http://search.deviantart.com/?q=by:bujacob&section=today deviantART RSS for by:bujacob en-us Copyright 2009, deviantART.com Thu, 10 Dec 2009 21:43:18 PST deviantART.com http://blogs.law.harvard.edu/tech/rss http://s.deviantart.com/minish/widgets/apple-touch-icon-precomposed.png http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/7016451/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/7016451/ Fri, 11 Nov 2005 08:17:26 PST






Listening to: The Mountain Goats - The Sunset Tree
Reading: Howard Zinn - A People's History of the US
Watching: Shaolin Soccer

Dear Friends.... does anyone know how I've come to be a subscribed member again. I don't know if it was an error, soon to be corrected, or a kind gesture. If it is the latter I am deeply grateful to you for your gesture and if it is the former..... well.... I dunno then.

ok... ....

Anyone who gets the chance please do yourself a favour and read People's History of US... it will blow your minds.

************************************************



"I suspect writing is a bit like fucking, which is only fun for amateurs. Old whores don't do much giggling." ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/6746557/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/6746557/ Wed, 12 Oct 2005 08:36:03 PDT ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/6738378/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/6738378/ Tue, 11 Oct 2005 10:43:39 PDT ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4782769/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4782769/ Fri, 11 Mar 2005 03:05:47 PST






Mood: Euphoric Hangover
Listening to: Bonnie Prince Billy - Sings Greatest Palace Music
Reading: Alastair Reynolds - Chasm City
Watching: Kung Pow - Enter the Fist

I've been listening to a lot of Johnny Cash lately and I have to say that he's one of the greatest lyricists dead or alive. It is not only what he says, but he's the only one that can deliver it. There's a line in this song where his voice just drops ten octaves and you're left with the rumbling thunder through your chest cavity.

I've been taking a lot of pictures as it snowed here. When I finally get through them all I hope to post a couple of interesting shots. Especially as it's rare to see London blanketed in snow.

Johnny Cash Lyrics - The Man Comes Around



And I heard, as it were, the noise of thunder: One of the four beasts saying: "Come and see." And I saw. And behold, a white horse.
There's a man goin' 'round takin' names. An' he decides who to free and who to blame. Everybody won't be treated all the same. There'll be a golden ladder reaching down. When the man comes around.

The hairs on your arm will stand up. At the terror in each sip and in each sup. For you partake of that last offered cup, Or disappear into the potter's ground. When the man comes around.

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singin'. Multitudes are marching to the big kettle drum. Voices callin', voices cryin'. Some are born an' some are dyin'. It's Alpha's and Omega's Kingdom come.

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree. The virgins are all trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree. It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

Till Armageddon, no Shalam, no Shalom. Then the father hen will call his chickens home. The wise men will bow down before the throne. And at his feet they'll cast their golden crown. When the man comes around.

Whoever is unjust, let him be unjust still. Whoever is righteous, let him be righteous still. Whoever is filthy, let him be filthy still. Listen to the words long written down, When the man comes around.

Hear the trumpets, hear the pipers. One hundred million angels singin'. Multitudes are marchin' to the big kettle drum. Voices callin', voices cryin'. Some are born an' some are dyin'. It's Alpha's and Omega's Kingdom come.

And the whirlwind is in the thorn tree. The virgins are all trimming their wicks. The whirlwind is in the thorn tree. It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks.

In measured hundredweight and penny pound. When the man comes around.

And I heard a voice in the midst of the four beasts, And I looked and behold: a pale horse. And his name, that sat on him, was Death. And Hell followed with him.

**************************************** ********



"I suspect writing is a bit like fucking, which is only fun for amateurs. Old whores don't do much giggling." ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4724597/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4724597/ Fri, 04 Mar 2005 04:40:23 PST






Mood: smooth
Listening to: The Trilok Gurtu Collection
Reading: Alastair Reynolds - Chasm City
Watching: Hotel Rwanda

The British Censors would like Emir Kusturica to cut a scene in which a cat attacks a dead pigeon from his film Life is a Miracle a typically full-blooded romance set against the backdrop of the Bosnian war. He has refused and rightly so. This is what he said:

"I just don't get it. The pigeon was already dead, we found it in the road. And no other censor has objected. What is the problem with you English? You killed millions of Indians and Africans, and yet you go nuts about the circumstances of the death of a single Serbian pigeon. I am touched you hold the lives of Serbian birds so dear, but you are crazy. I will never understand how your minds work."

