They called him Joyful on certain days,and on other days they called him with other names.
But he always answered to their calls,like a wolf to its pack,or the Rooster to other roosters,near and afar.
And then there was this boy who came down from the hills,with a story that gave those who listened the chills.There was an odd light in this boys face,and so sincere appeared he,that one where hypnotized by what he had to tell.
For where he lived,deep inside a mountain cave,there was a hole from where strange beings emerged,everynow and then.Mostly out of curiosity,but sometimes out to answer the calls of people,who perhaps unaware, had summoned them into their homes.
At night,his candlelight would suddendly blow out,and leave him in complete darkness,only the creepy chorus of the wind , when the strange beings came out.
One night he remembers like it was yesterday.One of the shadowlike beings came very close to him,searching him all over,for something,but then left disappointed,and sighed, as it returned into the passage and disappeared.
He got himself a flashlight,and waited for the moment,when the wind again would start to howl through the passage,and he waited until the batteries went dead and darkness again engulfed him.
Then he heard that ghostly huff of wind being squeezed through miles of tunnels in the deep,and when it entered his cave,temperature fell to zero.He had to rub his hands together,fast,and moved his legs up and down to keep circulation going.A shadow emerged from the passage,it made a humming sound that made the whole cave vibrate,and it filled his head with a tone that seemed to deafen his mind,making room for... some..thing.He could feel parts of his brain being replaced with other parts and some other devices,of wich he had never seen the likes.Odd mechanical devices,flowers within flowers,and fragrances that he never knew existed,entered his nostrils and went straight for his brain.
So one evening,out of sheer curiosity, he decided to crawl into this hole,and see where it would take him.
Little did he know of what waited for him in the deep of the mountain.But he was tired of sitting around.It was time to test himself,and probably get stuck somewhere in the darkness and suffocate in the attempt.But, he was tired of sitting around, waiting to die.
So slowly he croached into the hole,and on his knees,he started to manouver himself ever deeper into the mountain.For a long time, he could move with some ease,and then the flashlight started flickering.It was not funny.No humour could he find to alleviate the dreadful fact that it was the end of the light,as he knew it.The flashlight flickered a full five minutes more,and then,it was over.
Perfect darkness enclosed him,and made the journey onwards pretty scary.But he had come too far.And a voice in his head told him to continue.So he did,and then he heard the familiar but haunting chorus of wind. reaching ever closer to him,and he could feel temperature fall like a carpet of ice on him,freezing his blood and mind until time itself stood still.
Some..phenomena moved subtly before him and felt like moving in and out of his body,looking for something.Like a thief in the night,he thought to himself.And it stopped.!.As if it heard his thoughts.
"Who are you ? ",he questioned the being in his mind,and received an instant reply that gave him the goosebumps.:((I am you in a world where time does not exist.I am the eternal.))
He closed his eyes and saw fire melting blocks of ice into a pool wherein he could see his own face,reflected.and melting as it where,in the subtle waves that moved cross the water.
Upon opening his eyes,he gazed upon a vision of another world,not taught of in school,not heard of in history,and never seen on ordinary maps.For a moment he was part of this other world,and he could make out lights glowing in faraway windows,and distant smoke from odd chimneys.
In the corner of his eye,he could see whole rows of trees not blowing in the wind,but dancing,elegantly,with moves that made him question reality.
Thats when the vision ended.And he was back in the cave,together again with himself,like a seaman returned to shore,on the back of a whale, perhaps.
*Imagination can be a springboard into marvelous vistas,full of beauty and danger,from every direction.Even underneath ones feet ,and perhaps hanging from above,like old cob webs.
Imagination is an ancient and mighty dragon that spews fire and flies upside down,if it wants too.
And, whoever tries to capture the ancient one,will soon find himself being captured,and strung to a pole,and stripped of the flesh,perhaps.Or kneaded by giant hands,and molded into something else entirely.
Imagination is an 0ld creaky door to another world wherein you may get lost
like Alice
and not know witch is wich.
torsdag 24. november 2016
onsdag 23. november 2016
yondertown
Words are but the excrements of our mind,and should be regarded as such,for the sake of familiarity and love.Excrements are symbols of past feastings and ideologies,and also the things we don`t speak of,but just love to happen,like sleeping or breaking wind....
