un pied dans le donut

Time is a donut. Without start or finish. And hidden between the sugar glazing is professor Yifarasov foot, sweating like a sausage inside a microwave. The laboratory of the professor is full of huge metal machines and silver receptors, computers going bip bip, noisy steam machines twisting and moving, compressors and decompressors, cold floors and very tiny blinking lights. 

It is late but the professor can not go home. That old message shouts inside the professor's mind. He looks at green coordinates on the black box receptor and changes the channel. The body of the proff is shaking. He tries to have at least some control over his sweaty leg. His leg is the leg of an old man. All these years, he has been working towards this day. But he still feels that time is running out, the professor is scared and he needs more strength.

Before the message, the professor worked in an astronomic station. A little building outside Paris with a single tower. There, the professor received radio signals from the black space. A big ear antenna. The professor loved to tickle the big swarm of stars and listen. He heard the universe snore, a red star explode, whispers of sweet icy dreams, a blue comet passing. 

One night the professor stayed late. He wanted to hear the universe sleep. Gentle radio noise, waves going up up and then down and up and down again. But the universe was not sleeping it was awake. The universe looked back at the professor and screamed. A signal appearing on the monitor showed the death sentence. The signal came from beyond. There is no time to explain how those bouncing radio signals that traveled through void and stars, got translated into numbers, and then code, and then a message. But the message was clear and the professor understood it.  

The message was a military order. Not everything was clear. A cold and wet race of beings announced the future destruction of our planet, with date and time. Who the aliens were we do not know. Space lizards? Quartz robots or 5 legged shrimps? it did not matter. Nothing could stop the execution. The why played no role.  The giant ray gun slowly adjusted its aim to the coordinates of professor Yifarasov's office. Fire and death were coming from the dark sky.

The night that the message appeared, the printer was out of paper. So the memory of the professor was the only witness to the death sentence. No other station could corroborate the signal. No other witness. The professor's dishonourable dismissal from his job and his ban from all other academic institutions were not important. The only thing that the professor remembered was a date, a date that was getting closer and closer.

The professor worked quickly. The plan was straightforward but hard to implement. If nothing in the present could change the mind of our future killers then the only option was to go beyond the present. The professor spent every bit of energy within his body and put it to the same aim. The goal was to build a time machine. Every part of him was devoted to this purpose. 

To the professor's surprise, he was successful. He managed to build his time machine. The only problem the professor had, was that the time machine was not perfect. The time machine could travel through time and space, but only with a single object and one object only. And this object was the professor's left foot.

 It did not matter what the professor tried, the only thing that could get inside the time machine without breaking it was his left foot. With time becoming shorter and shorter, the professor had to be satisfied with what he had. There was no time to work on the time machine. So the professor acted. 

He needed to find someone either in the future or the past that would take pity on humanity and help us to not be exterminated. He also needed to convince them with nothing more than his left foot.

And so regardless of the solar system. Be it inhospitable deserts with toxic vapours..  or green blue jungles with slimy three-eyed creatures.. the little left foot from the professor peeked from an invisible time traveling window. Different planets with different gravities.  If it is silver mountains or purple skies with orange stars, it does not matter. It is always the same old foot shaking and getting sweatier, the background changes, but the foot is always the same.

The professor does not know where or to whom his foot is appearing. If the creature on the other side has eyes, ears, or a brain. Regardless, the professor tries his best to express what he needs to say. This, only only with a single foot.  Sometimes he hits the ground with force, making something like a morse code. Other times the professor makes a violent sensual dance with his foot, and other times he keeps the foot completely still and only moves the little finger on his foot, very slowly and very calmly. The professor tries different choreographs on different times and space dimensions. He tries to tell his story and the history of humanity, all of our virtues and why is it worth saving us, all of this only with his left foot. 

All this sweat and work. Alone. And the professor can not even tell if there is even someone listening at the other side. This is the real horror for the professor, not death but knowing that every attempt could be for nothing.

The left foot of the professor dances at different languages and using different logics, sometimes it does not move at all, it just communicates through sweaty smells and foot stink.

