Tag Archives: Germany

selections from Of Walking in Ice by Werner Herzog

Our Eisner mustn’t die, she will not die, I won’t permit it. She is not dying now because she isn’t dying. Not now, no, she is not allowed to. My steps are firm. And now the earth trembles. When I move, a buffalo moves. When I rest, a mountain reposes. She wouldn’t dare! She mustn’t. She won’t. When I’m in Paris she will be alive. She must not die. Later, perhaps, when we allow it. Continue reading

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A Riddling Tale

Three women were transformed into smartphones plugged in at the local electronics store. However, one of them was permitted to spend the night in her own home. Once, as dawn drew near and she had to return to her companions at the store to become a smartphone again, she said to her husband, “If you come and pick me this morning, I’ll be set free, and I’ll be able to stay with you forever.”

And this is exactly what happened.

Now the question is how her husband was able to recognize her, for the three smartphones were all the same without any distinguishing mark. Answer: Since she had spent the night in her house and not at the store, her battery had not charged fully as it had for the other two. This is how her husband was able to recognize her. Continue reading

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last.fm loves dudes

Screen Shot 2016-03-03 at 9.13.17 AM Continue reading

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The Bartender and Her Wife

Once there was a bartender who lived with her wife in a shabby Tenderloin studio. Paying rent always proved difficult, so the bartender regularly worked long shifts at her bar down the street.

One particularly slow afternoon, a slovenly hobo waltzed into the bar. His eyes were bloodshot, spittle leaked out the edges of his mouth onto his dark, dirt-encrusted denim jacket, and he reeked as if he hadn’t showered in several years. This was an ordinary sight, unfortunately, so the bartender barely lifted her gaze when she said, “Sorry, sir, but you have to leave. Come back once you’ve cleaned yourself up.”

The hobo, however, quickly gathered his composure and replied with silver tongue: “Excuse my appearance, barkeep, but the truth is I’m an enchanted prince simply passing through your world. If you would be kind enough to serve me a single scotch, I’ll drink it speedily and be on my way.”

Taken aback by the hobo’s eloquence, the bartender finally looked up and relented. She poured two fingers of scotch and handed it to the hobo.

“Thank you, kind lady,” said the hobo, who instantly emptied the glass, bowed his head, and walked out the door, leaving drops of blood in his wake.

Later that night, the bartender returned home and related the encounter to her wife, who was incredulous: “You idiot!” she shouted. “You met an enchanted prince and didn’t make a wish?”

“Make a wish?” said the bartender. “The thought didn’t cross my mind.”

“You go back to that bar and ask the prince for a nice place to live in Pacific Heights,” said her wife.

“Pacific Heights? But why?” asked the bartender.

“This place is disgusting!” said her wife. “Every day we step over used needles just to reach the front door, there are always people convulsing and talking to themselves in the stairway, and our bed smells like a bathroom. Now do you understand?”

Though the bartender felt uneasy about the situation, the next day she returned to her bar, which she found to be mostly empty besides a few regulars in the corner. At length, she spoke:

Hobo, hobo, of the city,
If you’re a prince, then speak to me.
Though I don’t agree with my wife’s request,
I’ve come to ask it nonetheless.

Immediately, the hobo walked through the front door and said, “What do you want?”

“My wife wants to live in Pacific Heights,” replied the bartender.

“Go to her now,” said the hobo. “She’s already there.”

And so she was. Magically, all their belongings had been transported from the grungy Tenderloin studio to a newly remodeled, two-story Victorian in Pacific Heights. They had a full garage, more than enough bathrooms and bedrooms for any number of guests, a beautiful kitchen, and even a hot tub on the roof.

“This is grand!” said the bartender. “We’re set for life now.”

“It’s nice,” agreed the wife. But a week later, she found herself dissatisfied with all the space and decided she needed something to fill her time. So she went to the bartender and said, “Call up that hobo prince and ask him to make me CEO of a tech company.”

“But why do you need to be CEO of a tech company?” asked the bartender.

“Don’t question me!” said her wife. “Just do as I say.”

