What the fuck is prayer?

Doing. Saying. Wishing. Hoping. Praying.
What is a prayer? What is an action?

What is hope?

You can only hope for things that is already at place in the reality you find yourself.
Other things you would not know.
That makes a prayer rather silly.

Listen! You are in a can with a square and a circle. How could you know the triangle? How could you understand the ellipse? Or the rectangle?

You have the floor; the roof and the sides. You have the things inside as you understand them. You have yourself and your limitations.

So what do you wish for?

There is a story about a swede; a dane and a norse stuck on a remote island. They find a lamp with a genie. They are granted one wish each.
The dane wishes himself home again. The swede wishes the same.
The norse guy looks around.. sighs and says: “It’s so lonely here. I wish the others where back.”

Another tale is about the fisherman and his wife. You’ve all heard it. It ends with the fisherman (or was it the wife) having a sausage for nose.

How could you wish (or pray) for more than you understand is possible?

The answer is: within yourself.

You could be called Al, Bobby, Zimmie or Adolf “Fuckin’” Hitler. Wrapped inside this story-book of only good and bad, you lack normality. You lack yourself. Because you are not Mahamtma Ghandi or Mother Theresa. You are not Jesus or some Nepalese munk.
You are not the Zodiak killer. You are not the moth-man; the serpent; the slender man or the task-force.

You are you. And you contain multitudes.

I would like to get into actions, but it would take text-space.. as actions cut through everything.

The worlds most unwilling guitar solo.

Itchyck och Oraklet

”Att tävla är att vanhelga sitt tempel”, skrävlade Persemone när hon tvåhundra år före nollpunkten satte det sista oraklet på plats (en annan plats).
Oraklet menade att det fanns ett visst öde som låg öppet och tillgängligt om bara rätt mängd silver och guld lades i rätt händer. Dessa händer tillhörde en annan klient. Och genom att sammanföra dessa två individers olika önskan, skapade Oraklet ett ackord av två toner. Tersen stod hon själv för. Dur eller moll. Det berodde på hur väl hon avlönats.

Persemone såg att Oraklet utnyttjades för att skapa öden som flätades samman till en handling, en berättelse, ett skeende som för folket beskrevs som oundviklig utveckling och i gudarnas händer.
Hon var också den som lade snaran om Oraklets hals när hon sände Itchyck uppför berget och in i grottan. Oraklet lämnade sina inre, väl upplysta och gemytliga kammare och anträdde scenen i skumt ljus, rök och dofter. Hennes ansikte målat i kol och blod. Håret insmetat med ister.

Röken drogs utåt mot grottans mynning. Besökaren insveptes och inandades röken och de mixturer av belladonna och spikklubba som låg i eldfatet.

Besökaren upplevde seansen som overklig och flytande. Besökaren blev mycket mottaglig för Oraklets instruktioner, varningar, råd och antydningar.

Itchyck fanns inte. Itchyck var en kreation. Persemone hade under sex månaders tid skapat personen och alla de rykten som florerade kring personen. Persemone hade sökt flera orakelsvar angående Itchycks affärer; lierade och fiender. Dessa hade sänts iväg i olika skepnader: som kejsarens bihustru; senatorns fria slav och kulturella rådgivare; som en illa utklädd bror till kejsaren.

Så vem var Itchyck? Inte kunde det vara kejsaren själv? Han var ju på Korsika! Han var ju tämligen fet! Han haltade inte. Han talade ju säreget vackert, inte som den här uppkomlingen från annat land.

Libalajah

Israel-Robyn är utsedd till Miss Nöjd efter att en scengångare funnit på att retro-prutta i en bronsmic när det femtioåriga underbarnet övade på nässång. Den tusenhövdade skaran kastade Pesetas och Kip efter henne fast hon önskade publikens Rubel.

Ass-Tread “lightly” Lintlimb (the author of pappy long-stuffing) have had her hourly grave-shift. During (and under) the press-conference some journalist stared at her; asked questions and even fired a camera in her face. He is now sent to China as a treat.

It now seems obvious that it was Karl Marx who wrote “Mein Kampf” and a young Adolf Hitler who wrote “Das Kapitäl”. The jews still wrote the bible.

Stephen King is working on a new novel. It will be 600 pages but released as three books á 200 pages. The books will be glued together by Owen and sold by Joe Hill at airports. Some heroin-whore is there to attest that every copy has a strand of Kurt Cobains hair included.

“It’s very easy these days”, King jests, “to write a story that is a New Yorker #1 bestseller”. If it’s not that, it will be clad in some other made-up prize of nothingness: “Bibliographs monthly honorary mention” or something at LEAST!

“A boy will meet a monster. He can not fight the monster himself. So he has to form a ka-teth of youth. ‘Mong them is a cute little lassie they all fuck to keep the monster away for another twenty years”, King explains from his caravan where he has written so many a story.

“My best stories I don’t even remember having written”, King offers lightly. Someone asked me about Roland yesterday, and I forgot who he was!”.

“I talked to Spielberg. He has the same problem. ‘ET? He said to me. I don’t know that schmuck!’. He’s gotten into this jiddish-phase also.. it’s abit disheartening.. over here.. in Atlantis.”

I can holler at the scholar.
But I can’t make him go.. away.
I want stupid little Cupid
to explain his new array.

Owen B – I O U
Cant you see Niburu?
It is there, in the plains.
Excavating all explains.

Grow a beard. Grow a pair.
Grow a garden. It aint fair.
It’s a butt-lense; it’s a shape;
it’s a form.. of rape.