The day goes by with different codes, different dances, and different stories, but always with the same left foot. And so the left foot becomes shakier and shakier. And even though the professor has been dead for more than 3 years; his foot continues to appear all throughout the universe, like a ghost that can't sleep.  Saying the same speech with different words. The foot is everywhere and nowhere. At one point the foot will become so shaky that it inadvertently kicks an important member of an alien race of lizards. What happens next is not important, I know the foot will continue its mission. The foot continues to go across the universe. Appearing. like it appeared to me. The only person who understood its message.  And the person that made some drawings instead of passing the foot's message down.  Because who fucking cares what some aliens do with a ray gun? the lizards can drink my balls sweat. in the end, it is we humans who will kill each other. Alone, without the help of aliens or any ray gun. 

El pinta-fantasmas

 Los fantasmas no vienen de la muerte, vienen de la mente. Se exprimen desde nuestras cabezas, verdes y transparentes a través de tubos de cristal invisibles. Lo sé porque soy un fabricante de fantasmas. Voy por la ciudad e invento fantasmas, los planto en la cabeza de la gente y los veo crecer. Es muy fácil hacer un fantasma.  Basta con tener una historia y un objetivo y tener la paciencia de dejar que esa historia crezca hasta convertirse en un fantasma.

La historia no tiene por qué ser grande, tampoco tiene por qué ser clara. El otro día sentí que una historia latía en mi mente, así que fui a una gran tienda de muebles en el centro de Utrecht. Dentro de la tienda, tumbado en una cama, dejé un papelito que decía "Esta cama NO está poseída por el espíritu demoníaco de un pirata escocés" y así de fácil se plantó una semillita de fantasma.  No importaba que yo escribiera que no había ningún fantasma. La gente no puede contenerse, la paranoia se apodera de ellos y al cabo de un rato, puedo ver a un montón de fantasmas escoceses frescos cayendo a las calles como plátanos de un platanero fantasma.

Podía haber elegido otra profesión, pero esta era la profesión de mi padre, y como mi padre la hago. La paga no está mal y me gusta mi trabajo. Como soy soltero, los fantasmas me hacen compañía.

Hoy más que nunca. La gente necesita esperanza. La gente está triste, con noticias siempre malas, siempre nueva gente que desaparece, siempre nueva gente que se muere. Por eso la gente necesita fantasmas. Los fantasmas ayudan a dibujar la sombra de un  sentido. Mi papá me dijo eso. Decía que los fantasmas son buenos, que ayudan a la gente a creer que hay algo más que el caos del aquí y ahora. Mi papá decía que los fantasmas dan forma a las cosas, una forma que tiene sentido para la gente. Sin ese sentido no hay nada. Si no hay nada, no hay razón para hacer algo, no hay razón para levantarse a las cuatro de la mañana y trabajar en la panadería. Si no hay panadería, no hay croissants calientes. Y si no hay croissants calientitos, no tengo nada que comer. Me encantan los croissants calientitos y dulces.

No sé quién paga para que yo vaya a llenar las calles de espíritus fluorescentes. Los sobres con dinero siempre llegan a tiempo, así que no me quejo. Tengo dinero suficiente para sentarme en un café toda la tarde. Me siento a ver mis fantasma-globos verdes volando por las calles.

A veces creo juegos de fantasmas para pasar el rato. Las personas son como prismas a los que apuntar la luz, así que simplemente juego con mis prismas y veo qué colores y fantasmas salen de ellos...

Un juego al que me gusta jugar es crear una descripción del fantasma como: "el espíritu de un vaquero, que lleva un sombrero, y encima de ese sombrero el fantasma lleva otro sombrero igual pero más pequeño y en ese sombrero más pequeño lleva un sombrero aún más pequeño, y encima de ese sombrero pequeñito lleva un sombrerito de juguete chiquitito, y cada sombrero tiene un sombrero más pequeño y así hasta el infinito".  Cuantos fantasmas vaqueros hago.  Salen caminando altos, con sus grandes torres de sombreros. Pero la gente no puede visualizar sombreros hasta el infinito. Y de eso se trata. Me gusta contar cuántos sombreros puede imaginar una persona. A veces el fantasma tiene 8, a veces 6, si son pendejos 4 pero a veces consigo muchos como 20. Cambio mis descripciones y trato de conseguir la puntuación más alta. Si una persona hace un fantasma con muchos sombreros le doy un croissant como premio, y eso significa mucho para mí porque me gustan mucho los croissants.