I also heard this great song on the tube this morning. I thought I would share.



THE STREETS LYRICS

"Could Well Be In"

Cuz her last relationship fucked her up.
Got hurt majorly, finds it tough to trust.
Looked at the ashtray, then looked back up,
Spinnin it away on the tabletop.
She looked much fitter than saturday just.
She worked in JD's with dan.
Back then I figured she was pretty damn rough,
But she was only wearin her work stuff.
And in these clothes she looked more than buff,
She stirred her straw, sat up to adjust.
I told her I thought it was important,
That you could get lost in conversation.
Chattin shit, sittin in, oblivion
With that person who's your special one.
She said she was the worst pool player under the sun,
But blokes go easy so she always won.

I saw this thing on ITV the other week,
Said, that if she played with her hair, she's probably keen
She's playin with her hair, well regularly,
So i reckon i could well be in.

She didn't look too bored with what I was sayin.
Her hair looked much better than the other day.
She had her fingers 'round her hair, playin'.
I Saw on the telly that's a good indication.
Stood up to buy the next drink though, "Nay."
Suppose that's just our girl's way.
Im tryin to think what else I could say,
Peelin' the label off, spinnin the ashtray.
Yeah actually, yes, she did look pretty neat.
Her perfume smelled expensive and sweet.
I felt like my hair looked a bit cheap,
Wished I'd had it cut back last week.
She kept givin me this look, cuz she would speak.
Was she only friendly, or was she a keep?
Asked her if she wanted the same again to drink.
Started to turn and get up out my seat.

I saw this thing on ITV the other week,
Said, that if she played with her hair, she's probably keen
She's playin with her hair, well regularly,
So i reckon i could well be in.

She said that her close mates all were
Always the most important thing to her.
I said I thought it was a bit more blurred.
She asked what I meant by that as she stirred.
I told her about the money and what had occurred
With it goin missing from the living room, so.
With my best mates all there standin by,
Right where I left it, under their eyes.
So surely one of them might have spied
What happened to my money at that time.
I felt like they were all smilin on the side.
She was like "fair play" she couldn't say why.
She didn't know what all my mates were like.
And I said she just might be right.
Wish I had someone I could always rely,
Someone to get lost chattin to all night.

I saw this thing on ITV the other week,
Said, that if she played with her hair, she's probably keen
She's playin with her hair, well regularly,
So i reckon i could well be in.

As I walked back with more drinks to our place,
She had her phone stuck to the side of her face.
I sat for a minute while she chatted away
'bout somethin with her mom and her birthday.
Played for a bit with the same ashtray,
Thought about things while i sat and waited.
It was nice to chat about the shit in my... ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4587485/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4587485/ Tue, 15 Feb 2005 08:02:42 PST






Mood: creased
Listening to: Bjork - Debut
Reading: Michael Ondaatje - The English Patient
Watching: Intermission

I've realised that my capacity to endure being told that I'm a bad boy by anyone has been completely dissipated. It feels like any attack would see my defences crumple. I feel as fragile as I was at seventeen. Like a man made of glass, or a web of glazed sugar. People can poke holes in me with their fingers, with the gentlest of touches. I feel the need to put back on a cumbersome armour of thick iron. Heavy and unwieldy, my softness would be cocooned within, untouchable. I could stomp around crushing all that stood before me, my only fear being toppled over my shell cracked upon by the amassing scavengers and the soft insides devoured in seconds. Or maybe it's fate that lies in ambush ready to leap out and swing its mallet reducing all protection and crushing me within my own shell.

I came accross this today in the book that I'm reading. Its darkness breaches the mundane and overwhelms the reader. Pure genius.

