OFF THE LIMOUSINE 23
... NJ/NYC ... IKE~ING.
DAY13
It wasn’t a typical hardcore day. Apart from everything else, and it’s not even that you feel the SCALE in every inch of your body and soul, you feel the WEIGHT (of), everything you have to put on it. Especially your things, your own felt, perceived injustice. TO FEEL OR NOT TO FEEL IT PERSONAL. THAT IS THE Q. Communion or cutting. There are only 27 letters in mix with varietes, which one. It stopped being complicated a long time ago. The size of the scale / area / pain is changing. The ever-growing unimaginable dragon, like a Trojan horse to itself. To ride it. And BURN.
When it’s going to rain heavily, you have to check the ark first. I booked a hotel in Newark. It was quite far away, near some park and airport, if that would matter. I thought I’d take a bus, as I hadn’t ridden it before. I got on, and after a while it turned out that the black woman not too tall but broad with long brown curls behind the wheel was very talkative. So she started with: “It’s all chaos there on the jungle streets. And I’m here to deal with it, help me God” What to say. Not everybody, has got this kinda…LUCK, I guess. And then she started telling me how she recognizes crazy people who want to jump in front of a car or force their way into traffic. Because she has to get everyone there on time, and nothing else matters to her.
Walking uphill with my suitcase along a road with potholed sidewalks, and despite previous story, I decided to take the risky but more comfortable street, I saw something shiny without dragon guarding it. Not a soul in sight, just two ordinary wheels with two elements/tools. Kinda worthless, but not symbolically. Someone must have thrown it away in anger, because it’s impossible that it fell out of someone’s hand on its own. Cheap church fair decor. But… A heart is a Heart.
The heat didn’t help. I finally approach a house and there’s total chaos. Workers are destroying everything they can get their hands on. I happened to come across the destruction of stairs. Ferocity comparable to the destruction in Gaza. And lo and behold, an old Jewish man comes out wearing a white shirt and black pants and asks what’s going on. So I explained, and he said that as far as he can see, it must be some kind of mistake. I said, how the … is that possible, since it’s a verified, well-known shitty booking.com paid reservation. After a few minutes of my questioning, for example: “Surely someone must have come here”, he said, “Yes, there was one, some time ago.” I said, “Why didn’t you say so right away, instead of wandering around like a Jew in an empty store?” So he started waving his arms and muttering something about what he had to do with it, etc. He took out his phone and went to his expensive car on the street. After a moment, I approached him again and saw the name “Kingsley” on his phone, so I asked, “Are you calling the owner? The previous owner? The hotel owner?” He looked at me. I looked back at him. And he said ‘He can’t answer the phone.’ I ask him again: “Why has he been twisting from the beginning like shit in ice hole?” Silence. He looks at me. So I ask again, “Why have you been ignoring, deceiving me from the start and wasting my time and no so good mood?” Then he starts putting on a sad face. F_King hell, you rich asshole demolition f_king expert. Cursed luck back. I left him because I couldn’t stand looking at his cheap sadbitch trick anymore and went back to the main street to look for some coffee.
I found a pastry shop the size of a tennis court. With one table and one chair inside. Like something out of an over-aestheticized “Paris Texas”. Two young twin black salesmen. Everything here resembles eschatological post-Indian deser(T)ved mythology, like one ‘endless’ “Desolation Row”. Transplanted meta/extra/super~physical hyperbole from other continents. All in all… FAIR ENOUGH, ISN”T IT? I received an email with apologies/stupid explanations about the change of hotel address. Cheap infantile tiring scheme. Walking in the heat, I felt thirsty. I went into a mix shop-club-billiard hall and saw a can of mango out of the corner of my eye. When I left and drank the whole half-liter, it turned out to be alcohol. In a moment, the thirst will become Draculian. Well, The Good Samaritan cannot be tired, changed his face, dressed again and change the show… What To Say… Eschato Mango Bill Must Go On.
