Amsterdammed - Stoned and Dethroned

Welcome to Amsterdam, Venice of the North...if things get really bad, you can always go to Amsterdam, from Spinoza to Camus, Amsterdam gives equal fall for all. For some unknown reason every time I go, I have never been able to get beyond the first circles of hell: the magnetic density of sex and drugs play their impeccable boundaries at every turn, always limiting me to the centrifugal center...no smiley wind mills or gushing tulips for me l guesws...

At night you can’t miss them: hundreds of ultraviolet female flowers fire up the central canals into a tropical hothouse…neon colored lingerie set- ablaze the circular arteries of the dammed city…framed within imperial windows they remain on their stools looking divinely cute....A female shaped hell of captured beauties...a female Zoo?..

With their lit up figures, these courtesans of the electric night seem to glow beyond all profane life, haloed in a whiter shade of purity. But appearances can be deceiving; they all look so soft tanned, child-like and chiseled from the outside, but on the inside, often, is quite different…

The transfiguration of ultraviolet light plays wonders, especially where there is nothing underneath to be transfigured. As Schopenhauer would say, life cannot be both a wonder and a willful reality all at once, something has to give....and invariably it does, mostly in the wrong direction, or if you are lucky, nowhere at all. Strange that life needs so many illusions to spur it on, you would think that hunger and lust would be enough...one of the very few blind-spots of “the will” that Schopenhauer does not, or is unable, to explain away...

Like the porn industry, and elsewhere in Europe, Amsterdam has received a capital influx of flesh from the East; which means that all previous criteria has/ been raised to the tenfold: beauty levels flowing to higher tones than one could possibly imagine. A brand of wild beauty is overflowing the known aesthetic spectrum, all known beauty gradients are transgressed one by one. Some of the girls are so beautiful it hurts; it pains to repay them so cheaply...Beauty is cheap, sex divine, love impossible...

Anywhere else, you get what is all around, but not here in Amsterdam, where things are turned upside down, for a while... And here I am as so many nights before: drunk, coked up, ecstasy downed, engorged with lust…ready to embrace a cheap darkness...into the streets one heads into the artificial covered night…cruising the main canals where girls “clothes” and make-up are made to flower under artificial suns, growing curvaceously tropical flesh in carnivorous designs…galvanized by artificial light, luscious reptiles bathe by florescent moonlight...

Lights sparkling her translucent baby-doll dress, legs lush and shiny, eyebrows puckered…a slight smile on her face as she eats nuts and sprouts, her only dinner for the night...the bottle of vodka flows...you find that she is from an industrial town in the Russian lands, where kids wear gas masks to school amidst fumes of chemical pollution...Siberia, Volgograd, Vladivostok, Kazakhstan, and all those other evocative high cheek bone names…they sound as cruel as they sound...

Some grueling anticlimaxes…the level of THC being so high, that one is, sometimes, even too high to come...they don’t just grow herbs here, they engineer them...

And then, the happy go lucky smiley ones, of the coffee-shops, mostly Dutch clubbing girls, just for week-end or night hookers: earning some cash for their wardrobe, synthetic drugs, and organic food. Here the line between cash and attraction gets blurred...It is amazing what girls will do, and not do, for cash, professional advancement or anything else that take[s their youthful fancies....

Down a side canal, she takes you somewhere against some damp wall, or walks you down into a basement of some building or “boat”…at other times they step warily out of hidden enclaves, and shatter you with their dazzling eyes that are reflected off by iced up waters...still spurred by the possibility that you might run across, somewhere among the many, the one, the one you have been looking for without aim, idea or goal... a fresh face from the underside appears, her first time, her feet a little sore from high heels, her first day at “work”....

...“The most beautiful women are on the street”, he roughly claims, street?, oblivious to the fact that there are no streets here, we are in Amsterdam, not NYC, I angrily argue, as if to make an ontological distinction of the uttermost importance; as if all reality depended on such babulations...does THC make you ontological, or just paranoid? ontology as applied paranoia?....“You just have to find them.” It’s On the “streets”...”It’s On the “pavements” he pimply continues...”where women come to earn hard currency; in hordes they descend, from all around the world; from all the impoverished cities and villages of the world, trading on their looks”, hoping to make enough to return one day, in glorious sunlight, after the fall, I boringly add...the oratory continues to flow right into depths of the frozen night...too far to care...

…A few are sunken and sullen, who drawn away as you kiss them....but with those sensuous lips and warm oval deep eyes, she could have graced covers, who could resist...I gently reach across and caress her face, and we kissed, a soft kiss on the luscious lips, on her tropically wild lips, a lover’s kiss? No way....

