My Japanese Follower

We are thankful that you check our blog everyday a few times. We hope, you like the writings on this blog. But I have an offer to you. Why don’t you join our community?
Force will birth from union 😉
Let’s contact us!
https://www.facebook.com/Badgersclub-595012490630433/info/
infobadgersclub@gmail.com

Advertisements
My Japanese Follower

Ballad of Owl

night-owl1
Everyone in sleep. Just like every night. My life isn’t like clubbers. It’s my turn for living during that time. Nobody can see, nobody can hear me. I always hide at corners. I am going to fly between their high buildings and stop on the roof of a tree. Little kids may afraid of my tweets but I sing the song of nights. They won’t know the joy of flying birds. Parents say “If you wouldn’t sleep, Owl will come”. I am sad for kids. They will never see in real my wings are so much beautiful. Because they can see me only at zoo or on TV.
Nightlife guys wearing masks. Richmen stealing the dreams of children. Those wines they drunken goes to canalizations.
All those prostitutes, transvestites fucking right now. For what? For to live better.Hey you! If you’re listening my ballad, respect them! They never lied for to live better.
Page will turn…

Ballad of Owl

What to follow: heart or mind?

12168781_10207531769923021_1276496910_o
Soon or later you have to think about the future, but not tomorrow’s future or even in a year, but about the future for your children, for their well-being. Now I’m at the moment when I can decide where to go, where to live, where to work and finally where to settle. And you know what? That’s a real problem! First of all, it’s not a big surprise that my possibilities are pretty modest and limited. The second, the place where I would like to work, the place where I would like to live and the place where I would like to bring up children are absolutely different places! Just there is nothing common in them! 😀

Personal potential, ambitions and career demand a well-developed big city with a lot of opportunities. For children it’s the best variant as well, because even if it’s too urbanized way to live and be raised, but they will not have a complex of small towns, they will not have a deep desire to move out. Of course, there is nothing bad in it, absolutely; they are free to choose the place, to move in search of happiness and self-realization. But it’s another story,

At the same time my soul and heart want to be in a calm place, somewhere amongst Ireland landscapes or on the Island, where are only the sun, the sea, greens and trees, and small house, of course, or maybe even not so small 😀 Yes, it’s an «idiot’s dream», I know. And moreover it’s not inherent to me, because I hate to be lazy, I constantly need to do something, especially to work, but maybe because I work too much, I want to taste this life. I don’t know. As well as I don’t know where to go and what to follow: my heart or my brain. Once, our teacher said about «kokoro», what could be translated or adapted (more or less) like «clever heart» and sometimes I envy (in a good sense) the one, who has it or who was able to achieve this condition.

What to follow: heart or mind?

A Middle Age Tale

Chapter 1

« Die for ever ? Who can say that ? » Marcel Proust

# Comptine pour un été / Yann Tiersen

Featured image

It was a dreaded and unwanted birth. In the icy morning the little girl, Ophélia, was born, the Yaegahara’s mountain was invested from a huge sorrow but Atrée, the girl’s father was most swamped. This day was the most somber because the death seized the most estimable and most liked being, the one who was the most discouraged : Sybil drowned herself in the lake of Yaegahara suite in the birth of Ophélia and in the insults of her husband. So began the life of the girl.

For eight years, the child browsed the castle without being able to see the world that surrounded her father and her grandmother Mariko were then the people who protected her and loved her most. Atrée considered her as a part of his wife and the way to redeem hiself with her because he had flooded in his sorrow : his fault and the guilt killed him little by little.

Ophélia ended up alone in this gigantic house without knowing really that to make walked in the castle as a dead shadow affected by a fragile health, an always pale complexion.
It reigned in this fortress a rather ghostly atmosphere, a dead child, a father of a sinister humor.         The life existed only by the laborious activity of the servants.

12083615_192288001108436_151235230_n

Ophélia was raised by Hana, a dynamic handmaid who gaves orders everytime. It is doubtless with her that the girl maintained most links. During these years, she met Kaede and Lucius who were both of her in family, her cousin and  her sister, but  they had no close relation, maybe because they thought it’s not a necessity, because of the cruel ignorance of the young children.

The girl didn’t understand the life of the adults who surrounded her. What after all made her suffered, she didn’t realized it, because her family loved her fervently, but unfortunately she ended up alone in her child’s life. Without knowing really the happiness, Ophélia thought of possessing it, because love which her close friends carried her was the most important for her.   Consequently, the girl felt no jealousy but only a big empty that brought her to ask many questions on her life and to question herself: was she a weight for them who loved her and who nevertheless were not present? That’s why the guilt ate away at her and that she felt useless to all those who loved her. This feeling accompanied her from now on, a thing which for ever would be with her without she can get rid of it.

A Middle Age Tale

Decayed Leaf (starring A. Camus)

tumblr_n7uj7be7AH1qa0t74o1_500
One night in Marseille, I met my friend from university. We talked about our days at university. He was a goalkeeper and I was the stopper of the football team of university. We started to argue about what’s the assignment of footballers in the pitch. He was goalkeeper, that’s why he had seen a wider area of the football pitch than me. After that delighted arguement we lit our cigarettes and walked down to the port. The autumn wind blew the orange leaves on the port. I was staring at laughing young girls. He was looking at the sea and paced on a dry leaf. He stopped through the rustle, and he asked “What’s the purpose of a leaf?”