Sometime in 1931 I joined a Bedouin caravan and was told there was another one of us there. Fenelon-Barnes, it turned out. I went to his tent. He was out for the day on some small expedition, cataloguing fossil trees. I looked around his tent, the sheaf of maps, the photos he always carried of his family, et cetera. As I was leaving I saw a mirror tacked up high against the skin wall , and looking at it I saw the reflection of the bed. There seemed to be a small lump, a dog possibly, under the covers. I pulled back the djellaba and there was a small Arab girl tied up, sleeping there.

]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4493528/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4493528/ Fri, 04 Feb 2005 04:34:10 PST






Mood: Peaceful
Listening to: Bjork - Debut
Reading: Michael Ondaatje - The English Patient
Watching: The Human Body

Bob Marley's 60th birthday is coming up. Sadly he's gone the way of Che and really only remembered for cool tshirts and kids that just want to get high. But his message is very applicable today as the oppression continues and hope is crushed time and time again. The road of blind consumerism and shaking booties is distracting us from our servitude. The are pleased when we dehumanise ourselves so that we no longer demand the respect we deserve as people.

So in memory of the pure Marley, the pre-exploited Marley who not only brought tears to my eyes and sent chills down my spine, but raised my consciousness that there could be beauty running deeper than the shallow waters of bling.

I present you with the lyrics of Redemption song.

Old pirates, yes, they rob i;
Sold I to the merchant ships,
Minutes after they took i
From the bottomless pit.
But my hand was made strong
By the ’and of the almighty.
We forward in this generation
Triumphantly.
Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom? -
’cause all I ever have:
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs.

Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
None but ourselves can free our minds.
Have no fear for atomic energy,
’cause none of them can stop the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look? ooh!
Some say it’s just a part of it:
We’ve got to fulfil de book.

Won’t you help to sing
These songs of freedom? -
’cause all I ever have:
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs;
Redemption songs.
---
/guitar break/
---
Emancipate yourselves from mental slavery;
None but ourselves can free our mind.
Wo! have no fear for atomic energy,
’cause none of them-a can-a stop-a the time.
How long shall they kill our prophets,
While we stand aside and look?
Yes, some say it’s just a part of it:
We’ve got to fulfil de book.
Won’t you help to sing
Dese songs of freedom? -
’cause all I ever had:
Redemption songs -
All I ever had:
Redemption songs:
These songs of freedom,
Songs of freedom.

]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4446904/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4446904/ Sat, 29 Jan 2005 16:41:05 PST






Mood: Qana3a
Listening to: Guns & Roses - Use Your Illusions
Reading: Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
Watching: Hellboy

Tonight I felt my skin tingling with the euphoria of being alive.

]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4427484/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4427484/ Thu, 27 Jan 2005 10:04:10 PST






Listening to: Led Zeppelin - How the West Was Won
Reading: Les Miserables - Victor Hugo
Watching: The Larry Sanders Show

I'm discovering that freedom is a state of mind. That we hold the keys to our cages and that while they can imprison your body, damage your mind, your soul is yours. Freedom is at hand.

]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4410701/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4410701/ Tue, 25 Jan 2005 11:26:39 PST






Mood: A chimp in the rain
Listening to: Tom Waits - Blood Money
Reading: Disgrace - J.M. Coetzee
Watching: The Larry Sanders Show

I am looking for inspiration. Maybe I need a muse.

Finally finished V, great book, too great for me. Now immersed in Disgrace, probably one of the best modern books ever written.

I feel empty, sober... waiting for something to fill in the space, before the drugs come washing in.

Waiting......

Listening to Tom Waits, his lyrics are purely dark...

Everything Goes To Hell
(Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan 2000)

Why be sweet, why be careful, why be kind?
A man has only one thing on his mind
Why ask politely, why go lightly, why say please?
They only want to get you on your knees
There's a few things that I never could believe

A woman when she weeps
A merchant when he swears
A thief who says he'll pay
A lawyer when he cares
A snake when he is sleeping
A drunkard when he prays
I don't believe you go to heaven when you're good
And everything goes to hell, anyway

Laissez-faire mi amour, ce la vie
Shall I return to shore or swim back out to sea?
The world don't care what a sailor does in town
It's all hanging in the windows by the pound
I don't believe you go to heaven when you're good
Everything goes to hell, anyway

I only want to hear you purr and to hear you moan
You have another man who brings the money home
I don't want dishes in the sink
Don't ask me what I feel or what I think
There's a few things that I never could believe

