To Be or To Come

She shifts advertising campaigns as I change my underwear.    

The marketing of one’s happiness as a lure for Clients? Are we the targets for sad strategies. There is no cure for this! 

”Dear Lord Jesus, I beg you, forgive my sins. 
You know I live on sin
And I will sin every night 
As long as someone will have me. 
You know I’m going to ask for forgiveness 
Every night or morning 
As long as you give me health to live on my sins. 
You know I have someone to live for
I'll die when you order me to do so. 
You know you’re the only true love. Amen.” 

Every morning, when I should go on my shift, Lola Major would hold her hands and recited her prayer to my wooden crucifix. I learned much about love from Lola. I have learned to pick up others shit!  

I'll end The Book now. It wasn't me who wrote it anyway. Here are just quotes and parapsychology. Everything is composed of the words somebody invented long before I could even speak.  

Am I really here, what exactly belongs to me? By all means. Am I allowed to sleep here? 

Over my bed is a bookcase, each time I fall asleep characters from the books shows up in my dreams.  

Once upon a time, Your Dark Side came to me and said it rather be some insect. Son of The King That Chase a Blues Away been waiting outside a my door waiving through the looking glass made of the pumpkin' skin. All Amused about notes I was writing. Crazy. 

Public around me still have a lot of waltzes to dance away. It is important to have soul life in order. You may begin to read for real now! 

Snake (also known as a serpent) is a computer game where you must control continuous line horizontally and vertically within a limited area, in search for food. The food it eats causes the snake to grow as you get more points. The challenge is to avoid collision with his own tail, the walls and obstacles. As the snake grows it becomes harder to turn it around itself and eventually that becomes impossible, snake explodes. Game over. 

Player who manages to get the most points wins. Hint: there is no hint but - music Listener must be as free as the composer. 

I would really like to travel back in time and leave nothing to damn imagination.  

Put a new earth above me. The genesis of frozen code, warm me, repeat patterns, this is a life, a home, love, etc.    

I forgot that I’m selfish on daily basis. Wise and careful at nights. I dress up before going to bed. Am anxious if naked. I'm messed up. 

Everyone else is like made of steel. Everyone is asking about my heritage, my real heritage.

Asian South-Europian with African roots, basically American from the outspreads of Alps, born in the middle of super powerful Triangle of the mountain rivers. All of the towns in my homeland are the capitals. Central bases on the edges. Dating services, actually. 

"You see that masterpiece? The windmill looks a lot like you.  ...  You rattle to my restless ear, can you get me out of here?  This place smells like piss and beer, can you get me out?” 

The Big Thief may have said that to The Fool. Well, that's about something else, but it fits here perfectly. It's time for forgiveness. 

I forgot my slaves and all late Baroque, silk and the gold. I forgot beautiful angels painted by Botticelli. I forgot  Bismarck and Napoleon and many more of the heroes. But I lived long after I died. Everybody should get rid of fear of living. Thank God for Protestantism.  

Thanks God for anything! For The Pressure Gain Co; for any dialogue. Mobile devices, as we expected, call for more turbulent words and thoughts. My Manufacturer God stamped on my forehead: ”No more #!”.    

And everything went quiet as in the grave!__________ BUT: 

   
Giuseppe Energy Drink streamed trough me and pushed my kidney stone out. I end up free. 

Grateful and dead.

In heaven it is always Spring. Hot soup served! We bath in warm goat milk, The World is forgotten, the streets are made of honey, gondolas made of fresh air carriers One to each Other. God sings to us! We are of the same father, different mothers. We love everything too. It would be foolish to say that this is a disaster. We’re just homeless ghosts, no body, no soul, no deal, real bourgeoisie. We have created Art in The Black Holes. We sell to the elite just to make them happy. We have forgotten our knowledge to the benefit of Ten Small Businesses, we don't appreciate The Ambitious anymore.    

The bullet that killed us we didn't hear at all. The end is hardly an embarrassing experience. 

Someone got that wrong.    

As I sang. 