Language is actually a very primitive way of communicating, that have developed from delightful gnarls and groans,into even more gnarls and groans with added soundeffects,often using bodily members to express it in this way, or that way, and so on and so forth.
Listen when people speak,and you will hear what they had for breakfast,and dinner.Its all there,for the keen and observant eyes and ears.Its the Other language, within language.Yes.
The real truth -behind- the cover up of special effects, the untamed animal,with its natural instincts dictating its every move.This,our mask of the beast is hard to remove,if not impossible.
Masquerading our true purpose is a treat we share with many species in the animal kingdom.
Language is actually a very primitive way of communicating, that have developed from delightful gnarls and groans,into even more gnarls and groans with added soundeffects,often using bodily members to express it in this way, or that way, and so on and so forth.
Listen when people speak,and you will hear what they had for breakfast,and dinner.Its all there,for the keen and observant eyes and ears.Its the Other language, within language.Yes.
The real truth -behind- the cover up of special effects, the untamed animal,with its natural instincts dictating its every move.This,our mask of the beast is hard to remove,if not impossible.
Masquerading our true purpose is a treat we share with many species in the animal kingdom.
søndag 17. juli 2016
History repeats itself
History is a doppelganger and a ghost that wanders restlessly back and forth through the portals of time,repeating itself like an old dusty record.
What we learn from history,is how easily we forget,and how poor our memory is.
History is allowed to repeat itself simply by our forgetfulness and ignorance of the past.
History is wholly dependant upon our loss of memory,and could not terrorize us,where it not for our focus on future plans and our disconnectedness from the very moment itself.
Reflection is the enemy of history.Who reflects upon the evils of past sins,are to be considered a fiend and a living threat to the blind ignorance that is required for history to continue haunting us.
The world in witch we live is an old ghost house of unrest and cobwebs covering our furni ture of time and space.
When awareness of the ghostly realm arises,many phenomenas will be observed and experienced firsthand.Awareness is an open door attracting its opposite,wich is the unconscious realm,and all who dwell therein.
Awareness is therefor a mystical state of mind wherein the mystic contemplates upon the obscure and delightful loss of time.Euphoria,ecstasy,these are byproducts of harnessing the lifeforce through meditation,entheogens,rythmic dancing and more dancing,later perhaps,or continued as it where.
Observe the many things that leads to unconsciousness,and the way it introduces itself before one who`s awareness is updated.Pay attention to the reaction thereof.Strange phenomenas occur,when the forces wich are supposed to be unnoticed,come under the light of a clear consciousness.
There are forces wich are wholly dependant upon our ignorance.Awareness is pure blasphemy to common stupor .Evil forces require our full unconscioussness,during our ugly operations.
Plants and drugs that raises our awareness of the invisible world of primitive forces,are also illegal. (!)
How far would the unconsciouss world of man go to destroy the world with ignorance.?
Oh they will push it. You will read the newspapers,you will hear the message,and you will know
just how far they will push it.And if you cup your ears,it will not have the desired effect.
One day you carry awareness in your mind,like a crystal clear mountain lake.
Then during sleep that night,ignorance sneaks under your covers and under your skin.
Upon not really waking the next day,you find yourself not a familiar being,but a stranger of your own skin,while forgetfulness does its thing.
Awareness is a force on its own.Shortlived,but that moment of clarity,when it arises,can be memorized,and through memory it can be summoned back,to the utter terror of common stupor and it`s drunken master.
Awareness can be likened to the flickering of the candle flame.One strong gust of wind,and there is no more awareness.
So must he who`s mind is aware be ready for the strong gust of wind.Knowing with every beat of his heart,that his bliss summons the legions of chaos and their kin.
The ecstasy of one man must duely be paid for.Glimpses of the heavens come with a price.
This world will not go easy on any man or woman who have seen the Gods and converced with them directly.
Accidents will occur with anyone who speaks of other worlds that other men have never seen.
Jealousy and hate is a force to be reckoned with.Like love,it goes far to work out its miracle.
He who experiences bliss and ecstasy must therefor practise silence.
Silence is the language that chaos can never truly understand.
It is the one place,that chaos cannot find on its map of the world.
What we learn from history,is how easily we forget,and how poor our memory is.