A woman when she weeps
A merchant when he swears
A thief who says he'll pay
A lawyer when he cares
A snake when he is sleeping
A drunkard when he prays
I don't believe you go to heaven when you're good
Everything goes to hell, anyway

Everything goes to hell, anyway
Oh, everything goes to hell, anyway

.........anyway, love to leave you

]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4374850/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/4374850/ Fri, 21 Jan 2005 06:56:05 PST






Mood: Frustrated
Listening to: Brian Wilson's Smile
Reading: V Thomas Pynchon (I'll never finish it)
Watching: The Larry Sanders Show

I've just had a very frustrating experience. What I just wrote in my journal to replace the long article that had stood on my page for months has disappeared at the curious press of a button. What was so attractive of the journal enhancements tab that drew me to it, though a voice scraped at my mind telling me to save my work, but I had to know all the wonderful ways to enhance my journal and I having seen the enhancements I was disappointed so turned back to find that all my work was gone, vanished.

Maybe it was God's way of saying that I was previously long winded and self indulgent. That in my efforts to sound deep I reflect my shallowness. In my attempts to share my agnsts I reveal that I truly have none. That I am merely masturbating and those who see it shall surely turn away in disgust except for the truly pathetic, needy and desperate.

But I am angry because the boy king has been anointed Emporer and he seeks to free us by destroying us. He is blinded by his own lust to see that the tyrrany he speaks of and describes is his own. One hundred thousand Iraqis have already been freed from tyrrany, how many more shall persih to fulfill his mad dream. Then again he is not mad is he? He's ignorant and nothing should be feared more than ignorance in action.



I shall leave it there, glancing nervously to the east to await the rising of the great dragon. Surely it has been dormant for too long.



]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3799287/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3799287/ Wed, 10 Nov 2004 06:05:27 PST






Mood: experimentative
Listening to: Charango - Morcheeba
Reading: V Thomas Pynchon (I'll never finish it)
Watching: Finding Neverland

I found this very inspiring i hope that you enjoy it.

Youssef

Why Your Camera Does Not Matter
© 2004 Ken Rockwell



About these reviews

Your equipment DOES NOT affect the quality of your image. The less time and effort you spend worrying about your equipment the more time and effort you can spend creating great images. The right equipment just makes it easier, faster or more convenient for you to get the results you need.

The camera's only job is to get out of the way of making photographs.

You can see some of the world's best photography here by a fellow who says the same thing here.

People know cars don't drive themselves, typewriters don't write novels by themselves and that Rembrandt's brushes didn't paint by themselves, so why do some people think cameras drive around and make pictures all by themselves? The most advanced, exotic and expensive car can't even stay in the same lane on the freeway by itself, much less drive you home. No matter how advanced your camera you still need to be responsible for getting it to the right place at the right time and pointing it in the right direction to get the photo you want. Every camera requires you to make manual adjustments now and then as well, regardless of how advanced it is. Never blame a camera for not knowing everything or making a wrong exposure or fuzzy image.

Here's how I came to discover this:

When it comes to the arts, be it music, photography, surfing or anything, there is a mountain to be overcome. What happens is that for the first 20 years or so that you study any art you just know that if you had a better instrument, camera or surfboard that you would be just as good as the pros. You waste a lot of time worrying about your equipment and trying to afford better. After that first 20 years you finally get as good as all the other world-renowned artists, and one day when someone comes up to you asking for advice you have an epiphany where you realize that it's never been the equipment at all.

You finally realize that the right gear you've spent so much time accumulating just makes it easier to get your sound or your look or your moves, but that you could get them, albeit with a little more effort, on the same garbage with which you started. You realize the most important thing for the gear to do is just get out of your way. You then also realize that if you had spent all the time you wasted worrying about acquiring better gear woodshedding, making photos or catching more rides that you would have gotten where you wanted to be much sooner.

I met Phil Collins at a screening in December 2003. It came out that people always recognize his sound when they hear it. Some folks decided to play his drums when he walked away during a session, and guess what? It didn't sound like him. Likewise, on a hired kit (or "rented drum set" as we say in the USA) Phil still sounds like Phil. So do you still think it's his drums that give him his sound?