Evidence of all shit that keeps you away from everything

Look at this half-burned  telegraph.

Simple note about time and death, of past millennia, animal tracks and animal cries, anxiety, and the resurrection of life. I person and You are alone with our father. We are the twins, many twins. We are the forces behind the action. Read off or write something else.

My intention is to hear and to be heard. To mark and to be marked by words and statments: We could grow into each other comopst, spire all availeble attitudes and behavior… with some creativity of the odd.

Cheers! A COUPLE OF HUNDRED OF TIMES.

This is a sport called Trick or Trick. I see empty, never used house by the lake, wide open for good words about efficiency, social criticism, romance, revanchism, revisionism ... law, crime, rabelion and even solutions. Or what? Say something about Common man on hunt. A Popular writter. A pop artist. A villian. Say a lie. Be more creative than me. Under your clothes is  someone who can. The walls are all around Jericho, not around me or you! Take a tour, make more coffee, give up in smoke.

Set fire! Or I will escape with another reader! I will gi to read books in some other Circus. I will stock images for collectors and stop careing about your state of mind. A good life we could have as we turn the pages. Everything could sing just our song. I can deliver arms that shoots tears. I want you in my guerrilla. In the coorporation too! Write about the war over Suez in 1972! Describe a typical man from Gaza in everyday so different then yesterday and tomorrow. Make a little food for breakfast, be aware of mobilization and the your first flat TV. Take care of your daughters and sons. Describe the salt from the Middle See. Find a small and sweet fable. Write on. It is not easy. You and all of the consumers must take the hard way now. 

You are making me feel as a prisoners of war as you close this book. I need a salary so I can pay my agent and make more soap for the rich and

wash the clean streets with the fresh watter, clean more of the clean, sett up a scene, free the word for the people who clicks on everything.

Whisper us a lifetime. Writers are born slaves and hate freedom infact. Superior People are amazing and have taught me much and have earned my part. They will not shoot an Angel from behind? Maybe? As in a movie?

I like ti write about the movies I've seen. I am happy for people who sit in the same room with me. It's very nice to silently sit in the company of many strangers. We could as well do that without the movie. Movies are the best written, I think as I drive homebound. 

… but what if the stranger next to you is some sort of Kamikaze? 

We should hide away at Malta. Where nobody expects it. We should be lovers. We could live in the big big house not generally available on the rent market. Maybe to make us the guests at Corto Malteses Castle?

We are in the Panavision now! We are many and everything is sold out. Cartoon Heroes and all that importance. Heros who clime the mountings, fly the space, digg the ground, sail a sea, save evryone, kiss someone spacial. Sometimes thay give a really good punch line stright into our hearts and minds.

Corto Maltese could be played by Al Pachino. Let me sell tickets meanwhile and try to describe the mood at the Gala now. Want a job? Mega Sales, Online Sales, pyramid games. Will you be Pharaoh, or statists, children of the sun, the tourists? Money? No money. Money grows on the trees. Generaly.

The audience identifies itself. 

It is not possible to describe the face of Kamikaze played by Shon Penn. So good he acts. HE\s like unihorn unseen. At som point in the movie he may say:

"... I could be a rich until Monday, if not cultural interest had led me on and on. I used all of my ability resources to restore The Palace ... And The Palace ... oh, if only all this is real." 

Anyway. He speaks to Nicole Kidman who plays The Wife who talks ingenious digital-tounge. In the background is the sea, lots of water and smoke from Corto Malteses cigarette. It is not possible to write in such perspective. It is not possible to be a bird. We can only deceive or be deceived by so many words about something so simple as eagle flight. 

Listen now, to the Millennium's artist having a short short Oscar speech: don't Eat! 

New rule is - you all must be hungry to read well. We, the writers are rich and satisfied today. Don Quihote won his battle after all, Odissey found his way home and his wife writes Cooking Books now, carpets are sold out long time ago. Thank you Academy for letting me to place  products of the biten apples in my speach. 

P.S.