History is allowed to repeat itself simply by our forgetfulness and ignorance of the past.
History is wholly dependant upon our loss of memory,and could not terrorize us,where it not for our focus on future plans and our disconnectedness from the very moment itself.
Reflection is the enemy of history.Who reflects upon the evils of past sins,are to be considered a fiend and a living threat to the blind ignorance that is required for history to continue haunting us.
The world in witch we live is an old ghost house of unrest and cobwebs covering our furni ture of time and space.
When awareness of the ghostly realm arises,many phenomenas will be observed and experienced firsthand.Awareness is an open door attracting its opposite,wich is the unconscious realm,and all who dwell therein.
Awareness is therefor a mystical state of mind wherein the mystic contemplates upon the obscure and delightful loss of time.Euphoria,ecstasy,these are byproducts of harnessing the lifeforce through meditation,entheogens,rythmic dancing and more dancing,later perhaps,or continued as it where.
Observe the many things that leads to unconsciousness,and the way it introduces itself before one who`s awareness is updated.Pay attention to the reaction thereof.Strange phenomenas occur,when the forces wich are supposed to be unnoticed,come under the light of a clear consciousness.
There are forces wich are wholly dependant upon our ignorance.Awareness is pure blasphemy to common stupor .Evil forces require our full unconscioussness,during our ugly operations.
Plants and drugs that raises our awareness of the invisible world of primitive forces,are also illegal. (!)
How far would the unconsciouss world of man go to destroy the world with ignorance.?
Oh they will push it. You will read the newspapers,you will hear the message,and you will know
just how far they will push it.And if you cup your ears,it will not have the desired effect.
One day you carry awareness in your mind,like a crystal clear mountain lake.
Then during sleep that night,ignorance sneaks under your covers and under your skin.
Upon not really waking the next day,you find yourself not a familiar being,but a stranger of your own skin,while forgetfulness does its thing.
Awareness is a force on its own.Shortlived,but that moment of clarity,when it arises,can be memorized,and through memory it can be summoned back,to the utter terror of common stupor and it`s drunken master.
Awareness can be likened to the flickering of the candle flame.One strong gust of wind,and there is no more awareness.
So must he who`s mind is aware be ready for the strong gust of wind.Knowing with every beat of his heart,that his bliss summons the legions of chaos and their kin.
The ecstasy of one man must duely be paid for.Glimpses of the heavens come with a price.
This world will not go easy on any man or woman who have seen the Gods and converced with them directly.
Accidents will occur with anyone who speaks of other worlds that other men have never seen.
Jealousy and hate is a force to be reckoned with.Like love,it goes far to work out its miracle.
He who experiences bliss and ecstasy must therefor practise silence.
Silence is the language that chaos can never truly understand.
It is the one place,that chaos cannot find on its map of the world.
torsdag 7. juli 2016
sannhetens prins
Han var ein lygnar og treivst med å fortelle skrøner om seg sjølve og verda rundt seg.
Ikkje mange trudde på han sjølvsagt,men det brydde han seg mindre om,for han levde seg slik inn i fantasiane sine, at for han var dei sjølve livet.Og slik levde han,og slik døyde han.Men han sverga ved dette:At om han fant vegen attende til dei levandes verden,skulle han ta kontakt via eit spiritistisk medium,og fortsette lygnene sine frå den andre sia.
Og så.Ein varm dag i juni,sit ein eldre herre og slumrar i ettermiddagssola då kroppen hans plutseleg rykkjer til som av elektrisk straum.Augnene han vert svarte som kol,og når han opnar munnen for å seie noko,er det eine lygna etter den andre som flyg ut or han,lik flaggermus og kråker.
Ja,heile lufta vert stinn av flaksande vesen som synast å varte opp om lygna som blir servert.
"Kven er du",spør den eldre herren seg sjølve foran speilet,og kjenner at ansiktsmusklane byrjar endrar fasong.Då ser han med eit for seg,kven det er.Det er sjølvaste lygnaren.Forfalskaren av sannheten,og fordreiaren av det me kjenner som virkeligheten."In your face" seier ein stemme,og han kjenner at latteren er på vei.Ikkje ein slik latter han kjenner som sin eigen.Men han ler,og det er ein slik rå og befriande latter at han må slå seg på låret og trampe i golvet.