A fan from Michigan teaches auto racing at a large circuit. The daughter of one of his students wanted to come learn. She flew out and showed up at the track in an rented Chevy Cavalier. She outran the other students, middle aged balding guys with Corvettes and 911s. Why? Simple: she paid attention to the instructor and was smooth and steady and took the right lines, not posing while ham-fisting a lot of horsepower to try to make up for patience and skill. The dudes were really ticked, especially that they were outrun by a GIRL, and a 16 year old one at that.

Sure, if you're a pro driver you're good enough to elicit every ounce of performance from a car and will be limited by its performance, but if you're like most people the car, camera, running shoes or whatever have little to nothing to do with your performance since you are always the defining factor, not the tools.

Catch any virtuoso who's a complete master of their tools away from his or her sponsors and they'll share this with you.

So why do the artists whose works you admire ten... ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3792216/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3792216/ Tue, 09 Nov 2004 09:30:56 PST






Mood: experimentative
Listening to: Charango - Morcheeba
Reading: V Thomas Pynchon (I'll never finish it)
Watching: Finding Neverland



Yasser Arafat

by Uri Avnery; November 08, 2004

Wherever he may be buried when he passes away, the day will come when his remains will be reinterred by a free Palestinian government in the holy shrines in Jerusalem.

Yasser Arafat is one of the generation of great leaders who arose after World War II.

The stature of a leader is not simply determined by the size of his achievements, but also by the size of the obstacles he had to overcome. In this respect, Arafat has no competitor in the world: no leader of our generation has been called upon to face such cruel tests and to cope with such adversities as he.

When he appeared on the stage of history, at the end of the 1950s, his people was close to oblivion. The name Palestine had been eradicated from the map. Israel, Jordan and Egypt had divided the country between them. The world had decided that there was no Palestinian national entity, that the Palestinian people had ceased to exist, like the American Indian nations - if, indeed, it had ever existed at all.

Within the Arab world the “Palestinian Cause” was still mentioned, but it served only as a ball to be kicked around between the Arab regimes. Each of them tried to appropriate it for its own selfish interests, while brutally putting down any independent Palestinian initiative. Almost all Palestinians lived under dictatorships, most of them in humiliating circumstances.

When Yasser Arafat, then a young engineer in Kuwait, founded the “Palestinian Liberation Movement” (whose initials in reverse spell Fatah), he meant first of all liberation from the various Arab leaders, so as to enable the Palestinian people to speak and act for itself. That was the first revolution of the man who made at least three great revolutions during his life.

It was a dangerous one. Fatah had no independent base. It had to function in the Arab countries, often under merciless persecutions. One day, for example, the whole leadership of the movement, Arafat included, was thrown into prison by the Syrian dictator of the day, after disobeying his orders. Only Umm Nidal, the wife of Abu Nidal, remained free and so she assumed the command of the fighters.

Those years were a formative influence on Arafat’s characteristic style. He had to manoeuver between the Arab leaders, play them off against each other, use tricks, half-truths and double-talk, evade traps and circumvent obstacles. He became a world-champion of manipulation. This way he saved the liberation movement from many dangers in the days of its weakness, until it could become a potent force.

Gamal Abd-al-Nasser, the Egyptian ruler who was the hero of the entire Arab world at the time, got worried about the emerging independent Palestinian force. To choke it off in time, he created the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO) and put at its head a Palestinian political mercenary, Ahmed Shukeiri. But after the shameful rout of the Arab armies in 1967 and the electrifying victory of the Fatah fighters against the Israeli army in the battle of Karameh (March 1968), Fatah took over the PLO and Arafat became the undisputed leader of the entire Palestinian struggle.

In the mid-1960s, Yasser Arafat started his second revolution: the armed struggle against Israel. The pretension was almost ludicrous: a handful of poorly-armed guerillas, not very efficient at that, against the might of the Israeli army. And not in a country of impassable jungles and mountain ranges, but in a small, flat, densely populated stretch of land. But this struggle put the Palestinian cause on the world agenda. It must be stated frankly: without the murderous attacks, the world would have paid no attention to the Palestinian call for freedom.