No sólo me divierto, a veces también me gusta investigar. Investigo un tema que me interesa, como ¿Qué hace que una ceja sea fea? asi de la nada es difícil de decir...Por eso doy una vaga descripción de fantasma como: "el fantasma de un niño con una sola ceja fea" y después de ver a todos los niños fantasmas con sus cejas feas puedo entender realmente lo que hace que una ceja sea realmente fea. Y entonces me siento sabio porque yo sé cosas que la mayoría de la gente ignora.

Veo a mis fantasmas favoritos arrastrándose como una gran serpiente, llevando sombreros y montando mascotas, mojándose con la lluvia. Los fantasmas no van a trabajar, simplemente pasean por las calles hasta que se disuelven como algodón de azúcar verde y pegajoso.

A veces estoy paseando por la calle comiendo un croissant y entonces siento como un fantasma se me mete por la nariz. La sensación del fantasma metiéndose dentro de mí hace que casi quiera vomitar mi dulce croissant. Porque cuando el fantasma está dentro de mi nariz el olor del fantasma me hace notar mi propio olor. Y no me gusta ese olor a podrido. Es olor a cerveza caliente, de mediocridad, de repetir el mismo ciclo y hacer felices a los mismos fantasmas y a esa gente que me manda dinero en sobres blancos.

Esos sentimientos me hacen sentir triste conmigo mismo, y me pregunto si no podría hacer algo diferente, algo que no sea un fantasma. Quizá un caballo rojo que sepa cantar o una papaya azul que brille de color verde. Quizá un mundo sin fantasmas no sería un mal mundo.  Pero sé que hacer cosas diferentes puede traer problemas grandes.

Cuando era joven vi a un hombre raro trepando a un árbol muy grande. El hombre llevaba ropas raras, como él y un gran sombrero con cintas de colores. Trepar a un árbol era algo diferente. No sé por qué alguien se subiría a un árbol tan grande. No pude preguntarle porque antes de que pudiera hacer nada vi como el hombre se caía del árbol. El hombre raro se cayó y se murió. Antes de morir aullaba hasta que un pequeño charco de saliva se le derramó por la barbilla.  Y ese último grito sonó con la misma voz que el viento.

Este hombre tuvo una vida antes, pero ahora es un fantasma translúcido. Un fantasma en mi pequeño ejército de fantasmas. Cuando estaba vivo, este hombre no sólo era raro, pero un pervertido . Su pasatiempo favorito era caminar muy despacito detrás de la gente... los acechaba durante horas y cuando no miraban se acercaba despacito y tiujjjjjj  les daba un lamidito adentro de la oreja. Un húmedo y cálido lametón dentro del hoyo de la oreja. Ahora está muerto. Pero no por eso se detiene. Todavía va por ahí lamiendo las orejas de la gente. La muerte no le paró esa lengua lamedora.

Espera un segundo y siente tu oreja.  ¿Sientes un pequeño cosquilleo? como un rocesito invisible, ¿Puedes sentir la punta de su lengua? es sólo un pequeño roce, se siente casi como comezón. 

pip, pip, siente tu oreja .... pip, pip, pip, siente ese toquesito en tu oreja ....

Veo al fantasma siguiéndote a casa después de que leas esto. Te seguirá a casa y nunca se irá. Se quedará contigo.  Te lamerá la oreja cuando no estés mirando. No hay sacerdote que lo exorcise. No importa cuánto grites, no se irá. El fantasma del hombre raro te va a dar pequeños lametones en la oreja hasta el día que te mueras. Te seguirá a todos lados,  trepará por las paredes de tu baño para verte mear.

