Cancerland

One of the boring days in the neighbourhood. I, today, wake up thirsty as hell, just like the old days. The apartment at which I live is as poisonous as at least the city I live in. I don't mind my sore-throat and I just put the half-empty whisky bottle in my mouth.

I feel a little dizzy once I get up. By getting some help from the furnitures around me, I get myself out of the home, which is possibly the worst one. I have my viewfinder with me. It's as if I curse at all the people who live in this city when I get outside and breath in the nitrous smell in the air. At the people, who think that there is still life in this town. Ten years gone, maybe. How much more can the dirty rain that runs through the cracked walls contaminate me and this city? This city is like a recycle bin. It somehow can't get me, you, and the radiation out of the place, it constantly wakes us all. We all wake up. We all die. Ten years gone. I am still here. Cancer is still here.

Today, just like the other days, is unspecial. No day is special. Unless someone thinks it is. A special day, is only being disrespectful to the other days. It is to curse, the idea of a special day. To your own existence.

I watch this middle-aged married couple which lives by the side of my apartment for a while. That woman's hips are my specials. How long has it been that I realised there weren't any good neighbourhood in this city? Ten years, maybe.

I breath in the nitrous smoke of my cigarette with the nitrous smell in the air. I could never decide on which one was more nitrous. I walk for a while. Around that wet, muddy, and full of shit smelling rocky road. These people has builded up their home upon a tiny hill. They've also put some windows for their one storied rancid house. As if there is a worthy landscape to be seen. This fucked up city is not even worthy to be smelled.

I take my viewfinder. I'm at least one hundred meters away to that slum. The sky is as overcast as it could ever be. I live with a tsunami expectation for years in this neighbourhood, this fucked up place is at least ten miles away to the sea. I sometimes want to foretell an unnecessary prophecy, just like other people, for the city. Something like, this city would be erased from the map by a tsunami. It shouldn't be very hard to be supported by holy books. If all the people get the fuck out of here, this city might be endurable.

I start watching the house. If you put windows for your house in this city, you seriously want to be watched by me. To get peeked. Yes, I like this. The brown woman heads to the living room, shaking her hips. There is an indepence competition in between the hip lops of this woman. As if she doesn't own the hips but the hips own her. This woman thinks by her hips, smells by her hips, and makes love by her hips. It's like the center of gravity, the hottest spot in the whole world. As if she deserves to be peeked by me, even in that nasty peasant skirt. One day, when the guy beats up my brown woman again, I'm going to break in and kill him in front of her eyes. I don't have a gun and this is going to make me even wilder but it's okay. We're living in Cancerland, aren't we? Nobody asks me anything because I've killed a woman's husband. In fact, that's not the half of it. I'm going to replace the husband I've killed. Yes, I'm very sceptical to pay a whore. That ghetto woman and her hips are going to be mine soon and I'm going to be hers. Just like my viewfinder.

L'oubli

I used to make love when I had headaches, back then. Now all my body is sore. What could a little creature with black eyes do to me? To someone who was on the verge and said: "not now", someone that is no brave. I now ask the brain particle that gets rotted in my skull: "when will you end?" I am the paranoid that thinks all the world got together to destroy me. Yes.

When I want to live like these unconcerned women that wear daisies right on their ears, I now feel the thorns that stab my brain lobes through my skull. Still, those silence movie frames that go through my eyes, make me feel like I do have a brain. I once heard this sentence from a very bizarre animation movie: "Remembering is a more psychotic activity than forgetting." Yes. It exactly said this. I at least know that I am not a psycho. I accept it, like the people who agree with all these descriptive sentences. Yes, I am not a psycho. I am at least not this. I forget everything. I forget the people I thought I would never forget, the moments I said I would never forget, all of them... I one more time will fade away with my emotionless frame of my mind that hit the bottom till there is no even a tiny memory in my mind. How wonderful! I will become a goldfish soon. There won't even be a memory to forget. Who cares for someone who doesn't even remember a frame from his life? I now know the difference between saying, I don't remember and I don't know. That would be: NOTHING...

My Name is Paranoid

My name is Paranoid. I once left my girl supposing we could somehow get back together. I now smoke cigarettes to forget. I think, I did. If I didn't, why would I be even writing this? I am one of those idiots, who think that all the details of life are stable. I'm as paranoid as to pull the trigger that's put in my mouth. I never let the priority, don't I? Has anyone done anything before I have? Have I got anything to be upset with so that I can also be happy? 

That day, I glanced at my coffee on the table and exactly said this: "Do you know why people get happy?" I continued without waiting for another question over mine. "Because they know that some people are not." How could a person get happy if he knew that all people on the earth were happy? If all these people around the world were rich, being poor would be something wonderful.

There was an only one song in my head after these eternal discussions. Soul Kitchen by The Doors. Morrison said this:

"I light another cigarette,

Learn to forget."