Frå no av skal du følgje godt med i timane,var beskjeden han fekk.Og dagane som fulgte hadde fleire vitjingar frå den andre sia.Lygna var aldri langt vekke,kjende han,og rett som det var,tok han seg i å lyge for folk som ringte til han,eller dei han traff i butikken.
Ikkje mange trudde på han sjølvsagt,men det brydde han seg mindre om,for han levde seg slik inn i fantasiane sine, at for han var dei sjølve livet.Og slik levde han,og slik døyde han.Men han sverga ved dette:At om han fant vegen attende til dei levandes verden,skulle han ta kontakt via eit spiritistisk medium,og fortsette lygnene sine frå den andre sia.
Og så.Ein varm dag i juni,sit ein eldre herre og slumrar i ettermiddagssola då kroppen hans plutseleg rykkjer til som av elektrisk straum.Augnene han vert svarte som kol,og når han opnar munnen for å seie noko,er det eine lygna etter den andre som flyg ut or han,lik flaggermus og kråker.
Ja,heile lufta vert stinn av flaksande vesen som synast å varte opp om lygna som blir servert.
"Kven er du",spør den eldre herren seg sjølve foran speilet,og kjenner at ansiktsmusklane byrjar endrar fasong.Då ser han med eit for seg,kven det er.Det er sjølvaste lygnaren.Forfalskaren av sannheten,og fordreiaren av det me kjenner som virkeligheten."In your face" seier ein stemme,og han kjenner at latteren er på vei.Ikkje ein slik latter han kjenner som sin eigen.Men han ler,og det er ein slik rå og befriande latter at han må slå seg på låret og trampe i golvet.
Frå no av skal du følgje godt med i timane,var beskjeden han fekk.Og dagane som fulgte hadde fleire vitjingar frå den andre sia.Lygna var aldri langt vekke,kjende han,og rett som det var,tok han seg i å lyge for folk som ringte til han,eller dei han traff i butikken.
tirsdag 28. juni 2016
Glemselens pris
Når det er sommar visar naturen seg på sitt aller vakraste og på sitt aller grusomste.
Sommaren er naturens eigen ekstremsport øvelse med store og små som deltakarar.
Kvar vinter gler eg meg til vår og sommar,fordi eg gløymer kor intenst og sterkt alt vert på denne tia av året,når livet er vendt attende for å leve mest mogleg så lenge det varar.
Derfor skriv eg det ner no,så kan eg lese dette om vintaren,når eg lengtar til sommaren igjen i gløymsje.
Vintaren er fred og ro i verden.folk har nok med å halde varmen.
Vintaren er sjelas tid,og det indre livets leikeplass.
Om sommaren og våren våknar mykje godt og fint opp igjen frå vintarsvevnen,men f... så mykje drit som følgjer med.
Om eg berre hugsar alt det vonde som hender kvar sommar,så vil eg kunne nyte vintaren i ro og kvile i meg sjølve.
Sommaren og våren er eit narrespel for alle sansar.Ja,også dei som eg ikkje trudde at eg hadde.
Ei fluge følgjer med på meg,og når eg slepp guarden og somnar litt,set ho seg på pannen min.
Eg viftar ho vekk.Eg somnar lett som ei fjør,men så set flua seg på pannen min,igjen.
Eg viftar ho vekk,og no er eg sint.
Eg får fred ei lang stund,og lik eit lauv i vinden,svinn eg hen i draumen,og flua set seg på pannen i same augneblink.Eg kjenner at noko ondt i meg vaknar til.
Horn kjem fram på panna no,og augnene vert raude av flammande sinne.
Og slik går dagane om sommaren.Fluga og meg.Og sola og skyene og det merkelege skiftande dimensjonen av fargar og lydar som me bur inni.
Høyr kor det knakar i veggum,nær sola kjem å går.
Høyr Mor.
Kvifor fluga set seg på pannen i same augneblink som eg somnar ?
Ho ser at eg brått vert forsvarslaus,og nyttar anledningen til å varme seg og ete daude hudceller.
Har sett det mange gonger.Har eg begge hendene opptatt,set ei flue seg på pannen min,eller på nasen.
