Kor mykje/how møtch

Det er ikkje alt som er like morosamt.Enkelte ting er berre halvparten så morosamt,eller berre såvidt.
Men nokre gonger er ein vits like morosam som den neste,eller kanhende også meir.
Det er ikkje alt som er like trist heller.Nokre ting kan være heilt forferdeleg,mens andre ting igjen ikkje får fram tårene,men berre eit sukk eller to.
Alt kan målast og alt kan veiast.Ein har timar dagar veker og år på å finne ut av kor mykje eller kor lite som skal til,og kor longt det kan strekkjast før det heile ryk med eit smell.
Dansar eg,er rommet i bevegelse,føtene har nok med golvet,og musikken spelar av seg sjølve.
Augnene mine.Desse speila i toppen,med utsikt over nasen,og havet neanfor.
Kulene som trillar rundt i sine eigne basseng av saltvatn.Augneballane eg gnikkar å gnir i spegelen.
Eg stirrar framfor meg med mitt augekamera og  filmar den verda eg lever i.
Orda eg les,vert tekne opp på bånd,og samla i store boksar eg har på eige lager i min underbevisste verden som er eit einaste stort bibliotek, med ei lita krypdør heilt bakarst, som leiar inn i eit endå større bibliotek med glasstak,slik at ein kan sjå stjernene,sola,skyene som seglar over himmelen,og ein og anna båt.
Nei vær glad at alt ikkje er like morosamt,eller like trist.Det hadde vore veldig kjedelig i lengda,og gitt ein følelsen av å ha møtt seg sjølve i døra eller i veggen. Om ein møter seg sjølve i døra,bør ein helse og ikkje berre late som ingenting.
Det er ikkje kva dag ein møter seg sjølve i døra,men når det hender skal ein  akte seg og ikkje ferdast framåt i svime.
Observer ditt vesen,når du står der framføre deg sjølve,og test med ein variasjon av øvelsar.Veive eine armen,hev eine augnebrynet,og vri hovudet fyrst til den eine sia,og så til den andre.
Sjå om din dobbel gjer det same,for om så er,kan du berre slappe av.
Verre vil eg sei det vert,om din dobbel ikkje greier å fylgje deg,og visar teikn som ikkje stemmer overeins med dei du helst vil sjå.
Då har du med noko å gjere,som eg ikkje ennå vågar å nemne med ord.Du bør vurdere å ringje presten.Kan hende ein dokter som har sterke nervemedisinar.
(berre tullar)
Den kvelden du møter deg sjølve i døra,eller kan hende dagen,skal du ikkje være redd,men glad for at det finst andre som er så like deg,og frydast ved dette.Ikkje uroas,eller flykte frå hendinga,lik ein redd fugle unge,eller kan hende også eit ekorn.
Der ute finst din dobbeltgjengar,og ventar på dagen då du og han skal møtast i døra,og verta eins att.
Eg kan love deg ein opplevelse utanfor det du til no har opplevd.Eit lite mirakel i eit miniatyr univers og tilbake att same veg.

Mother-in-law

Words are the Mother of your mind.Their authority alone is like warm milk to the baby,and seeds for the birds of the air.
Words adress our reading skills,and makes us feel intelligent.Words are symbols which  in correct combination,produce their own truth.
Truth is a beautiful combination of syllables,like love and chokolate.Truth is worth a big place in our lives.Like love,it often puts smoke in our eyes,so we see very little what goes on around us.
Because we are simple creatures with a one track mind,we need Truth to justify our model of reality.
We say this is true,and that over there are lies.A pointing finger works like a movie projector from the old smokey Cinema.One needs a strong sense of humour to walk through life with ones head in place.The ability to break into laughter or tears,is a godgiven one,and should be honoured in its daily presence.This release valve must be oiled with our tears of both joy and sorrow.

Love is the golden ticket to the cinema of the heart where the featured film  is always a surprise event,without exception.

Words produce images in our minds, adding special effects to further enhance their "truth."

The movie of your mind needs a good actor that can be truly  himself in every part.

So go no forward into the world,and say what comes naturally,and rest in the betweens.

Practise practising,for the sake of mockery,perhaps,and old fun,but watch the watch and pay attention to:........

Be not this or that,be without direction,and enjoy the greatness of simplicity

Listen to the angel and the voice of the winged child that inspires and terrifies.

The key is not on the board,but IS the board.