Meis and rabbit bones and lots of olive oil, onions, fresh herb leaves, rosemary, basil and so, boiled together for hours, served with cold yogurt-mustard souce. Read that out loud for the glory of the Penelope! The soup for the heroes in close up. 

P.P.S.

Listen to Billie Holyday. Google Her. For the most of her time she lived in the tour bus somewhere in America, together with some musicians. She gave them a lot of work. The singing woman must have  lot of men in service, money, an attitude, good companies and some kissies. Alcohol is necessary too, as the glue. God damn stereotype. 

Oh, Let's be ethical Humans!
We may as well agree on a LOVE prohibision. A total one. There are children to be made, not the State Council mebers.

Do not kiss anyone before you can provide your future kids a low interest rates and food, as green and cheep posibble!

Tja, I would rather read more about sympathy and devotion, some worship or observance, but times are too hard for that. Ignorace can't make us kind and gantle. 

From The End, With Love

Farewell, I’m leaving you now! I’m going on a tripp! Backpacking to anywhere. The station is huge. Public space is used to provide comfort, safety and information about all journeys possible. Information about everything really, advertisements etc. Interactive displays are everywhere. Such  a night.

Lady Kiosk: ”Need a book, now? Special offer, two for the price of one? Last year turn-pagers, crime and love etc.” 

OH, people can write about Love so well. The world has hands filled with Love. People get to borrow cups of sugar from neighbors in the name of Love. Love colors my past and flags along the ways I’m going to go by in the future. My Love is laughing like a flower and has red hair! It never comes to me but I have seen her shadow dancing on the walls. Love is bashful as a girl on her first high-heeled shoes. Some books claim meeting  Love makes us unable to walk the streets normally. Some books mention Love in every sentence, sometimes twice. Tjay write Love with capital letter too.

Really, I have nothing against valentines and tangos while we're waiting for Love but my book is likely about something else. Maybe it’s about battlefields and fortresses, cavalry, aviation and participation in the progression, or the book about ability to refuse flyers from some manic street preacher. Possibly, this is a story about a full price for an unimaginable drama of the big hat, of some sombrero. Why let Love star everything? This could be a book about hunting the people, about wildlife, maybe about next life too, angels, demons, ah, about my struggle… about stone throwing and dogmas, revolt, nerves and eternal peace, my ass. About a greater Germany, Huge Russia, Gods America, Soviet Asia, Mighty Angola, Fiat Italy, Custom Palestine ... each country should be a better country again, or what?!

I’m kidding. I will not write about what I could write about. What man can write about anyway? What critics and publishing executives like to read the most? What ordinary man on the street asks himself frequently? Well, exactly. I am constrained to resort to cliches and will explain everything about everything in a good time. 

If a poet is saying he has a hundred voices and a hundred fold consciousness, that he sings a hundred songs from a hundred of his throats, that he thunders as he shouts, that Goddess of freedom has not yet crucified him, that no sad news has hit him and it never will...  then maybe he's just crazy. Rest of us don't need all that. One for nothing, whatever for all!

But most important first, I actually account for en Linda, a large and strange flower no one has seen yet. My next book will be more common, calculated to target audiences, with market research, the best solutions will be conducted in collaboration with all interested publishers and everything will be tested upon test groups long before I start with writing. Art is a product after all and it should be treated accordingly. You can try to sell cakes made from cowshit to reach some crazy point, and someone should try to sell it, for sure. There's lots of shit on the market. But I am not so sure it is wise to promote shit as it is an electric bike. Who knows, I have to do a blind shot until I get the experience. Maybe this is the great novel about walking into the innermost, about a move without a trace, about someone who never crossed any boundaries, about a unicorn who doesn't believe in his own magic hr sees in his mirror image? Irony might not sell that much. Feminists say irony is an expression of sad man's impotence, both physically and mentally. True, I agree. No to irony! Sad man must give up now, or I'll name a book titled “How to Avoid the Partner? And why not?".