Men aldri ellers.Så lenge hendene mine er fri er eg ein trussel mot livet rundt meg.
Men i same stund som hendene mine er opptekne,ser fluga eit forsvarslaust kjøtstykkje ho kan kose seg på.
Dei er ikkje mine favoritt insekt.Flugene.
Eg får av og til syner av sveltande born i afrika med fluger i augene og i munnen,og over heile seg.
Då er det ofte at eg vert så sint inne i meg,at mordaren kjem fram og vil slå ner på livet.
Sommaren er naturens eigen ekstremsport øvelse med store og små som deltakarar.
Kvar vinter gler eg meg til vår og sommar,fordi eg gløymer kor intenst og sterkt alt vert på denne tia av året,når livet er vendt attende for å leve mest mogleg så lenge det varar.
Derfor skriv eg det ner no,så kan eg lese dette om vintaren,når eg lengtar til sommaren igjen i gløymsje.
Vintaren er fred og ro i verden.folk har nok med å halde varmen.
Vintaren er sjelas tid,og det indre livets leikeplass.
Om sommaren og våren våknar mykje godt og fint opp igjen frå vintarsvevnen,men f... så mykje drit som følgjer med.
Om eg berre hugsar alt det vonde som hender kvar sommar,så vil eg kunne nyte vintaren i ro og kvile i meg sjølve.
Sommaren og våren er eit narrespel for alle sansar.Ja,også dei som eg ikkje trudde at eg hadde.
Ei fluge følgjer med på meg,og når eg slepp guarden og somnar litt,set ho seg på pannen min.
Eg viftar ho vekk.Eg somnar lett som ei fjør,men så set flua seg på pannen min,igjen.
Eg viftar ho vekk,og no er eg sint.
Eg får fred ei lang stund,og lik eit lauv i vinden,svinn eg hen i draumen,og flua set seg på pannen i same augneblink.Eg kjenner at noko ondt i meg vaknar til.
Horn kjem fram på panna no,og augnene vert raude av flammande sinne.
Og slik går dagane om sommaren.Fluga og meg.Og sola og skyene og det merkelege skiftande dimensjonen av fargar og lydar som me bur inni.
Høyr kor det knakar i veggum,nær sola kjem å går.
Høyr Mor.
Kvifor fluga set seg på pannen i same augneblink som eg somnar ?
Ho ser at eg brått vert forsvarslaus,og nyttar anledningen til å varme seg og ete daude hudceller.
Har sett det mange gonger.Har eg begge hendene opptatt,set ei flue seg på pannen min,eller på nasen.
Men aldri ellers.Så lenge hendene mine er fri er eg ein trussel mot livet rundt meg.
Men i same stund som hendene mine er opptekne,ser fluga eit forsvarslaust kjøtstykkje ho kan kose seg på.
Dei er ikkje mine favoritt insekt.Flugene.
Eg får av og til syner av sveltande born i afrika med fluger i augene og i munnen,og over heile seg.
Då er det ofte at eg vert så sint inne i meg,at mordaren kjem fram og vil slå ner på livet.
lørdag 25. juni 2016
Trollsommer 2016
Sola vekker trollet
trollet vekker
hanen
som vekker
høna
og hunden
til bonden
som kjefter
så
likt hunden
når den
bjeffer
at det heile
vert absurd
men slik er det no
eingong
det er jo sommar
og trolla har aldri
før hatt det så
travelt med å
mane skyene
fram
for å få ly
frå det brennande
ljoset på
himmelkvelven
trollet vekker
hanen
som vekker
høna
og hunden
til bonden
som kjefter
så
likt hunden
når den
bjeffer
at det heile
vert absurd
men slik er det no
eingong
det er jo sommar
og trolla har aldri
før hatt det så
travelt med å
mane skyene
fram
for å få ly
frå det brennande
ljoset på
himmelkvelven
søndag 12. juni 2016
A feast of fairies in celebration of the spiritworld
a feast of fairies in celebration of the spiritworld
just a glimpse
a dream like vision
teeming
with life
so
beautifully
simple
that my
complexity
dissolved
in childlike
joy
just a glimpse
a dream like vision
teeming
with life
so
beautifully
simple
that my
complexity
dissolved
in childlike
joy
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