yes often with a T.. as in tea...
I've been listening to Spektor...
This is one of my favorite songs...

  Pavlov's Daughter

".
 .
 .
whadya think I was an amateur
playin' with my temperature...
 .
 .
 .
My name is Lucille and I know how you feel
I live downstairs
I hear you taking out your garbage
I hear you loving your girlfriend
I hear you loving yourself too
I hear you turning your thoughts off
I hear you turning your thoughts off
It get's quiet...

As quiet as an ambulance checking out the neighborhood,
waiting for the blade to slip and that final blow,
but nothing happens, it's a cruel joke
as ironic as a ticker tape parade over the rain forest,
as ironic as a ticker tape parade over my head,
as ironic as a ticker tape parade over my head
going down stream...
to where...it isn't... even... real...rain... at...all... "

Apparently i can't....

.... leave myself.
I was trying to do something and blogger asked me to sign in. So I did and I became a selfish follower.
!!
Now I can't undo myself!
!!

To be or not to be.
You are
Je pense donc je suis
Je suis
Et l'enfer c'est l'autre
Bein et moi? C'est quoi moi?
Mais l'autre c'est ou bien sait
le centre de l'univers
Alors qui suis-je?
Et toi?
Toimoisiamoi
Je serai l'enfer
mais je suis
l'amour
amour
silence
bouche bee
bee
be
b
bebe
Getting close to nothing?
a ball of vacuum
A thing
but a no-thing
A
B
B
B

lapsing collapsing wavefunctions.

After a couple of IPAs...sitting in a the dark corner of the pub took out my notebook and noted:


what do we really see?
collapsing wavefunctions into photons
to our hearts' desire.
Are they really trees
or some projection of
we wish to see
or the suffering of the guilty
or the hunger of the poor.
what do we really see.
if so..
then we have the power to see
la vie en rose?
to SEE
a smile... smiles in faces
rich and poor
smiles and... sparks in
all
don't we have this power
isn't this what makes us human
collapse photons collapse and fill us with light
light, to see the hearts of
men and women
old and young
even the blind can see these
collapsing projections of
stars
magnificent stars glittering
day and night
smiles and stars
we are, are.


I don't know... so what do you think?

cafe marichiabella

y'a rien d'autre.
c'est ca la vie.

chin chin.

growing is an art

a plant needs light;
too much of it burns the heck out of the plant, too little lets it rot.
.
.
walk in awareness

a trip to thomasville georgia

one fine morning
a trip down the drain

to catch the ufo
up in the sky

to end up with trashbag models
and carved faces

plastic trees and hearts
forgotten in diamond spaces

hanging peacefully
under southern skies

time passing
buildings fading

ants conspiring
to steal the show

put up by divine intervention.

weather stations...

your interest in these poles intrigues me.
what is it you are looking for?
a heat change?
you think, some weather station
will read your beating heart?
break free and dance
unbound
in this little world
dance
with your heart's joy melting
the icy loneliness of these creatures
dance and fill them with love.


to my little sister.

winter in tally

heard this song for the first time just now....
summer in the city -- regina spektor

Summer in the city means cleavage cleavage cleavage
And I start to miss you, baby, sometimes
I've been staying up and drinking in a late night establishment
Telling strangers personal things

Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely
So I went to a protest just to rub up against strangers
And I did feel like coming but I also felt like crying
It doesn't seem so worth it right now

And the castrated ones stand in the corner smoking
They want to feel the bulges in their pants start to rise
At the site of a beautiful woman they feel nothing but
Anger, her skin makes them sick in the night nauseaous, nauseaous, nauseaous

Summer in the city, I'm so lonely lonely lonely
I've been hallucinating you, babe, at the backs of other women
And I tap on their shoulder and they turn around smiling
But there's no recognition in their eyes

Oh summer in the city means cleavage cleavage cleavage
And don't get me wrong, dear, in general I'm doing quite fine
It's just when it's summer in the city, and you're so long gone from the city
I start to miss you, baby, sometimes

When it's summer in the city
And you're so long gone from the city
I start to miss you, baby, sometimes
I start to miss you, baby, sometimes
I start to miss you, baby, sometimes



It's getting cold and lonely in Tallahassee.......