As a result, the PLO was recognized as the “sole representative of the Palestinian people”, and thirty years ago Yasser Arafat was invited to make his historic speech to the... ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3766363/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3766363/ Sat, 06 Nov 2004 07:39:39 PST






Mood: experimentative
Listening to: Charango - Morcheeba
Reading: V Thomas Pynchon (I'll never finish it)
Watching: Finding Neverland

I've decided to start using and abusing myself to further my skill as i'm falling far behind, so forgive my self indulgence and yes i know, i look like a girls blouse, enjoy

Photos that impressed me
]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3750374/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3750374/ Thu, 04 Nov 2004 07:41:15 PST








Mood: open
Listening to: Red House - Hendrix
Reading: V Thomas Pynchon (I'll never finish it)
Watching: Finding Neverland, Power of Nightmares

This is my new thing. I’m trying to maintain more of a journal and make use of it a bit more. I apologise in advance for the mundane and the uninteresting. I feel that its important to dare to be boring. This isn’t for you, whomever you may be that has nothing more to do than to stumble upon my page and in a fit of boredom, read. Sometimes I can write things that may be quite beautiful or where I feel that I’ve unleashed a small piece of myself and I have felt satisfied and cleansed as a result. At other times I will probably be despairing and just shed the burden that presses down upon my back like a labourer carrying cement up the rickety scaffolding that finally raises his back allowing it to fall from his shoulders in a thump, and then sits down to eat his meal of old cheese and course bread. Most times though I suppose it will be just following me around through bland corridors and sterile barren laminated floors upon which nothing can grow except irritation from the flickering neon bulb above. It doesn’t matter anymore, does it. I suppose this is the new world. A new way of building communities. We share. That’s enough sometimes.

I’m still reading V. It’s one of the greatest yet at times deeply unpleasant books I’ve ever had the fortune to read. There are parts that make little sense. I can tell that there’s a lot there and I get a glimpse here and there, but mostly I’m struggling through it. Then there are windows in which I suddenly see what he’s trying to convey. About our slavery in which even when we subdue and exploit we are actually in the process of being enslaved. Enslaved by our desires, by our egos, by our selves that have blinded us to the Other. It is about the degradation of ourselves that leads us to walk into a room after our sister has been gang raped by the pack that she once led, look upon her haggard smile and then beat her to death. It is the same slavery that allows us to see this sight and just walk away never to turn back or to lift a whimper of protest.

But I haven’t been reading that these days, have I? No I’ve mainly been reading the Qur’an and reflecting on the Book that is trying to help us conquer those desires and to free us from that slavery. It is a book that I am far too small to comment upon, but only to read and to learn.



I just passed the surah about Youssef, the prophet that I was named after. I love the story and the nuances within in. It is truly the best of stories. I’ve read it so many times and never understood it, never got it and wondered what the fuss was about. The tale in itself was truly basic. Then I realised that was the beauty of it. It is basic and encompasses all the basic aspects of human nature and inter-relationships that are true from the dawn of time and will be true until its end. I love the little details such as the fact that not only did the Aziz’s wife begin to love him, but that he himself had fallen in love for her and cared for her. The only thing that stopped him was his understanding that some things were greater than his heart and love and desire. That some boundaries are more important than our need to break them. With difficulty, I believe, he rejected her and suffered as a result as her love turned to anger and she betrayed him. I love how he chose imprisonment over sexual imprisonment. One cell he would one day emerge from exalted, the other he would surely never be free of except with great sacrifice of his self and loss of his beauty.




Yesterday I came home with no gas in my little moped. How faithful a friend it has been to me and carried me home. I was sure it would lag and suddenly collapse exhausted and malnourished. Yet it made it. And I was very proud. Its so lame, but I was really proud. On the... ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3739446/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3739446/ Wed, 03 Nov 2004 04:25:15 PST








Mood: dazed
Listening to: Red House - Hendrix
Reading: V Thomas Pynchon (I'll never finish it)
Watching: Finding Neverland, Power of Nightmares

These are truly strange days for bujacob. So confused in his own skin that he has taken to referring to himself in the third person. Bujacob trying to fast, trying to achieve some kind of spiritual regeneration after the festering that he had allowed himself to fall into. Bujacob torn between lives, between loves. Uncertain of his future, uncertain of what he wants or what is good for him. Bujacob is now a teenager trapped in a middle aged man’s body. Bujacob has finally begun to settle old scores and his fledgling legs are allowing him to stand for the first time. He just doesn’t know for what purpose. Bujacob even is beginning to look different. He’s emerging from the cave, he likes beautiful things, but he also loves darkness the underside of the carriage. Bujacob isn’t broke (so far) for the first time in his life elhamdulilah. Bujacob is ready to fight but has yet to choose his battles.