....In end, we wake up to Polaroid cheap-shots of ourselves, amidst stars of scarlet and white. Pale faces sinking in the background, either way there is no way out...dammed in Amsterdam…as a cheesy pop song used to go: Plastic eyes looking milky white…

Bad Films

Always the profane without the illumination, is this not what the cinematic screen is all about?

“I beg you, learn to see ‘bad’ films; they are sometimes sublime” - Ado Kyrou

…The Pristine Dawn of a New Year

If reality has been virally overcome into simulation, if the screen has eaten up the entire world in a fractal process of hungry simulations, can one not postulate a reversal taking place at some point in the future? Maybe, 2006 will get a few more beastly sixes to its empty v00ids…Time will reverse itself; the arrow of time will turn backwards, undoing all the simulations that have taken place from the start of the TVverse. Simulations will revert themselves back, pulled by the gnawing gravity of the Pac-Man real….the real will irrevocably eat up, from all around, the pixels that make up our plastic, always beeping, life support screens…

The cinematic screens of our life will dissolve and carnivorously melt the plastic from our life…the screen is dead, long live God….

Can the real caught without a reference, without the hope of ever hitting bottom, remerge? And realise the real? Again? this time for real… Can’t the real come back by gradually and virally infecting all simulation with its disruptive fragments of reality?

What will it take to wake up the dead?

Gradually, instant by instant, second by second, almost imperceptibly, all mediated phenomena will implode from within…: all electronic “communication” would suddenly stop working and whisper the absolute silence of the real…digital devices and celluloid would be dissolved from within…all memory appliances would suddenly reverse and rewind themselves by erasing themselves from all simulation, without leaving a trace…camera and TV would explode, not being able to contain the real expanding within…cinemas and blockbusters burned down by spontaneous fires of burning media…BollyHolly producers would suffer long agonizing deaths brought about by avant-garde serial killers wanting to realize their Hollywood “creations”…multibillion “producers” would be slashed in dark corners by an epidemic of suburban killers wanting moooooooooore, more real-special effects…Multimillionaire gangster rappers would be compelled to kill themselves for real, shoot themselves in the head for real, all porn stars would be compelled to fuck themselves to death, chanting “Viagra all the way, to the grave”…keep it real “Niggers With Attitude” Rappers would be forced by resentful fans to listen to RAP 24 hours a day, until their ears and “brains” ooze the blood of the real… ….hungrily emerging from the depths of the Beverly Hills’ sewers, a Spielberg would be eaten alive by a group of Zooless Jurassic alligators…electromagnetically pushed by the weight of the real, broadband and P2P networks would go auto-mad and download everything in existence, downloading the world to death…a King-Kong would escape a Los Angeles ZOO, looking for a mate, mysteriously drowning a Kate Winslet in Kong luscious cum, bukkake and bestiality has never been sooooooo gooooooood and real until this cUming day....
.....ZIZEK would be crucified and sacrificed (taking Baudrillard’s call for a post-modern philosopher sacrifice, à la lettre, for real) in the flashing reality of a Las Vegas, stuffed like a turkey with his own textual verbiage, by a resentful gang of Lacanians, who have suddenly discovered that Lacan is a load of bollocks, the emperor has no phallus...stickers everywhere proclaiming “Zizek died for our sins”…These roaming gangs of Laconic Lacanians having wasted their whole lives on the symbolic and the imaginary, deduce to mimetically spread their new found reality equation, their new Christian gospel of the real; proclaiming “long live the real, therefore I Kill”…even forcing Baudrillard to appear on reality TV and to hostagelly announce: “I like it”….and so on…Let the real make its way…

…The real will take revenge on all those poisonous simulations, reverting and reversing all the simulation back to the pristine dawn of the clean, pure and the well cut: no more porn, no more poetry, no more philosophy, no more BollyHollywoods, no more Sega, no more Nintendo, No more Sony-Bony, no more imagines, no more, full stop…Let the real make its way…

….Resolutions for 2006: burn all media, liberate and copulate with your neighbours, ignite bonfires of vanities up and down the country: burn your record and video collection, burn down all art galleries, bomb the TATE by installing an exploding garden shed (apparently, art exhibit of the year 2005) containing flying captions: “this is not art”…bomb museums and other TV imprisoned life…rob your own bank account…thrown out all your game-stations, and get back a life, even if you never had one…. the real is awaiting….reality is the ultimate terrorist organisation, all “it” needs is a bit of encouragement… Let the real make its way…