I: In 4th grade, my teacher asked “what’s the purpose of a leaf?” at an exam.
C: What did you say?
I: Not to fall.
C: Oh my gosh! Not to fall…
I: 0 point.
C: What a shit. He gave 0 point for this answer?
I: Eeehh… I didn’t say something like photosynthesis.
C: Why does a leaf photosynthesis?
I: Again same answer. To live.
C: But how to live? There is a life and there is another life. Our kinda life. If it calls “to live”.
I: What do men live by?
C: By the code to hurt others, hurt and destroy.
I: In that case, a leaf decays on tree.
C: Although it decayed, it stays on there.
I: It’s like the heart of a human. Look! I think your heart is decayed, and stinky.
C: Merciless…
I: Loveless…
C: Unfair…
I: Bland…
C: Heartless…
I: Deficient…
C: Greedy…
I: And alone.
C: What do men live by during their life?
I: Their business is to hurt, to steal, to beat it. Thus, you can live in this world.
C: Not like this.
4b76043caa5eb7d21a445958c361fee7

Decayed Leaf (starring A. Camus)

There Are No Accidents

Featured image

Day by day you live, spend or waste your time, doing everything or doing nothing or doing something to convince everybody around, that you’re so busy. Each day turns to night, each summer turns to winter. Something makes you happy, something makes you upset, something makes you even down. Somebody betrays you and for that moment you’re thinking that your life finished, but then time passes, seasons change, and you just can’t remember why your reaction was so hard, so silly for now?

We don’t notice how any small detail can create our future, how it can change everything. With time we look back and saw all these detail, all these accidents, what led us to what we have now. And it’s getting so obvious for us, but if you begin the countdown, you would be surprised, how it happens! Probably two years ago in this day you felt so troublous, and in some days after you cried as never before, because your World, created by you and your fantasy, crushed down. Maybe the last year it was easier and you had a hope to change everything, but it didn’t happen and for that moment you again was so upset. And then you just lived, not expecting anything, went with it all, and … accidents started to work. All smiles and all tears, all hopes and all fears, all problems and all solutions, all loses and all wins weren’t accident. They created you, who you’re today. Do you like who you are, btw? 🙂

The things above are obvious, aren’t? But what’s curious, you can realize it all, but you still can’t start to notice these meaningful details or accidents in time! Yesterday or today you was and are again upset about something, for example, about refusal from get a job or about the lack of possibility to go somewhere you want right then. What’s the problem? The problem is in perception, but we all know about the theory of half glasses, about pessimism and optimism. We all know that it’s easier to see something bad than something good. Is it an accident or not? There is no receipt to be happy, you can’t be an optimist, if you used to see something wrong or if you used to see more risks than others, and you can’t stop be an optimist, if you perceive the life easier than others. So, what to do? Maybe it’s worth to prepare everything what’s going from the both sides, from all the minuses and all the pluses? Isn’t it so boring? And would not accidents stop being so attractive, when they weave something?

No one advice can change you and say how to live, and you will not change, you will stay yourself, but you will not notice, how accidents changed you 😉

There Are No Accidents

Howl

IFeatured image

For Carl Solomon

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,
who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer afternoon in desolate Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,
who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brooklyn Bridge,
a lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State out of the moon,
yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars,
whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on the pavement,
who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,
suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grindings and migraines of China under junk-withdrawal in Newark’s bleak furnished room,
who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts,
who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grandfather night,
who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telepathy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos instinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas,
who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking visionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,
who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,
who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Oklahoma on the impulse of winter midnight streetlight smalltown rain,
who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,
who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fireplace Chicago,
who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the FBI in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incomprehensible leaflets,
who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,
who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,
who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,
who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication,
who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manuscripts,
who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,
who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,
who balled in the morning in the evenings in rosegardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering their semen freely to whomever come who may,
who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond & naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,
who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,
who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a candle and fell off the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,
who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sunrise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,
who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver—joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’ rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely petticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,
who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up out of basements hung-over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemployment offices,
who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open to a room full of steam-heat and opium,
who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blur floodlight of the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,
who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,
who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,
who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,
who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates of theology,
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of gibberish,
who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,
who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,
who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads every day for the next decade,
who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccessfully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old and cried,
who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinister intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,
who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually happened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alleyways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,
who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Passaic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears and the blast of colossal steamwhistles,
who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation,
who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find out Eternity,
who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,
who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul illuminated its hair for a second,
who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,
who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,
who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hypnotism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung jury,
who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding instantaneous lobotomy,
and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psychotherapy occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,
who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,
returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible madman doom of the wards of the madtowns of the East,
Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rocking and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a nightmare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the moon,
with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at 4 A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last furnished room emptied down to the last piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of hallucination—
ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time—
and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipsis catalogue a variable measure and the vibrating plane,
who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus
to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intelligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet confessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,
the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come after death,
and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio
with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.
II
What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagination?
Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unobtainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!
Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!
Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stunned governments!
Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a cannibal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!
Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose factories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smoke-stacks and antennae crown the cities!
Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!
Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch!
Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!
Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral nations! invincible madhouses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!
They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pavements, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which exists and is everywhere about us!
Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!
Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!
Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! Despairs! Ten years’ animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!
Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!
III
Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
   where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
   where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
   where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
   where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
   where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
   where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
   in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night
Howl