ROYAL WHITE
ROYAL BLUE
noThe madmen began to leave their homes as if on cue. As if something kept interrupting the somnambulistic trance, the murmurings’ stream. The best Q IS what energy transformation (promise) brought them about and why. Why did the apogee burst forth as if from under the ground; or purgatory. Who would like to interpret this? Especially in relation to previous days and the jour/ney arrangement / engagement in the so-called circle / ring. To rule them all, quoting the classic. I once in another circle / open house had an opponent named Alex, whom they called the prince of darkness, looked like typical Hellywood stereotype Judas with bad/wild eyes. But he was losing, especially when he provoked loudly, testing, huh. He really wanted to become a director, smoked a lot of weed, and made a short film about kinda schizophrenian third level of depth, how to say it… a triple betrayal of oneself by a betraying unstable/uncontrolled consciousness, in which no one, except other screenwriter and me, understood. But since he was high up in the synagogue, they showed it on Canal+/Ale Kino. Terrible energy without a chance to transform especially for madmen. If anyone had any uncontrollable initial Freudian or Jungian affectations, they should not have watched this film. So… something had to changed because at some point he started to make African wood furnitures. Interesting, isn’t it. What it could be, where the verdict was from exactly and obviously why, oh why. Because the next default steps not for the chosen ONE could be completely irreversible without help. Maybe they did; at some point, I stopped paying interest to him.
Propaganda, with its programmed, often subliminal elements, is like a three-edged sword or… stick with three ends, if you prefer… You never know who will use it in a twisted, distorted, or literal sense.
DAY14
When I got there, I slept like a dead, which was only natural given what I had been through over the last two weeks. I caught the first available return flight via Paris. And I doń’t remember what I was watching in a plane. Non-existence state of mind. Not too much thoughts to deal with. And rightfully so. There is a time for using the accumulator and a time for charging it. The rectifier should work without being disturbed by anyone. Well, is there any better place for it than the SKY.
TAKE YOUR PIC(K/S)
HOW WOULD YOU NAME WHAT IS NEXT
It’s so significant on which Day you want to create / build / do what. Against the (pretended) intentions, the hell is built by, the (Just) Day measures you and allows you to propose / act / achieve whatever you are allowed to. The knowledge of 14 Days’ properties is eschatological, par excellence and cannot be replaced by anything else. Depends on your properties how much NUCLEAR you can read it. Sucha Day Power Of 24 Hours, you can say, and 60 minutes… Both in Pythagorean and Christ’s logic. Everything else seems so repeatable. At some righteous point maybe you can even realize that the CHAOS doesn’t exist. Who knows…
It’s also not a mystery that world is build by Patterns consisting of Numbers. It’s just a matter of accommodation. Who wants to see the world through a magnifying glass all the time, or from a great distance? Or without a color, biggest possible palette, with the name of/for every nuance. But the most interesting thing is that you can see the world through someone else’s eyes at the same time. This obviously creates an enormous opportunity to build metaphysical structures from/of ‘human’ tissue. Who knows maybe you can even build a specific (un)finished Library or (in)finite Dream City. Chosen optics, personalities and souls. Who knows…
CROSSES' MOUNTAIN AND HOLY WATER
It is a remarkable mystery that during the Way of the Cross, Christ allowed a stranger, Veronica, at the sixth stop / station to touch his face, to wipe away the sweat and blood. To feel any human heart. To touch someone’s face is to remember it with your hands/fingers. It’s almost like taking a personal picture of that face. A black priest led blind white twins to the sanctuary. Every cross – someone’s hope. Try To Imagine Divine Heart. And… what did you do for/to Him. It’s very simple Q, isn’t it.
