Yesterday I went to see an old friend I hadn't seen in absolutely ages n it was great. N she lives about 2 minutes away from my place! Fantastix. Well I was gonna write fantastic but it's fantastix now=) There you go.. We talked about all sorts n there might even be a school reunion (grades 1 to 6, I don't really know what that is in wnglish or english either=) ala-aste for all you Finnish readers (all..?) ) That would be interesting, seeing people for the first time in 16 years. Wow.. N that brings me to good ol Switzerland n mountains!
Majestic ol misty mountains I spent part of my youth under..
Dang beautiful things! N so human like in some ways.. Regrettably never got to go to the top.. my bro did tho.. said it was amazing as I can well imagine..
There's even a little restaurant on the tipedy top:
View from top I believe.. Amazing photographer by the way! Found his pics just now. One David Kaplan
Very good stuff. Really want to go back to ol Schwyz n get to the top of that mighty mountain! I really dig mountains. Beautiful things!
Yez, yez. which leads me somehow to another of me "heroes" if you will, the saintly Jack Kerouac!
Aah he was an angel of a man! (well not in real life I've gathered.. he was a bit of a shit really, but he wrote like an angel!) Really cool dude! Will find some good passages soon n put them up here. I think I'll go for my annual read of On the Road soon.. It sort of creeps up slowly n then that feeling just grows n grows n it's just perfect. N it's a pleasure every time!
(First edition cover. Not my favourite but couldn't find a good pic of it for this occasion..)
N from ol Jack I jump over to the fabulous Mark Lanegan!
He's just the coolest dude. Been diggin him for a while now. I think maybe the greatest voice in rock (or any genre..) at the moment.. (or even ever.. hmm..) Beautiful, dark, brooder who seems to suffer for his art n cries n bleeds those words with such deep down low down mysterious soul n he delivers that poetry to you with such feeling that you feel it in ur heart n guts.
I'd like t see a film made of him n his journeys.. A big poetic film, kind of rough lookin, beautifully gritty n raw, wonderful landscapes, misty autumns n chill winters, rainy drunken nights in bars, n moody dawns in some forlorn ol town, n he cuts this poetry out of his hard life of toil n woe n love, such deep n passionate dramatic poetic love. That'd be a film! Maybe have Tom Waits play him (uncanny resemblance anyway.. looks n voice..)or that dude from Robin Hood who played Guy of Gisborne (had to look him up.. Michael Wincott)That would be sweet.
Mark Lanegan's got an album comin out soon too. N I've got tickets to see him play in HKI. Lookin forward to seein him again!
N now fro the daily Krishnamurti:
You have only one head and look after it for it's a marvellous thing. No machinery, no electronic computers can compare with it. It's so vast, so complex, so utterly capable, subtle and productive. It's the storehouse of experience, knowledge, memory. All thought springs from it. What it has put together is quite incredible: the mischief, the confusion, the sorrows, the wars, the corruptions, the illusions, the ideals, the pain and misery, the great cathedrals, the lovely mosques and the sacred temples. It is fantastic what it has done and what it can do. But one thing it apparently cannot do: change completely its behaviour in its relationship to another head, to another man. Neither punishment nor reward seem to change its behaviour; knowledge doesn't seem to
transform its conduct. The me and the you remain. It never realises that the me is the you, that the observer is the observed. Its love is its degeneration; its pleasure is its agony; the gods of its ideals are its destroyers. Its freedom is its own prison; it is educated to live in this prison, only making it more comfortable, more pleasurable. You have only one head, care for it, don't destroy it. It's so easy to poison it.
He always had this strange lack of distance between himself and the trees, rivers and mountains. It wasn't cultivated: you can't cultivate a thing like that. There was never a wall between him and another. What they did to him, what they said to him never seemed to wound him, nor flattery to touch him. Somehow he was altogether untouched. He was not withdrawn, aloof, but like the waters of a river. HE had so few thoughts; no thoughts at all when he was alone. His brain was active when talking or writing but otherwise it was quiet and active without movement. Movement is time and activity is not.
The strange activity, without direction, seems to go on, sleeping or waking. He wakes up often with that activity of meditation; something of this nature is going on most of the time. He never rejected it or invited it. The other night he woke up, wide awake. He was aware that something like a ball of fire, light, was being put into his head, into the very centre of it. He watched it objectively for a considerable time, as though it were happening to someone else. It was not an illusion, something conjured up by the mind.
Thar you go!