..

Erik Satie et des.. points

Gnossiennes No.5 and 1 to 4
I miss my piano!

Kids at the door, it's Halloween, I am sorry I don't have candy, little ones.

ta tiiiiiii ta taaamm ta tiiiiiii ta taaaamm traaaaa trammm

Old book revisited:
Vingt-quatre heures do la vie d'une femme par Stefan Zweig.

Stefan Zweig: ne en vienne en 1881. il s'est essaye dans les genres littéraires les plus divers: poésie, théâtre, traductions, biographies romancées et critiques littéraires. ses nouvelles l'ont rendu célèbre dans le monde entier. Citons la confusion des sentiments, amok, le joueur d'échecs, la peur, vingt-quatre heures de la vie d'une femme, destruction d'un coeur... profondément marque par la montée et les victoires du nazisme, zweig a émigré au brésil. il s'est suicide en même temps que sa seconde femme a petropolis le 22 février 1942.

.... on women

why do you, women, have to prove what/who you are
when you already
ARE...

just be
whatever you can be
and do
whatever you can do...

Tributes

A passage from Wild Ducks Flying Backward by Tom Robbins

This one is a tribute to The Doors.

As clueless as Rome before the barbarians stormed its gates, as oblivious as Pompeii on the eve of Vesuvius's genocidal belch, Seattle was totally unprepared for the rape and pillage to which its youth were subjected at Eagles Auditorium last night. Neither was it ready for the anointment, the empowerment, or the sanctification that were also part and parcel of a rock concert cum psychic ordeal cum full-blown ecstasy rite.
For some time now, Seattle's adopted "house" bands have been The Youngbloods and Country Joe & the Fish, groups whose electrical bananas may shock straight society but who, to their fans, are as folksy and affectionate as psychedelic puppies. Accustomed to having their faces licked, Seattleites were caught off guard by a band that, while it might sniff a crotch or two, definitely does not wag its tail; by a band that embodies the prevailing zeitgeist, with all of its political optimism, spiritual awareness, and liberating transcendence of obsolete values, but embodies it with an unprecedented potency, concentration, and theatrical vehemence; a band that flaunts rather than soft-pedals the threat that the new culture presents to the old culture--and that leaves both cultures rather reeling from the experience.
When, dazed but fomented, we staggered at last from the hall last night, we were each and every one under the spell of four musicians who, innocuously enough, call themselves after simple, ubiquitous, utilitarian devices intended for the closing off or opening up of architectural spaces.
Yes, that would be doors. But, my God, what doors are these? Imagine jeweled glass panels, knobs, that resemble spitting phalluses, mail slots that glow like jack-o'-lantern lips--and not a welcome mat in sight. Enter if you dare, my children, exit if you can.
The Doors. Their style is early cunnilingual, late patricidal, lunchtime in the Everglades, Black Forest blood sausage on electrified bread, Jean Genet up a totem pole, artists at the barricades, Edgar Allen Poe drowning in his birthbath. Massacre of the Innocents, tarantella of the satyrs, bacchanalian, Dionysian, L.A. pagans drawing down the moon.
The Doors. The musical equivalent of a ritual sacrifice, as amplified sex throb, a wounded yet somehow elegant yowl for the lost soul of America, histrionic tricksters making hard cider from the apples of Eden while petting the head of the snake.
The Doors. The intensity begins the moment they stalk on stage and it doesn't let up until the purge is over, the catharsis complete. Even between numbers, there is no relaxation: no chitchat, no pandering, no horsing around. Like the classical actors of Japan, The Doors project all the more intensity when they are silent. They even tune up with an involvement so fierce it would scare The Mamas & The Papas out of their mama pants and papa pants.
The Doors. Their voice is dark and bloody, a voice from the bowels. Satanic in combustion, devouring in energy, awesome in spirit. The voice of Nietzsche, stopped short in terror, succumbing to madness, lusting for the salvation of flesh. The Brechtian voice of the Berlin Music Hal, warning a new generation of the rising tide of American fascism. A voice soaked with a rabid rage of destruction--yet neither wanton nor negative. Like Shiva the Divine Destroyer of the Hindu, the Doors kill only to clear the way for rebirth: they evoke the eternal rhythmic balance of life and death, darkness and light--because the doors that really matter always swing both ways.
Four Doors: (...)
The Doors are carnivores in a land of musical vegetarians. Their craftsmanship is all the more astonishing in the light of their savagery. They have the ensemble tightness of the Juilliard String Quartet--but their grandeur is not of the intellect but of warm red blood. Their stained talons, wet fangs, and leathery wings are seldom out of view, yet if they leave us crotch-raw and exhausted, at least they leave us aware of out aliveness. And of our destiny. The Doors scream into the darkened auditorium what all of us in the counterculture are whispering more softly in our hearts: We want the world and we want it....................... NOW!

