our school motto is Faites vos desirs realitie. make your desires reality. i, myself, prefer the song "don`t dream it, be it"... in those days, desires weren`t allowed to become reality. so fantasy was substituted for them--films, books, pictures. they called it 'art'. but when your desires become reality, you don`t need fantasy any longer, or art.






if he should find her, where else would there be to go but back into half-consciousness? he tried not to think, therefore, about any end to the search. approach and avoid.






It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene surrounding me. The little wood opposite -- how delightful to sit under its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then, that delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet! Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A dim vastness is spread before our souls: the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have attained our object, when the distant there becomes the present here, all is changed: we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls still languish for unattainable happiness. So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness which he had sought in vain through the wide world.






i understand, all right. the hopeless dream of being--not seeming, but being. at every waking moment, alert. the gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. the vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. suicide? no, too vulgar. but you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don`t have to lie. you can shut yourself in. then you needn`t play any parts or make wrong gestures. or so you thought. but reality is diabolical. your hiding place isn't watertight. life trickles in from the outside, and you`re forced to react. no one asks if it is true or false, if you`re genuine or just a sham. such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. i understand why you don`t speak, why you don`t move, why you`ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. i understand. i admire. you should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. then you can leave it, just as you've left your other parts one by one.






"'...By far the worst is the hamburger lady, and because of shortage right now of "qualified technicians", e.g. technicians who can work with her and keep their last meal down, Screwloose Lauritzen and I have been alternating nights with her, unbelievedly. If you put a 250-lb meatloaf in the oven and then burned it and then followed that by propping it up on a potty-chair to greet you at 11pm each night, you would have some description of these past two weeks. Which is to say the worst I've seen since the viet napalms. When somebody tells you that there is a level of pain beyond which the human mind cannot retain consciousness, please tell them to write to me. In point of fact this lady has not slept more than 3-5 minutes at a stretch since she came to us - that was over two weeks ago and, thanks to medical advances, there is no end in sight; from the waist (waste?) up everything is burned off, ears, nose, etc - lower half is untouched and that, I guess, is what keeps her alive. I took one guy in to help me change tubes and he did alright, that is alright till he came out, then he spotted one of the burn nurses (pleasant smiling zombies) eating a can of chile-mac at the desk, and that did it: he flashed on the carpet. It is fucking insane is what it is.'






beauty has no origin, but the hurt, unique, different for each of us, hidden or visible, that everyone keeps inside himself, which he preserves, and where he retreats when he wants to leave the world behind for temporary but profound solitude.






his task was to discover his own destiny--not an arbitrary one--and live it out wholly and resolutely within himself. everything else was only a would-be existence, an attempt at evasion, a flight back to the ideals of the masses, comformity and fear of one`s own inwardness.






who am i? how did i come into the world? why was i not consulted? if i am compelled to take a part in it, where is the director? if there is no director, where shall i take my complaint? am i guilty or not?






"why are they here?" thought mathieu. "and why am i here anyway?" their destiny had vanished, time had resumed its haphazard, aimless course: the train, from mere habit, rumbled on; the road drifting along beside the train now led nowhere, it was merely a strip of tarred earth. the airplanes had vanished; the war had vanished. a pale sky in which peace was gently awakening as evening fell, a torpid countryside, men playing cards or sleeping, a broken bottle in the corridor, cigarette butts in a pool of wine, a stench of urine--an aftermath now meaningless. "the day after a party," thought mathieu, feeling rather sick at heart.






Don't believe in yourself / Don't deceive with belief / Knowledge comes with death's release / I'm not a prophet / or a stone age man / Just a mortal with the potential of a superman / I'm living on / I'm tethered to the logic of Homo Sapien / Can't take my eyes from the great salvation Of bullshit faith






Meine Hände, meine Arme, meine Beine, mein Körper und ich das Unveränderliche, Unzerstörbare, Selbst, Ich . Der Mittelpunkt, der Zellkern der gesamten menschlichen Zellkultur. Bin ich, ist Ich in jeder Zelle? Wohl kaum ist „Ich“ die Summe des genetischen Materials, als wäre die Musik im Schaltplan des Radios. Gibt es Überflüssiges, Festgewordenes, das sich abstreifen lässt, das sich abwerfen lässt wie Ballast, Sandsäcke aus einem Freiballon? Schicht für Schicht: Epidermis, Mesenchym und Lederhaut. Fasern, Muskeln, Sehnen, Fleisch, Kapillare, Venen, Adern, Fettgewebe, Nervenbahnen, Knochen, Mark, Gebein. Und wo oder was ist übrig? Das „Ich“ behauptet, solange eine Zunge, eine fuchtelnde Hand: „Ich“ behaupten kann? Das wenn möglich auch noch kopflos behauptet. (Wie Cephalophoren, mit einem Hieb, einen Kopf kürzer) Redukt! Das was passiert in der Liebe, die Entgrenzung, das Ausufern oder die Betäubung, bis zu einem Punkt, dem Punkt wo nur noch „etwas“ übrigbleibt. Die taube Nuss (die sich nicht entwickelt hat), überhaupt: Entwicklung, als wäre etwas aufgewickelt, Ariadnes Faden, der zur vollen Länge ausgestreckt, verbraucht werden müsste. Immer an der Wand lang, ist todsicher, der Weg aus dem Garten, dem Irrgarten. Ich irre zum Zeitvertreib, als würde sich sonst die Zeit auf mich stürzen, wie ein aasfressendes Tier. Redukt! Lassen wir das Ganze einköcheln! Redukt! Wir schauen in den Strom der schon Verstorbenen, die den Zeitfluss heruntertreiben, durchs Delta , zur Mündung, ins offene kosmische Meer. Kommen da noch welche? Haben die Leichen irgendwas zu sagen? Ausser: Seht! Skandal! Wir sind die, die ihr erst sein werdet! Wir sind da! Ihr nicht! But death stays hated to all of human nature it tears down hope almost to the ground Redukt! Das Fundament steht an der falschen Stelle, man hätte dieses Haus in den Himmel setzen sollen, damit die Götter sterben, regelmässig und in zeitlich klassischen Proportionen. Der Goldene Schnitt durch die Kehle eines verehrbaren Himmelskörpers, der daraufhin sein göttliches Blut in kurzen Stössen in den himmlischen Sommermorgen, weil es immer Sommer ist, verschiesst, bis man/frau, ich eingeschlossen sagen kann: Endlich, unendlich, in Ruhe gelassen, aber beweglich, frei zu lärmen, ohne Schuld! Redukt!






people through finding something beautiful
think something else unbeautiful,
through finding one man fit
judge another unfit.
life and death, though stemming from each other,
seem to conflict as stages of change,
difficult and easy as phases of achievement,
long and short as measures of contrast,
high and low as degrees of relation;
but, since the varying of tones gives music to a voice
and what is is the was of what shall be,
the sanest man
sets up no deed,
lays down no law,
takes everything that happens as it comes,
as something to animate, not to appropriate,
to earn, not to own,
to accept naturally without self-importance:
if you never assume importance
you never lose it.