Reluctantly, the bartender returned to work the next day with the request weighing down on her mind. It was happy hour, so she saw the usual regulars plus some strangers who had dropped in from the street. When she found a free moment, she spoke:

Hobo, hobo, of the city,
If you’re a prince, then speak to me.
Though I don’t agree with my wife’s request,
I’ve come to ask it nonetheless.

The hobo walked in and said, “Again? What do you need?”

“My wife wants to be CEO of a tech company,” replied the bartender.

“Go to her now,” said the hobo. “She’s CEO.”

After her shift, the bartender found a black car waiting for her outside. The vehicle whisked her away to a corporate office in SoMa, where she found her wife wrapping up a call. As soon as the wife hung up, she dove into a box of farm-to-table gourmet lunch that had been dropped off by a food delivery startup. Between mouthfuls, she shared her eagerness to see first quarter results.

“So you’re CEO,” said the bartender.

“I am,” replied her wife.

“I’m very proud of you.”

“Thank you, but I’m not quite content. I think it’d be great to have a few billion dollars for investing. Can you ask that hobo to make me an angel investor?”

“Aren’t you happy being CEO?” asked the bartender.

“Not at all,” replied her wife.

The bartender, as usual, found it difficult to resist her wife’s demands. The next night, the bar was packed with college students and people from the suburbs ordering fancy vodka cocktails. It wasn’t until late when the bartender finally spoke:

Hobo, hobo, of the city,
If you’re a prince, then speak to me.
Though I don’t agree with my wife’s request,
I’ve come to ask it nonetheless.

In walked the hobo saying, “What is it now?”

“My wife wants to be a billionaire angel investor,” said the bartender.

“Go to her now,” said the hobo. “She’s already investing.”

Sure enough, the next time the bartender saw her wife, she had one cell phone glued to her ear and another one firing off email after email replete with investment decisions, startup valuations, and hearty acceptances of board director positions. In her free moments, she drafted exposés on technology, business, politics, and even philosophy.

“Looks like you’re an influential angel investor,” said the bartender.

“I am,” replied her wife.

“Can’t imagine anything better.”

“That’s because you’re not very imaginative. You see, money brings power to a point, but I’m aiming beyond that point. Next time you see that old hobo, which I trust will be soon, tell him to make me the president.”

The bartender started to argue, but she was shot down with a glance.

The next night the bartender found herself at work, a momentous sporting event blared on TV, bringing out not just the regulars and bridge-and-tunnelers, but even the people who normally stayed at home. The place was loud, messy, and just nearly out of control.

In a brief moment of respite, the bartender again summoned the hobo:

Hobo, hobo, of the city,
If you’re a prince, then speak to me.
Though I don’t agree with my wife’s request,
I’ve come to ask it nonetheless.

“What do you want?” said the hobo.

“My wife wants to be the president,” said the bartender.

“Go to her now,” said the hobo. “She’s already president.”

It took the bartender several hours to prove her identity in order to get past several tiers of Secret Service agents guarding her wife, now president of the most powerful country in the world. Sitting in the pristine Oval Office, the president busily ordered which countries were to be bombed and which were to be spared, which global leaders were to be treated as friends and which were enemies, which millions of people were to be considered human beings and which billions were to be slaves. At the end of hours of this, she reclined in a plush seat, puffing a full-flavored cigar while a masseuse worked her shoulders.

“You’re the president,” said the bartender.

“I am,” replied her wife.

“Then there will be no more requests.”

“We’ll see about that.”

That night, the bartender’s wife could not sleep thanks to her unquenchable ambition. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, she watched the sun rise in the east and she realized what she wanted.

Though the bartender still lightly slept, the wife tapped her on the shoulder and said: “You must return to the hobo and ask him to make me a god.”

The bartender fell out of bed bewildered by the ludicrous wish. “You cannot be serious,” said the bartender.

But her wife did not smile.

When the bartender finally remembered to make the request, it was already 1:00 AM on Sunday morning. The bar was jam-packed with drunk and obnoxious patrons screaming loudly, singing 80s songs completely out of tune, and picking fights with one another. A thin girl swaying in heels had just puked in the corner.

Plugging her nose, the bartender again summoned the hobo:

Hobo, hobo, of the city,
If you’re a prince, then speak to me.
Though I don’t agree with my wife’s request,
I’ve come to ask it nonetheless.