The Helix, 1967

it, has a name

ahh who would've thought... guess someone...
that
a soft, roundish mass of chewed food is a bolus...

i think i am growing..
1 sudden bursts of brown pigment...
2 cockroaches
3

Reflections

why can't i just be...
this anonymous person whose life happens to cross yours?
not a friend not a best friend neither a lover nor a hater
free of prejudice free of judgment
just an anonymous person whose life happens to cross yours.

even better why can't i just drop all predispositions?

cover art of l'etranger.

unrhythmic ca-dence

i fill my cells
with memories of
no sense
can only be there when
rhythm is a bitch
then the flow interrupted
a rock lands and
eddies fill my turbulent greatness
stories are generations
of illusions told
to fill us with more illusions
to generate even more
self grandeur
and
disappear..

June 17, 2009

the antagonist competitor

the first thing that came to mind was caffeine and i think it's one of the reasons why i'm up and kicking... i was sipping coffee nonstop between the hours of 1 PM and 4 PM... I think I filled every single vacuo in my body with these "scavenger" molecules

scavenger: Chemistry. a chemical that consumes or renders inactive the impurities in a mixture. dictionary.com

in the literal nonliteral sense it does fill my spaces and inactivates the inactivity.

and ah.. i was just surprised by a spider visiting me from lamumiland tickling me on every inch of my back... thank you loverboy.. you may go now and find yourself a safe and cozy spot to spend the night...

back to caffeine...

white is hydrogen, H
black is carbon, C
red is oxygen, O
blue is nitrogen, N

Mw is 194.19 g/mol... tight!
it comes as odorless white needles ready to poke those synapses
cafecide paralyzes some insects
it also exists as a pseudocontraceptive inhibiting neighboring germination
the antagonist competitor is coming last place i can feel it
yes!
my eyes are begging me to shut them and my jaws hurt me from yawning... thank you wiki for helping me with this murder~
i have killed time!
good night westerners the sun is rising on the east side.
with much love...

Execution eyewitness

Mata Hari is awakened in the early morning of 15 October. She had made a direct appeal to the French president for clemency and was expectantly awaiting his reply.

The first intimation she received that her plea had been denied was when she was led at daybreak from her cell in the Saint-Lazare prison to a waiting automobile and then rushed to the barracks where the firing squad awaited her.

Never once had the iron will of the beautiful woman failed her. Father Arbaux, accompanied by two sisters of charity, Captain Bouchardon, and Maitre Clunet, her lawyer, entered her cell, where she was still sleeping - a calm, untroubled sleep, it was remarked by the turnkeys and trusties.

The sisters gently shook her. She arose and was told that her hour had come.

'May I write two letters?' was all she asked.

Consent was given immediately by Captain Bouchardon, and pen, ink, paper, and envelopes were given to her.

She seated herself at the edge of the bed and wrote the letters with feverish haste. She handed them over to the custody of her lawyer.

Then she drew on her stockings, black, silken, filmy things, grotesque in the circumstances. She placed her high-heeled slippers on her feet and tied the silken ribbons over her insteps.