Frankenstein

Frankenstein, est un roman gothique écrit par Mary Shelley et il critique la relation entre l’homme et le dieu, il a été transformé en des bandes dessinées affreuse et qu’est complément bousillé avec l’effort de  « NTV maison d’édition » ; par contre, il y a deux films adaptations belle de Frankenstein : « Frankenstein, en 1931 » et « La Fiancée de Frankenstein, en 1935. »

Frankenstein en 1931, a été un film peu plus long qu’une heure et en noir et blanc, naturellement.  Le monstre dans le film a été différent ; bien au contraire, le monstre caractère du livre a été décrit.  Exemple, le caractère, qui a été joué par Boris Karloff, ne pouvait pas parler et il a été ressuscité avec le cerveau de quelqu’un morbide. Après la scène effarante dans la cimetière au début du film, Dr. Frankenstein envoie Fritz de voler un les cerveaux à l’Université. Il y a deux nombres cerveaux dans la classe. « Cerveau Normal » et « Cerveau Anormal ». Le cerveau, est défini à titre de « cerveau normal », est membre de quelqu’un qui n’a pas d’ennuis et il n’a pas d’ennuis psychologiques, aussi; mais, « cerveau anormal » est membre de quelqu’un qu’a une personnalité sadique. Après Fritz laisse cerveau normal sur le parquet, il prend l’autre et il ne parle pas sur l’accident à Dr. Frankenstein. L’action absurde se développe de cette manière. Originalement, l’énonciation de Le Fiancée de Dr. Frankenstein est mieux, techniquement; mais dans Frankenstein, l’histoire de ressuscitation de la monstre a été traité pour la première fois, les scènes fantastiques plus ont été traités, originalement.

Le rôle de Frankenstein a été offert à Bela Lugosi; mais lui-même, il a pensé qu’il abîme son charisme, probablement ; il a refusé. Par hasard, Lugosi, qui penser qu’il serait déshonoré avec le rôle de Frankenstein, n’a pas hésité jouer en les films de Ed Wood. Au total, il devint son dernier. La annotation, de je parle sur quoi, a été relaté dans le film de Tim Burton quel est Ed Wood (qui a été dénommé ainsi le réalisateur pire).

Il y a aussi des références mythologiques dans Frankenstein de Mary Shelley. Exemple, tel que le docteur vivifie le monstre avec la foudre. Originalement, c’est la référence à Prométhée de la grecque mythologie et puis cette œuvre a été publiée à titre de « Frankenstein ou le Prométhée moderne »  en Turquie.

Si nous citons sur Prométhée :

« Prométhée, qui a été su dénomme ainsi le fils de Iapetus, est le artisan expert. Il voler le feu de Zeus pour conduire y a l’humanité. Bien plus, selon un autre mythe, il crée l’humaine en l’argile et il a lui vivifié avec une partie de le feu divin. » La logique de rendre l’âme à l’humaine avec le feu, ici, elle a été symbolisée à titre de le foudre dans le film et le livre.

L’histoire de La Fiancée de Frankenstein s’est remplissant avec le drame et l’intrigue à l’encontre de l’horreur. Je pense que l’amour de Elizabeth et le docteur n’ont pas réfléchis bon (parce qu’on a focalisé plus sur le monstre); mais, le monstre ne parle dans ce film, à titre de le film première, a été bon. Sauf erreur, il a été fait avec les demandes de Boris Karloff. La fiancée aussi, a été bonne conçus. Littéralement, elle est une dame gothique.

Il y a aussi une parodie de Frankenstein, ainsi nommé « Frankenstein Junior » en 1974.

En somme, quand Frankenstein de Mary Shelley a une atmosphère gothique (l’ambiance pluvieuse et grisâtre de l’Angleterre, des bâtiments grands et anciens, la maison qu’est le docteur développe son travail et ainsi de suite), le Frankenstein avec Boris Karloff a été décoré avec l’horreur et la tension. Une petite annotation, je ne sais pas si Mary Shelley a essayé de multiplier l’intrigue avec les caractères turcs mais elle a écrit quelque chose irréel. Si tu ne sais pas sur les turcs, tu n’as pas écrit à. Nous sommes bien de la sorte à savoir. Exemple, dans le livre « Neuromancien » de William Gibson, il y a un livre à İstanbul. Il a décrit de façon qu’il ait été un turc. Mais les fixages de Mary Shelley sur les hommes turcs a été très bas et irréel.

En dernier, dans la chanson « My Creation » de l’album « Rust in Peace » quelle a été publiée après ans, il y a un Frankenstein référence. Cette chanson quelle est la plupart du peuple ne prête pas attention au album merveilleux; originalement, il a montré à nous comment capture une bonne énonciation avec les paroles simples. La voix de Dave Mustaine provient entre des riffs de guitare difficile :

« I’ll make for you

A soul-mate to love

Unlike your love for me,

And you’ll take my name.