Pero no te preocupes, hay una manera. Sé cómo ahuyentar a este fantasma malcriado. Piensa en un fuego que arda más fuerte que el infierno. Abre la nevera, saca la mantequilla y la leche. Añade la harina, el azúcar, la sal y la levadura y prepara la masa en forma de rectángulo grande. Con cuidado, encierra la capa de mantequilla dentro de la masa y dóblala en triangulitos, repite este proceso una y otra vez. Cuando hayas terminado, deja el croissant recién horneado frente a tu ventana exactamente a las 6 de la mañana.

Cuando el sol trae un nuevo día. Un nuevo día con nuevas historias tristes. Nueva gente que desaparece y nueva que muere. Pero en las ventanas los croissants esperan... calientitos, dulces y crujientes

ACU

I want to start with very short memory of my childhood before speaking about something more serious. So first the memory. When i was small my brother had a imaginary friend, it was a blue tiger called Balu, and i was very jealous as a child, because i also wanted an imaginary friend, but i think when i was a child i was stupid. i spent so much time thinking and being angry and jealous at my brother because he had an imaginary friend and i didn't, and it never occurred me i could just imagine my own imaginary friend

now talking about the serious thing, this is something i would prefer not to talk about... but there has been something worrying happening lately, i been coming to int open stage for a while. Listening to different people. but recently i have noticed that a lot of the poems and lyrics that i hear from different people here are being posted online as original poems by a different person. (I do not mean videos telling of the night, i mean someone pretending they created the poems shown here) And this without giving credit or consent. I Was not sure at the start, but this has been happening quite consistently for a while now. Sure the poems were modified and were not 1 on 1 copies, but still, it was very noticeable. 

 Now this person is in the room right now, I have confronted them and talked with them. They don't want to be public about who they are.  It's very difficult to talk about this and not look at this person, that is here with us.  When I talked to them they agreed what they did is not acceptable and that they would stop.  This person agreed before to apologize here in person. However, they got cold feet before the start and asked me to read this letter in their place:

I am sorry. I am very sorry for taking the poems and I am sorry I did not ask or gave credit. I did not wish to hurt the people. Even though i am sad for my actions and i will not repeat them. If I stole was only because I wanted to build something tall and big, like  a big tower from where i could see the whole jungle and the other animals. I did not understood this would upset people. It is difficult for me to understand how art can be owned. Every word used in a poem was not invented in a vacuum by the poet. And poems are only meaningful as long as there is someone else to listen to them. Maybe I think like this is because I am a tiger. We do not have copyright law here in the jungle. for me poems, art and knowledge have a collective base.  Maybe it is easy for me to say this because I am a tiger and i do not need to pay rent. I can just eat bubblegum buffalos or drink some lemonade. But most people need money to live, and poems are things you can sell. Not for much, but you can try. 

I am just a tiger that dances in the jungle. But while I dance in my chair made from fresh bananas rotten stuff happens in that world of yours. There is an army of computer programs looking for every word and picture they can find on the internet. They take all that ancient knowledge and information and feed them to their big computer programs and algorithms. These computer programs use that information to make new texts and pictures. They make new things following simple instructions, after a few seconds. I can not tell if that is art I am just a tiger. But what I know is that those texts and pictures will be used by big companies to sell garbage products that will turn into real garbage garbage, garbage garbage in the sea, or garbage garbage burned with the forests from my jungle.n What i know is all the original artists that made the original stuff from which the machines learned to do all their tricks will get nothing, nothing but that garbage garbage. I am glad I live in the jungle and not where you guys live. 

Do not be sad though, be brave, let the animals drink from you and let the plants that grow in your bank say hi to the sun so they can not freeze. Fight. Defeat the computer.  Write a better poem than that stupid algorithm, and when you do please let me steal it. 

Big love Balu the red tiger

https://firstmonday.org/article/view/938/860 

https://firstmonday.org/article/view/938/860

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/RiP!:_A_Remix_Manifesto 

Balu the green tiger