She arose and took the long black velvet cloak, edged around the bottom with fur and with a huge square fur collar hanging down the back, from a hook over the head of her bed. She placed this cloak over the heavy silk kimono which she had been wearing over her nightdress.

Her wealth of black hair was still coiled about her head in braids. She put on a large, flapping black felt hat with a black silk ribbon and bow. Slowly and indifferently, it seemed, she pulled on a pair of black kid gloves. Then she said calmly: 'I am ready.'

The party slowly filed out of her cell to the waiting automobile.

The car sped through the heart of the sleeping city. It was scarcely half-past five in the morning and the sun was not yet fully up.

Clear across Paris the car whirled to the Caserne de Vincennes, the barracks of the old fort which the Germans stormed in 1870.

The troops were already drawn up for the execution. The twelve Zouaves, forming the firing squad, stood in line, their rifles at ease. A subofficer stood behind them, sword drawn.

The automobile stopped, and the party descended, Mata Hari last. The party walked straight to the spot, where a little hummock of earth reared itself seven or eight feet high and afforded a background for such bullets as might miss the human target.

As Father Arbaux spoke with the condemned woman, a French officer approached, carrying a white cloth.

'The blindfold,' he whispered to the nuns who stood there and handed it to them.

'Must I wear that?' asked Mata Hari, turning to her lawyer, as her eyes glimpsed the blindfold.

Maitre Clunet turned interrogatively to the French officer.

'If Madame prefers not, it makes no difference,' replied the officer, hurriedly turning away.

Mata Hari was not bound and she was not blindfolded. She stood gazing steadfastly at her executioners, when the priest, the nuns, and her lawyer stepped away from her.

The officer in command of the firing squad, who had been watching his men like a hawk that none might examine his rifle and try to find out whether he was destined to fire the blank cartridge which was in the breech of one rifle, seemed relieved that the business would soon be over.

A sharp, crackling command and the file of twelve men assumed rigid positions at attention. Another command, and their rifles were at their shoulders; each man gazed down his barrel at the breast of the woman which was the target.

She did not move a muscle.

The underofficer in charge had moved to a position where from the corners of their eyes they could see him. His sword was extended in the air.

It dropped. The sun - by this time up - flashed on the burnished blade as it described an arc in falling. Simultaneously the sound of the volley rang out. Flame and a tiny puff of greyish smoke issued from the muzzle of each rifle. Automatically the men dropped their arms.

At the report Mata Hari fell. She did not die as actors and moving picture stars would have us believe that people die when they are shot. She did not throw up her hands nor did she plunge straight forward or straight back.

Instead she seemed to collapse. Slowly, inertly, she settled to her knees, her head up always, and without the slightest change of expression on her face. For the fraction of a second it seemed she tottered there, on her knees, gazing directly at those who had taken her life. Then she fell backward, bending at the waist, with her legs doubled up beneath her. She lay prone, motionless, with her face turned towards the sky.

A non-commissioned officer, who accompanied a lieutenant, drew his revolver from the big, black holster strapped about his waist. Bending over, he placed the muzzle of the revolver almost - but not quite - against the left temple of the spy. He pulled the trigger, and the bullet tore into the brain of the woman.

Mata Hari was surely dead.

—Henry Wales, International News Service, 19 October 1917

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mata_Hari
http://img.dailymail.co.uk/i/pix/2007/08_01/matahariREX_468x311.jpg
http://martelote.files.wordpress.com/2009/06/the_execution_of_mata_hari_in_1917.jpg
http://thingswrittendown.blogspot.com/2008/06/execution-of-mata-hari.html

Wordplay

something like...

"madam cockchafer, you're totally destroying my wood" -- V89

hahahahahahahaha

f*cking awesome!

Photo from: http://static.panoramio.com/photos/original/10864323.jpg 
Cockchafers: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cockchafe

Amazons will rule the world..

if ants managed to evolve and eliminate the need for male species for reproduction.. then we humaladies have to learn from them and start cloning ourselves...

fucking useless...

and actually for the first time and for a second i agreed with the bible... god created men then realized how useless they are so he created women... then again i don't believe in this crap
anyway..

it was a long time ago...

