How the west was won

...All along the rancid, dusty roads that didn't exist still, the means of locomotion were used to win the west, in an epic geste that did embrace the Atlantic with the Pacific ocean.


The stars were in RU, throwing enigmatic noises to the pioneers, who, like William Stewart, knew how.

The west was won.

This is a rubber wristwatch

This is a picture of myself

Maybe you wonder why I post here a picture of myself in the bathroom with sunglasses; well: anybody usually posts photographs of him/herself.

Actually I don't know why I post this, to be honest.

The Space Ghost dream of 1976

I really don’t know if I dreamt it.
I know I dreamt it, well: I don’t know what are my feelings whilst I’m saying, trying to describe this. The mental diapositives are scary, indistinctly sexual, sick...
I think I dreamt it. Dreamt that I was watching ‘Space Ghost’ in 1976.

My age was not my age of 1976, I was older than I really was in 1976.
I was watching ‘Space Ghost’ on a TV in 1976.
A TV of 1976.

And it was a grey dawn, as grey were the dawns of 1976; because were dawns in black and white.
The breakfast was sordid and rampant, as it were the breakfasts in 1976, in black and white:

I went outdoors suddenly:

the TV stayed turned on, receiving a transmission across the air of 1976.

The sky was encapsulated in itself, like grey polyethylene: the city of 1976 was a grey-steamy glass on 'Burda' & 'Marie Claire' magazines of 1976.
The paving stones of the strait avenue of the south had orgasms with the tires of the cars that passed over it, grey.
The rain was just an anecdote, and I caught my father’s car, across blocks and blocks of grey.
It was probably a grey Valiant IV of 1976.

There was a policeman of 1976, who was standing over an eminence built in cement and glass, and he was redirecting the traffic of 1976.

Some haze deformed his appearance from the distance, and he looked like one same thing with the small tower or eminence where he was; grey. Of 1976.


Because the city was 1976' steamy glass, collapsing in orgasms that the cars provoked it, passing by over its wet, open vagina; over its hard clitoris...

.

This is a test

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The imaginary direction of the winds

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Arctura Cutshell dedicated her 19 years of life to see the winds, each one of the four with its allegoric state: North/Boreas: welfare, South/Noto: love, East/Pamphilian: peace of mind, West/Atlantean: excitement.

As the winds were flying by the days, and the days were flying by the winds, Arctura measured them in weight amongst the dandelions, at her home near prairie in the island of Sark: she could distinguish each colour for each wind: north/blue, south/pink, east/yellow, west/green.
The domestic-little animals of the environments, like the lupus-miniaturis of the English Channel (loup de La Manche), the leopardis inferioris (guépard), the joyful vermin (insecta) or the soft lion; all them, started feeling a rare lycanthropic angst, due to the near dissolution of the Arctura’s body into the astral panel.

From the miserable shore of the Island, over its anemic grasses of fall, it could be seen the French coast, L’Armorique; and far, far beyond across the plain-oblique Ocean roads, the dark silhouette of the depressed North-Iberian shorelines, that looked black and already submitted into the shadows of the night.

To the sides, the old Mare Tenebrarum of the Romans was black curtain and epilogue over itself.

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The strange story of The Holy Mongooses

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The Holy Mongooses was a beat/rock band a go go of Trucculentta, Michigan; they started touring the zonal scene along with groups such 'Opinionated Mouses' and 'The Taps', the gigs were wild and usually the local police had to take everyone under arrest, due to the high dosage of psychedelic drugs and barbiturics, even industrial acids that were consumed, on stage as among the audience; being especially used the hydrochloride salt of 1-morpholinomethyl-5-ethyl-5-phenyl barbituric acid, phenobarbital, morpholine and formaldehyde, suitable diluent such as ethanol, metrazol (106.25 mg/kg) injected subcutaneously, alkali metal salt of 1-phenyl-4-n-butyl-3,5-dioxopyrazolidine as a solubilizer, aqueous solution of dimethyl aminophenazone in a concentration between about 10 and 20%, effective amounts of Lidocaine and Dexamethasone, Salicylamide-O-acetic acid, p-acetaminophenyl ether glycolic acid and camphor sulfonic acid, lithium, sodium and calcium salicylates, sodium and strontium sulfosalicylates, α-diethyl aminoacetyl-β-methyl-β-formyl hydrazine, α-diethyl aminoacetyl-β-methyl-β-acetyl hydrazine, as well as the sodium salts of benzyl butenolide, of 1,4-diphenyl-3,5-dioxopyrazolidine, of 1,4-diphenyl-3,5-dioxopyrazolidine-2-carboxylic acid dimethyl amide, and of 1,2-diphenyl-4-n-butyl-3,5-dioxopyrazolidine.