“Now what?” asked the hobo.

“My wife wants to be a god,” replied the bartender.

“So be it,” said the hobo. “She’s back in the Tenderloin studio.”

Indeed, when the bartender went home that night, that’s where she found her wife, and they lived there until the end of their days. Continue reading

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selections from I Was a Robot by Wolfgang Flür

So that was all he could say about Karl and me, after 16 years of passion and collaboration. We were nothing more than disposable robots to him. (255) Continue reading

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selections from the second volume of Parerga and Paralipomena by Arthur Schopenhauer

SCHOPENHAUER. Essays and Aphorisms. Penguin Classics. Translated with an introduction by R. J. HOLLINGDALE. Continue reading

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Paris · Farningham · London · Amsterdam

~ 0 ~
horrible traffic
in n out
4-hour delay
“this is the worst airline ever”
chili’s out of salad and Mexican food
geographically challenged hostess
know your rights!
sleep? dreamy purple pinkish tint thereof
a moment in Oslo
nightmare on rue chaptal
Moulin Rouge

~ 1 ~
walk to espresso
Tour Eiffel
walk along the Seine
lunch in the Latin Quarter?
Notre Dame
espresso for the Louvre
kill in the garden
fancy ass French food
Arc de Triomphe
legs falling off
white wine and Lucky Strike

~ 2 ~
Père Lachaise
Indian at Chapelle
Musée d’Orsay
fancy ass fucking ave (dck sp + chkn brst)
farewell to the Seine
1-2-3!!! something something Algérie!!!

~ 3 ~
omelette complet at the Gare du Nord
Eurostar to Ebbsfleet
tea (twice) on the Tabsfield green
tomato basil, cheesy mushroom quiche, fresh strawberry creme brûlée, and a couple pints with the wedding party and co.
the cottage

~ 4 ~
fresh fruit, meat, a poached egg, and coffee
dressing for the wedding
Frost on the green
wedding at St Peter and St Paul’s Church
half Indian feast and dance (the Brits, the delicious Indian food, the champagne beer red and white wine, the light rain, and heavy dancing)
afterparty at the cottage

~ 5 ~
breakfast redux (hungover version)
football w Maya on the green
to London
appetizing Indian leftovers
The Tower
wandering in the rain
St. Paul’s
old fucking white egg-headed, perfectly circular black spectacle-wearing, pound-grubbing pieces of shit ushers guarding against pilgrims at the footsteps to the house of god
covent garden
lazying and familying

~ 6 ~
waking up sans Natalie in a nasty mood
bacon on a roll
cold shower
Tate Modern
The Globe
Upminster then Whitechapel

~ 7 ~
waking up w Natalie, happily
full English breakfast in Whitechapel
Natural History Museum
Kensington Gardens
fancy ass Indian food
£5 to the girl from Canada Macedonia CA
USA v BLG :(

~ 8 ~
scratched iris
mushroom omelette
nap to
and nap from
Nando’s w David and Evelyn

~ 9 ~
to Amsterdam
grocery shopping
white wine
a spliff at Rookie’s
shoarma on the corner

~ 10 ~
homemade breakfast
double espresso
spliff on the diagonal green
shopping, snacks in bed
Little Thai Prince
red light district
overpriced and pre-rolled
stoned wander home
ice cream

~ 11 ~
bacon breakfast
Blue Bird
Myrabelle, bartended by a more muscular and more feminine version of John Dwyer.
gluten-free crackers, goat cheese, smoked salmon, olives dripping in oil and basil, water, and wine
second Thai dinner
Amstels all night at the cafe

~ 12 ~
check out
fresh fruit pancake across from Anne Frank
spliff on the green
Van Gogh Museum
rest in Vondelpark

~ 13 ~
home? Continue reading

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a chronology of Immanuel Kant

1724 — Immanuel Kant born in Königsberg on 22 April. 1732 — Birth of Haydn. 1737 — Death of Kant’s mother. 1746 — Death of Kant’s father. 1749 — Birth of Goethe. 1756 — Birth of Mozart. 1759 — Voltaire … Continue reading

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