CZARNA BIAŁOSTOCKA, ZALEW
(BLACK WHITE~STREAMY, LAKE)
MEDIUM is ruthless. ART is selective, demanding, and cruel. There are 12 people on stage; you look at one. Just one. Simple. STYLE issaw important. It is the precursor to TALENT, and neither can be faked. No matter how many you want to counterfeit, steal their texts/punchlines etc. Either you enjoy listening to or watching someone, or you don’t. And obviously you won’t find IT in books or no matter how popular, fancy, shmancy study. Or you have IT or have not. That is the difference between innervation~sensitivity, and neurosis/hysteria. The same in LIVE STUDIO / SPACE etc. Arrogance or silly/showOff (bitchy/asshole) rudeness cannot obviously replace it either, just as lies with specific stage/plan timing, sooner or later brings boredom and disappointment. Generally in media industry there is simple explanation/factor as a giving summarizing clue for a performer: “YOU ARE LYING.” Simple as that, yet so powerful RADIATING judgement. In fact, the Shakespearean Hamletian Mirror applies to everything. The quickest way to notice is whether someone listens to the other person / performer or selfishly builds themselves up. It can’t be trained, it’s a matter of personality, honesty, good taste, credibility and doesn’t matter what type of media it’s gardening. IT IS always organic good energy~bad artificial / toxic / parasite usage. NOT FAIR, ISN”T IT. Audience immediately feels IT, especially when dishonest, disgraced propagandist loudly pretends objectiveness. And the weak personality / complexes’ vultures choir echoes. What are the criteria? Complacency? Close flatterers circle? Mocking those who disagree with you, mocking helpless Palestinian people / women, imagining in public / front of others, brutal raping sex / cheering to their humiliation?! What exactly sucha boy dreamer would like to do in media? When regularly used to come up widely with false reinterpretations, plus insults ad hominem, screamingly not listening others, repeating the same inadequate, with more and more raising voice half-argument like a broken boring record, appreciating flatterers with ganging up on one person. Isn’t it just simply another version of ZIONISM? THE NEW ROYAL SEXY?! What could it be worse? Being bad journalist, bad performer, bad marketer/politician, delusional sort of bad gatekeeper / kinglicker, or potentially bad Everything Else. ZIONISTIC argue for the relativism in favor of business profits. Is this really the STRENGTH? Perhaps you should suffer like PALESTINIAN WOMAN losing all her kids, WHY NOT. Or your family IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES! And with your every disgusting lapdog cheering around. NO WAY that sane / sober, regular director / creator will voluntarily risk / work with sucha obvious POS. What’s the POINT of it, with shameless primitives! It’s not a puzzle that has already been solved dozens of times. It’s the matter of choice / style / the simplest issue of upbringing, being A MAN, a basic human being, at least. Narcissistic Fame Hungry Retarded SERPENT.
When I first saw it in December 2000 in Warsaw ‘Cinema Iluzjon” (IllusionN), it hit me like a TimeBomb. I found a prophet/friend in Federico Fellini. There is no other film so dense, lyrical, philosophical, industry-specific, non-obvious and at the same time prophetic. The Eschato Bride is played by Claudia Cardinale, my father’s favorite actress from his late youth. The strong eye light acting power, independence in charm, light/unpressed smile, feminine figure, wise sensitivity, and nice voice; all not intrusive. Rare if together. It’s also paradox of the rebuild / the resurrection, par excellence, (of) the quality / sense / levels of final Christ~logical saw-cold modern sufferings / depression / no hope~catastrophe state of mind in/by/of “Otto E Mezzo” (Eight And Half). Because the alleged sequel, but actually a knockoff / pretty ugly copy of this film, “Nine,” as a ‘improved’ “continuing” (post)reality, showed how primitive, short-sighted, shallow and narcissistic American (Hellywood) thinking is. Bad copy builds the original~twice, at least, and… the first time Daniel Day-Lewis couldn’t rescue the movie. FAIR IS NOT DEAD.
Being / resting in this place, I remembered a conversation with Kasia, an employee of the dry cleaner’s in the Białystok (WhiteStream) suburb hypermarket, when I was dropping off my jackets to be cleaned before the jour/ney. She told me how she was disappointed on emigration, with many differences, and so on, but most important how the city internal/national policy incites hatred between different skin colors and eventually… found her fiancé there, and backed from London. I asked her “How much different nationality / culture he was”, and she said, “No, he’s from here, from this very lakeside town.”
8.11.25