I could write about my hometown, parents, my wife's and our kids. I live in Oslo and Oslo has no hair. It's a bold town. I just don't see any hair, it's not like San Francisco, it's not a planet in some universe far far away, to say so. Take boldness that as a metaphor for efficiency. In polar circle we need to wear a hats, so why bother with hair. That's it. Or should this be a travel book with a funny title? Title is always some hook or a simple joyful and creative free expression. "Bold City" 

This Book may be of inconceivable bestiality written in the new language. Goalian! Goalian stands for figurative abstractions,  its goals to fascinate and challenge a imagination. If there has to be some action in this fabel, it should start in the war. Everyone asks me about the war I fled from anyway. Almost everyone talks about some kind of war,  before and now. Millions are on the run from war all the time, literally and metaphorically, on multiple levels. Migration is a huge industry.

Do you think you are at home or in some kind of quarantine? War itself is not an industry, no, it is just the consequence of a particular industrial escape, basically. All yesterday's parties I've been to were warlike as well. There is war over the last beer, the music, the hashish, cocaine, war about free ladies and gentlemen, about my ass, about when should I go home? I can't write without writing about a war. I don't want to be a stranger to the common culture. Maybe it's best to have a good timeline ready for the novel and forget about my individual unfolding, linguistic problems, semantic acrobatics and all holism? I will be more specific about inner life in my third book. Now I have to get to chapter No.2 first. Ok?

Classic Transition

We are in the Second World War. For exp. in Brittany, spring 1940. Everything must be put in a historical perspective. The Germans are marching in! I'm a fisherman's son. Dad is out on the sea. His boat is sunk by the black-market pirates, or maybe by submarines, the same. By gunpowder for sure. I was not involved in any fight but I lost a lot. The next morning, the girls came to play anyway. They told me not to worry about the war. Nicole was one of them. The prettiest. We found love. I used to read books  written by Hemingway for her.

"Only idiots die for America". She laughs meaningfully!

"Do you think they're going to bomb us tomorrow?"

"Are you familiar with any Resistance people?"

"Do you have a passport? GOLD?"

"Do you know any Nazis?"

“No, but I know a Jewish refugee from Poland. They're killing them there ... "

"I have a boat... We could escape to Ireland ourselves."

"Your Dad would say no to that, he was half German."

"But Mum is a Caucasian gypsy!"

"Nobody is going to kill us, look at the peace out there, not a single shadow is in the sky, no wind, this is the West, Atlantic Ocean, and if Churchill loses the election in Britain it's over, nobody likes conservative racists over there!"

"It's dangerous to help a refugee!"

“It's Mum who does it, she and her friend from Paris who work in the Ministries are saving the children at large. They can fix fake documents to travel to Lisbon - and on to Florida. It's not dangerous, just corrupt! "

"Shall we travel soon?"

"DON'T KNOW, DON'T WORRY, READ MORE FROM THE BOOK!"

"It's all over... Farewell to Weapons, there are candles and flowers everywhere."

We didn't flee. Why should we? By 1944 I became very rich fishing and smuggling. Two old policemen were riding their bikes without noticing any of my business. The closest German soldiers were 14 miles east and it was easy to sell tobacco here and there. It was expensive to smoke so to speak. Eastern France was the best in Victorian furniture and all kinds of art. For four years I read to Nicole at night in her father's house. Mother was crying in her villa. Dad never read to her. That day Allied soldiers came from the sea, Nicole and I were in bed. She dressed in my clothes. She looked like a handsome boy and fooled horny soldiers away. I got the Camel of Americans. The war is not over I thought. The next year we couldn't shop, could't sail with a boat, the trains were for the military, the telegraph was off, while the radio had no program. We were free but poor. Nicole's mother fell for an American general. She didn't want to share war booty with me and took Nicole to Florida. And I started writing about this.Yep, here you are, you just read the first happy ending in this book. There are many different endings in life, many breaks, multiple stops and brand new developments. It may be possible to write about life as it really is.