Escher got me lost in paradox
then came Einstheisenberg and told me
it's relatimpossibly possible
here and there and now and then
all took my sanity away
and here i am drowning this self
in bottomless bottles..

April 18, 2009

here are some of the things that keep me up at night...

humans are the most dangerous and scariest creatures on earth
the pollution we are creating is mind f*cking
chemicals we are eating ARE dangerous even if the FDA says otherwise
the chemicals we throw into our sinks and toilets and gardens are killing everything from plants to lovely frogs to adorable bugs!
birth control pills scare me to the bones!
overpopulation is a nightmare driving this world to its edge!
nature can't take this growth any longer...
stop breeding!

Lines

It's been some time now...
too many tests happening in Florida skies!
STOP THEM!
I see seven lines converging toward the south...
and here's the eight forming as i am writing this note. 10:36AM
10.37 AM a new UFO appeared.
hmmm..
NASA's OCO failed... how funny.. testing for CO2 while producing it.

i need liquid nitrogen too cool my burning heart.

I'm out of here..

February 24, 2009

Mug's Game

A foolish or futile activity.

Etymology:
From mug (slang for a fool), from Scandinavian word mugg/mugge (drinking cup). In earlier times drinking cups were adorned with grotesque faces, which resulted in the various senses of the word, nouns (face, dupe, thug) and verbs (to assault, to make faces, to photograph).

"possibly maybe,
possibly love"
Björk...

I love Björk.

Ways to entertain yourself

fall in love with someone then think of the perfect lover for that person. what actually feels good is when you hit the jackpot

ask yourself philosophical questions i.e. on existence while standing naked under the shower. just standing there feeling the hot water burning your chest

watching a mosquito or a fire ant do what they do best when they are on your skin

sit in a parking lot at sunset and listen to the birds "say their last words" for the day as they fall asleep

actually communicating with the birds is something else you could try. then of course laugh at yourself.

rub your hands on a coniferous shrub.. bring them to your nose close your eyes take a deep breath and pay attention to your throat and nose when you exhale

relaxing your body when standing in the middle of nowhere while freezing cold winds stab you from head to toe

laugh out loud for no reason to see who will ask you "why are you laughing?"

go to sleep while creating mathematical riddles (math, chemistry, physics in general) in your head just to wake up with or without solutions. either way to wake up tired and with a headache

this also is a way to keep yourself entertained... i mean thinking and writing about the things that might entertain you.


try and let me know how they feel.

des plaisirs dans les toutes petites choses

I was sitting on Humpty Dumpty's wall and drinking my morning coffee which was almost over. I picked up my pencil case and chose the orange pen and on the orange cup I worte...
Today is Orange day
That's all I have to say!

Then I put down the cup, looked up and saw this kid, half asleep, wearing orange flip flops and walking toward me... I laughed and I wrote this:

I just saw a kid
In orange flip flops
He passed by and lit
And this gloomy day flipped!

February 13, 2009

Stoplights

i have been experimenting with my brain and stop-go transitions of stoplights for the passed year and i have realized my brain processes the sound signal (wherever available) faster than the light signal.
i wonder...
has anyone else noticed this?
should make a bumper sticker saying- caution: driver lost in thought.
maybe it's because my senses are already busy exploring the entourage but the difference made by the sound signal is much stronger than the light signal...
hmmm guess i should try it in evenings...
i wonder...
maybe it's because the light signal needs more attention because it's directed and the sound not...
maybe...

followed by comment exchange between a freind and i.

rbw4: well.. also, there is probably a lot more attention being paid to your field of vision, and so a sudden change in your auditory input might seem more stark, and be instantaneously more memorable than your visual memory of the light changing..
making your processing memory seem as though you had processed it first, whether or not you did...

mzm: well i implied this in the first point... you put it in better words!
also after thinking about the possible reasons i went to a stoplight a few times to see whether they are true or not and surely i moved before the copper bird started chirping! but man it needs attention!

Cliche!

I'm back...