Someone else´s dream

You know those nights, when you're sleeping, and it's totally dark, and absolutely silent, and you don't dream, and there's only blackness, and this is the reason, it's because on those nights you've gone away. On those nights, you're in someone else's dream, you're busy in someone else's dream. Some things are just pictures, they're scenes before your eyes. Don't look now, I'm right behind you.

Someoneelse´s dream by Laurie Anderson

//theowlsarenotwhattheyseem//

eckerföör et waabs

memory and now

at the sea

an afternoon at waabs

birdybirdy visitor

I am on your team. my weird little man

I love you more than much

Though I sometimes don´t understand what you are saying

Let us have the buzzard`s dream

I saw through its eyes from high up

Two figures walk a burning ground

Where the earth shifts

And the abyss dives deep

We´ll meet again, you see

And when it all crumbles and falls

I can play a good catch, you know.

I left this place, without leaving a single blot of a notice. I just had become sick of how people were caught up in there forced creativity, and of the products of it even more so. So I just burned all the things I had written down, drawn, painted, recorded, noted, read, listened to, imagined.

I wanted to leave no trace. Nothing, that would force anyone to suffer, or make anyone suffer anyone. The world had too much of it already. I stopped believing, and vanished.

R.M.Parkner Notes from Saturn

I can´t seem to recall

I can`t seem to recall the point at which I lost my interest in almost everything. Or, let me say, I lost the value of importance for certain things. For example, my property, my belongings, few of them, as they were. I just couldn´t see the purpose anymore, let me correct myself again, as I can see the purpose, of a shaving-kit, or a record or just anything. But I just couldn´t see the point. I had known its utility, or had an affection, but it was gone. Well, I was still using soap, wearing clothes, but of mere practical tactic, and I indeed had lost my personal, intimate affection to the stuff I owned. The record became just a piece of plastic wrapped in rather nice artwork, the music stayed in me. I had to get rifd of it. My extreme became the loss. I was at work and thought of nothing but how to get rid of all this stuff. I had become a burden. I wished nothing more, than to get rid of it.

I had become sick of the urge to own. One of many urges, like the one to believe, that work was any good. I knew, it was just so you could own.

So the urge to own, owns you, and you have to work first, tow own, and anything you actually need, you have to own first. Well, you are therefore probably capable of owning just anything, but before you can get to that, everything else will own you and live up to it.

All the short-lived satisfaction owning brought me, maybe after purchasing a nice shirt, was make-believe. I would find myself at home, looking at whatever I bought, thinking, why?

The lost feeling. A feeling of loss. Or loneliness. Accompanied by urges and the search for something that wasn´t even true, something yopu would never be able to find, anyway. And on this great search for the great, I overlooked everything else, that was good and already here. Within my reach, close to my grip, already in my lap, all the stuff that is made of stars.

You can´t own friendship, you can´t own a relationship. But you can make the impression of it being so. You can lead through owning and preparing the guilt of owing in someone. You can force your own loss on someone, then you own, what is most to the utter most despite, to have someone in your hand. As I had gone too far, as I realized what person I really had become, or always had been, the only way possible for me became clear. To pack my bags, disappear and leave this place. It´s good I knew a way that promised me not a solution, but consoled me.,

I had heard of a place, and I knew, it was there, I needed to go, the curiosity pained me. I had to find out. I just had to. I had called up Saturn, and it wanted me. So I left.

R.M. Parkner The Saturn-Diaries

Forgotten

All in all, I wasn´t sure anymore, that my escapes to Saturn were very good for my health. At least for my health in the real world. I began to wonder, if all this, with me and the people in it, was nothing more than a mere collective delusion our sub-conscious had dragged us into, and somehow we met in a place, we had formed by our desires. It was very clear, that to no one there, the place was exactly the same. And for sure, it was no heaven, nor hell.

It was just there. But some of us, like me, had gained the ability to come and go as we pleased, others just stayed, becoming more and more the place, adapting.

I saw this guy, who´s name I didn´t know, sitting on a rock, fully covered in bees, his eyes wide open, but it was as he wasn´t really himself anymore.

This woman, I encountered, she just stood in a field of wild flowers, gently swaying in the wind, as if she had become one with it.

All the while, I recognized strange behavior in myself. Drifting in and out of my body for weeks, it became harder each time to get back into control, and leave for the real world.

Each time I came back, hunted by reality, I stayed longer.

Somehow, this was more than a place. It felt too real, and too much alive. And I was just a guest there and had not been able to get more than clues and hints as for what was really going on.

I was standing in front of massive secrets. So, for the last time, I left the world behind and journeyed to my world, hoping to find the answers I seeked. I went back to the Forgotten Place.

R.M. Parkner, Saturn-A Diary Of The Forgotten Place

off to work

who would have thought

a zombies undead life

it´s also nine to five

As for the authority-agencies

At some time in the recent past someone had decided to brighten the ancient corridors of the University by painting them, having some vague notion that Learning Should Be Fun. It hadn´t worked. It´s a fact known throughout the universes that no matter how carefully the colours are chosen, institutional décor ends up as either vomit green, unmentionable brown, nicotine yellow or surgical appliance pink. By some little-understood process of sympathetic resonance, corridors painted in those colours always smell slightly of boiled cabbage - even if no cabbage is ever cooked in the vicinity.


Taken from Equal Rites by Terry Pratchett

Not just in the bike-shop, or music-store...or wherever parts needed

The broomstick lay between two trestles. Granny Weatherwax sat on a rock outcrop while a dwarf half her height, wearing an apron that was a mess of pockets, walked around the broom and occasionally poked it.
Eventually he kicked the bristles and gave a long intake of breath , a sort of reverse whistle, which means that something expensive is about to happen.
'Weellll,' he said. 'I could get the apprentices in to look at this, I could. It´s an education in itself. And
you said it actually managed to get airborne?'
The dwarf lit a pipe. 'I should very much like to see that bird,' he said reflectively. 'I should imagine it´s quite something to watch, a bird like that.'
'Yes, but can you repair it?' said Granny. 'I`m in a hurry.'
The dwarf sat down, slowly and deliberately.
'As for repair,' he said,'well, I don´t know about repair. Rebuild, maybe. Of course, it´s hard to get the bristles these days even if you can find people to do the proper binding, and the spells need-'
'I don`t want it rebuilt, I just want it to work properly,' said Granny.
'It`s an early model, you see,' the dwarf plugged on. 'very tricky, those early models. You can´t get the wood---'



taken from Equal Rites by Terry Pratchett