Use the keyboard to unlock thy minds potential.

Know that wisdom comes and goes like the wind and the rain.

So listen to the rain and the wind,and if the sun shines,enjoy its warmth.

Are you still not at peace you say ?

Tell yourself that you are at peace and listen to the silence.

Have you bushy eyebrows,you say.Be not depressed.Oh, and have you sore knees,cry not.Instead, lift your head and move onwards.

Be both tough and yielding and  give space to yourself.

Live in your dreams and visit the grave of the ancient one.Leave rich offerings for the ghouls.


Stay in touch with reality,but don`t let it go to your head.

Leave rich offerings for the spirits that never sleep.

Don`t laugh in improper situations,restrain yourself.Build muscle,strengthen bones.

Reckognise stupidity in others for the sake of relief from your own.

Reckognise misakes in others for the sake of thine own ingenuity.

be a bastard to thyself and bark in the night until you awake from the noise.

Stay on your toes,then fall back on heels,then repeat.Leave rich offerings,bread and bubbly drink,by the toomb of thy ignorance,and embrace that wich befalls thy fancy,that wich inspires and intoxicates thy soul.Embrace it.and expand inwards.

Don`t listen to drunken gibberish,lest thou become one with the drunkard and his foolish drink.

Make love to language,like a lover to its beloved,and rest in the softness of heavenly abodes.

Banish the old lies from their haunted mansions,and bring sunlight into darkened corners.

Know that the soul is a treasure,like gold,and many are in want.

Be a vessel for the ghost and roll eyes in head.

Be a friend of bees.

Dance lightly across  the floor,celebrate the flatness with every limb.

Adress the earth with your wholesomeness,and be like the wind to the pollen and the seeds.

Question the absurdity of any writer,and see beyond the obvious lies.

The word of God vibrated from his very soul,and then his eyes rolled in his head.

The ouija board is an ancient keyboard used to communicate with others both living and the not so dead.

His soul was torn from his body,like a fish from the water by an eagles claw,and then he beheld the greatness of the lord of life,and the lord of death.

Then there was a great silence,corrupted only by a distant radio that played old classics.

She laughed in his dreams.

He laughed in her dreams.

Laughter came and went,visiting others,before it returned through the old rusty vent.


Like a child with a ball in play with the universe.

roll eyes in head,roll eyes in hands,eyes forward and backward.

eyes that look within eyes,beyond the seen,beyond,beyond.

beyond lives wholesomeness,in all its simplicity.

embrace the beyond.fall backwards into the deepest of your dreams,and vanish from the sight of land.

because,you see,Alan Watts is there.And he is not just there,but everywhere.But always as himself.

Eyes again.Remember  eyes.Rolls like balls in a bowl,parallel worlds,acoustic- mystic -optical visions.Hypnosis,trance,and and and.

Be careful with your words,but care less for their claims and their obvious flattery in mind.




Guard thyself o man,from thyself,and pay attention to the reaction.

Be attentive in all ways,and reveal the unrevealed as thou traverses the plains of secrecy.

listen to your own uttered words,derive therefrom the wisdom to your own happiness and also the pain.

Be  an  oracle of thyself o man,and discover the hidden,the occult knowledge that softly lights the inner temple of yours truly.

Reckognise that no man knows another,nor does any man know himself,and all that man say,are but excrements of  himself and none other but himself whom he knows,but scarcely.

Listen therefor not so much to what man speaks of,but rather observe his obsession with words.


Walk in silence,but sing if you must.Restrain yourself,but not always.Give yourself some space.
Loosen up,for Christ sake,and For the sake of the holy saints.Be ye a receiver and a vessel for the holy ghost.Amen.

Let no man come between thee and thy sword wich is thy pen.


Keep thy pen to thyself,( o` man ) but share what may come on unbleached paper or wood,or etched even, into fine and rare  metals.

Rest in simplicity,but do keep an eye in the triangle.The one eye that never closes,always watching your every move,from here on and  into eternity.

Listen not to men and their slander,but tune into your own mind,and listen to what you hear in there.


People love to talk of changes and transformation,but really changing is just for the heros in their dreams.

I know because i am one of these people of wich i speak so arrogantly.

I am that of wich i speak,and all who speak are of what they speak,and so we continue forward into the world with this in mind.Conscious of our own utterings and the power of the words that we spew from our fontanelles  of truth.

Joyful

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.

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.

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.





 

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.

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.