She will be your bride,

She will serve me, too,

And I will introduce to you… the Bride!

The Bride of Frankenstein!”

Originalement, quand il a été une chanson qui critique la relation entre l’homme et le dieu, elle est devenue quelque chose comme : « Mary Shelley a aussi fait, pourquoi ne pas nous faire une référence de Frankenstein ? »

An Unborn Child

He woke up and washed the burr on his face away. He was still sleepy as always. His girlfriend was to prepare some food for breakfast. As she got out of the bath, she hugged and kissed him. They walked down the hallway and entered the living room. Having a nice breakfast, some things were still wrong. They knew it. They’d been suspecting that the girl was pregnant. It’s a usual thought if an adult girl is not having her period on time. Especially, if the same girl have sex with her boyfriend each night.

“All hell can’t stop us now.”

Things are always fucked up. His old girlfriend used to say “life always screws you up whenever you try to put a meaning to it.”

An unborn child’s life is to screw up his whole life. No one knows what kind of coincidences chain builds up his own identity.

How can you blame a person because he is not acting like a responsible man if no one asked him “do you ever want to exist in this fucking world?” How can you decide on giving birth to an unborn child when he might choose to not come to this world? If a mother is so full of love for her child, why does she only care for her life by having a kid?

An unborn child’s destiny is drawn by his parents, who always talk about “free will”. But this time, he’s lucky. His father knows the truth. He’ll never have his girl give a birth to a child, who’ll occasionally talk about how he wants to die and to be never existed. He knows everything. He knows that he cannot live with these lies. He’d taken a knife and stabbed his girl right through her stomach. The blood was everywhere. The girl was screaming like hell. She had died in his arms. Everything is normal now. Everything is peaceful. An unborn child’s life had already screwed up his whole life. He’d lost everything and won over his little child.

Passion takes over the place. He’d got closed to the unborn child’s shadow and said: “May the force be with you.” Peace is everywhere, in her dead body, in the child’s soul, all over the bloody knife.

Peace always wins... Because we starve for it. No one knows what it means. Every bloody war ends up in peace. This is our lies of running from the truth. “She’s now in peace”. “His body is resting now.”

Making decisions in place of someone else is always what we dream of. Nevertheless, no one gives us that chance and it makes us bloody whores. He suddenly realised the truth and instead of writing “Rest in Peace” on his family’s gravestones, he’d carved these words:

“Rust in Peace”...

How to Hit the Bottom

Sitting in a green couch in which they always get uncomfortable feelings. If only a soul-mate (if so called) fills you with blank feelings, you can just ask yourself “why am I going through this pointless relationship?” They keep saying, I love you, though. Such a meanless progress, when you are just full-filled with such emptiness. Still, you sometimes miss that feeling. This is the weird part, I think. This makes you realize that you are still a human.

Have you ever thought that you look like a chimpanzee when you are kissing the one you love? Having your lips upon her lips, such an ugly moment. Picturing people having sex is also a comedia. However, you keep enjoying this ugly moment because of your penis. I would like to say to her, “you have a moustache”. Still, girls are considered beautiful because they have cunts.

Whenever you think of your life putting in order, you always end up with this shitty result: why so serious? Because it’s never “that” serious and you just get mad at yourself. Why would you even need this person when she/he already screws up your whole life? Yet it sounds like a teenager complaining, it’s the truth itself.

As long as you realise, life is not that serious, you start worrying about others because they are way too serious. People, who are get involved with politics, for instance. Thinking their country is such a holy country, sounds like they are just bunch of losers. In fact, they completely are. Kids grow up with their idiotic bravery stories and end up the same. It’s like, you are living in this country so it must be the best one because you are the best. I think, the basic feeling behind this fascism is totally about that. You love your country because you love yourself. You think you deserve this much but you are totally fucked up. And if you realise that you are fucked up before you die, they blame you by calling you an anarchist or public enemy.

Realising that you are fucked up with all the details of your life and accepting it is sort of a total freedom. Just glide along, like the water itself. Everything goes from your life and you’re such a loser. And until you’re accepting this truth, you are totally lost. If you’d been an immortal as you thought, you wouldn’t have watched super-hero movies. You watch those stuff because it impresses you, being an immortal. Because you are totally fucked up and no one gives you a shit. In fact, some people even want you dead because of your identity.

Some say: “Pretend that you’re fine” but it’s always far away from that and you keep trying it over and over again. I’ve found my own solution: “accept the truth and confront with it” which should be accepting how your life sucks and how pathetic you are because this is the only truth. Accept all of the details one by one until the end.

“Music is your only friend,

 Until the end...” - James Douglas Morrison.