Many many years after The Eternal War someone will make a movie of my writing, perhaps. A lot of movies are in making all of the time. Several people I know have made movies. A close friend of mine has made a thriller about people astray, lost in the bureaucracy, in Turkey. Kafka and such. Should anyone ever realize the innocence of the heroes? Ask the dust, not me! I like strange transitions in movies and want to have it in my book too. Most people like strange transitions. Another friend of mine has made a short movie that seems very far-fetched, it's about One who goes around constantly repeating how Ibsen is shit. My friends are like me, a sensation lusty dreamers filled with hope,  all kinds of hopes, mostly to survive. Most of us are recognized artists but few live by it, we say we live for the art. We live by the fact that our case has come to an end, that we have been invalided. The state is losing out on us financially, but what enrichment we spread around nobody can measure, not in a time like this.

Well, Nicole is forgotten now and I have to play alone. I'm writing a romanticized autobiography, just have to. The poet in me deliberately wants to ignore the dull boundaries of the consensus about reality in favor of a better and more experimental move in the memo. Hopefully for the pleasure of both me and readers. The ambition is to be called a bizarre author with a tag - absurdist. I can name many celebrities and scandals, if the public relations agent will, so my agenda gets a little more marketable? Possibly, if I write about celebrities you won't need any content. Why bother the reader with substance? Or, does it hold with if I just stream of some strange information about something unknown and foreign, exotic and, maybe totally new? Something puzzling? What about bitter rebellion on something? 

Oh, sorry, my phone rings! Friends. Want to join an Exhibition in a house called Barabara? Bands will play and people will dance for many days and nights. Frozen soldiers will find warmth after all the muddy fighting. Hot and happy women are already there. Stones are knocking other stones and making lots of sand. The bottom of the rivers are changing their shape, new coasts are established, new life forms emerge along the edge and eventually a large delta will be formed before it all wash in to the sea. You can go all the way. 

If you are looking for reading material that engages and respects you, don't read on, don't be selfish, world is not about you and I! Read in Esperanto, or in Volapük*. Be timeless. We all should do something important, something political, not so comfortable! We have to flow to the lounges and talk about books we read yesterday. Get some relief and wine! Drama is on the stage. Man in golden coat. Tourist in the fjord.

Suddenly, we are at Swinging Oslo 1996, I'm a half of men I use to be. Future auditors will say Oslo was a peaceful oasis, in a peaceful Norway, in the most peaceful time since WW ll. Possible, but I've seen people of a pure fighting spirit. Some of them been writing books, played music and painted painting just like they are shooting someone. 1996 was a year of God. Life was at stake around the world too. It was tough all over. We had to wake the ant-witches from death. We had to occupy the property of a rich and dangerous speculator. Fortunately, we got help from America and from some angels. We risked huge losses for little peace for our evening readings. During the day we wrote! We wrote about sprinkling earth, we listened with our backs and wrote about a wall in that house, a refractory wall, about raw torture, about a man burning to steam. Nothing remains of fire, no echo of the army's tramp, Paal Brekke said that. We launched thousands of books per party. And we were partying a lot. We were in defenseless position, but we did't give up... we and our friends. Yes there where friends before Facebook. Than came Facebook, and depression, and all the other illness, and pills, and age not worth of living but somehow mindful and alarmingly meriting and justifying to the utmost; to the full extent of one's powers and ability to be helpful and kind, as long as possible, to the last excellency of the last breath, thanks to the all good choices we took as young.   

 

Finally, I lie in the crematorium quietly snoring in harmony with Bach's mass in B Minor. Gladly I reflect that life has worked well. I remember all my deaths. While I was alive I forgot everything. Is that the case with everyone? I start every life with the hope of managing to rip a good opening line? Could I cry at birth again, or take my first breath like it's the last one? Should I pretend to do something no one did before? Life is a complex interruption of eternity, it is human to be born but my first book should, to be concerned with death, bu shit happens.

* Volapük - is a constructed language created in 1879 and 1880 by Johann Martin Schleyer,

**Volapük Literature and Culture Forum Oslo holds 2001 in Swiss villa in Kruses gate 7 of 9.

    The houses were occupied by the student organization OIKOS in the summer of 1989.