Also as little apostille, or datum of interest: their music was abysmal, but extremely noisy.

One evening of 1969 the band was playing so, but so loud; that the mass, the embolus of sound, started being visible: what I mean is that from the 'VOX's started appearing a kind of phantasmal effluvium, like an oval fantasmagoria or phantom from the cold outer space; and in a moment of truly delirious feedbacks and saturations, the ball of sound literally, actually swallowed them.


Nobody really knew, never, what actually happened with them, where they are...
Some had suggested that they trespassed a dimensional door; violating actual gravitational laws: incurring in the so-called Bascomb-Curbishley effect, also known as 'double-doppler'.

Even, a tape where the show was being recorded, got in spontaneous combustion at the same time, being ejected expeditiously from the cassette deck with a high-pitched ultrafrequency or hiss, behind the audience eyes, who didn't realise a thing, due to their terminal state of chemical intoxication.

Some talked about an actual abduction

and some, about a strange, and revealing gravitational aberration; like an invisible corridor of static, where the ohms got mad in an unpredictable way, connecting for one second the Earth with another plane: that, that some people called

Hell..?





But this belongs to the camp of the supposition...

.

_____/

Lydon Nickell, the Venusian speaking

The Dalí's Ovocipede [1972]

The incomprehensible end of Jordi Camba

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Jordi Camba lived in Llobet el Cul, Barcelona, from early age his mind freaked out with the avangardest pictoric schools, like the churrigueresco, manierisme, miniaturist, trianglism, ovalism, manuelism, futurism, merde-nouveau; and all the aesthetic branches of what Goebbels used to call degenerate art.

In 1976 Jordi Camba started taking lessons at an institute in Badalona ‘Institut d'art i merda comparats’, strange house with irregular walls, and an asymmetric architecture, overcrowded with a rare fauna of people with odd hats, plantpots on their heads etc.

Soon, Jordi learnt everything about trends, like the glassism, or the art-on-crap; in such classrooms were painted real still-lives, with excrements of the zonal surrounding cattle, like are the cows or swine.
During the sessions, to inspire even more the alumni, it were played sibilant, high pitched noises on a cassette player, very loud.

The students used to have orgiastic intercourse at the classroom, even on the institute’s adjacent streets, in performances that were called 'carnassa' or 'coxinche', with artistic aim only.

These performances were often interrupted by the local police: the Mossos d’Esquadra; who remitted everyone into the dungeons, in expeditious way.

Finally in 1980, after years of brainsome study, Jordi had his expositio (sic), at the gallery ‘Galeria per a exposicions i cops d'Estat anti-monàrquics Marcel Marsol’; where the guests were regaled with canapes and a final orgy with the participation of Dino de Laurentiis as curator.
The place was bombed by the NATO and had to be evacuated, with Jordi in notorious spiritual shock.

In 1982 it was very commented his work ‘La torre dels fills de puta’, a replica of the Eiffel Tower, built in penises of dugong and stucco, all covered with skin of albino dolphins.
Greenpeace and PETA claimed genocide, and Jordi had to exile himself in the Populist Republic of the socialist peoples of Maldives, escaping with clandestine flight of Air Libya.

But this would come to a tragic end while he was painting an acrylic; maybe it was the polymer emulsion that doped him, no one knows, but he started painting with an ardour so fervent, that was feeling he was one with the oeuvre; and in a flash, the painting swallowed him within an inch.


Like a black hole, the eye of Indra: a door towards the beyond.


Some neighbours found, days later, the painting, with Jordi encapsulated there inside for ever, with an inhuman gesture, his figure almost shaped as a swastika, his eyes, out of its orbits, in a-quasi-bovine aspect, surrounded by a frame, forever nevermore.




Unspeakable, atrocious...

subnormal.

About the man, the art, the unexpected, what.


...And from now on, the story gets entangled into the transparent swirls of the night...

























The incomprehensible end of Jordi Camba



















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A robotised protection against bears from the future

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