I am excited about what tomorrow shall bring.

]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3647868/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3647868/ Fri, 22 Oct 2004 09:08:57 PDT
President Bush has words with the Almighty

Terry Jones
Friday October 22, 2004

"George?"
"Yes?"
"This is God here ..."
"Hi, God. What can I do for you?"
"I want you to stop this Iraq thing, George."
"But you told me to do it, God!"
"No I didn't, George ..."
"But you did! You spoke to me through Karl, Rumsey and Dick and all those other really clever guys!"
"How did you know it was me talking, George?"
"Instinct, God. I just knew it!"
"Do you really think I'd want you to unleash all this horror and bloodshed on another lot of human beings?"
"But they're Muslims! They don't believe in You, God!"
"But, George, they do believe in me. Jews, Christians and Moslems all worship the same Me! Didn't you do comparative theology at school, George?"
"No, of course not! You think I'm some sort of peace-waving dope-headed liberal faggot-lover, God?"
"No, of course not, George, but I expect you to know something about the people you're bombing."
"Oh, come on! I know it's right to bomb those oily rag-heads until there's not one left to wipe a wrench on!"
"How do you know that, George?"
"Cause You tell me that's what I should do, God."
"George, I do not tell you to do that!"
"But I hear You, God! You speak to me! You tell me what to do! You tell me what is Right and what is Wrong! That's why I don't need to listen to any soft-baked, mealy-mouthed liberal Kerry-pickers!"
"George, you're deluding yourself."
"God! How can you say that? I got some of the most powerful people on this planet down on their knees every day in the White House just a-praying to You! Now are you gonna tell me You ain't listening? Because if You ain't listening, God, that's Your problem - not mine!"
"George, of course I'm listening - it's you who is not listening to Me!"
"And I'll tell you why! 'Cause You ain't addressing me right."
"What d'you mean, you jumped-up little Ivy League draft-dodger?"
"If you're so 'omniscient', God, you oughta know that you gotta go through Karl Rove, John Ashcroft, Rumsey and Dick ... those fellas know what they're talking about! I can't listen to just any deity who can pick up the phone!"
"But, I'm God, George!"
"Does Karl say you are?"
"But why do you believe Karl?"
"Because my gut tells me he's right!"
"Listen, you ignorant little pinch-eyed Billy Graham convert! Can't you get it into your head that I'm God and I'm telling you to stop all this 'pre-emptive strike' nonsense! Stop destroying Iraq! Stop supporting that monster Sharon! Stop picking a fight with the only other human beings on the planet that believe in Me! You're leading the world into unbelievable chaos and horror!"
"That's enough, God! That's just the sort of defeatist crap that I won't allow in the White House! Get out of here!"
"I cannot believe I'm hearing this, George."
"Well you better start believing, God, because this is the new reality. Don'tcha know that a recent Gallup poll shows that 42% of Americans identify themselves as 'born again'? That cuts across Republicans and Democrats, rich and poor, white and black! This is a real political power base, God, and you'd better believe it!"
"Look, all I'm asking is for you to show a little compassion to your fellow human beings!"
"I'm not going to debate this with you, God! You're beginning to sound like you belong to the reality-based community!"
"What the hell does that mean?"
"Well by the 'reality-based community', we mean people who believe that solutions emerge from their judicious study of discernible reality." "Sounds fair enough..."
"But, as one of my advisors told Ron Suskind of the Wall Street Journal: 'The reality-based community is not the way the world really works any more. We're an empire now and, when we act, we create our own reality. And while you're studying that reality - judiciously, as you will - we'll act again, creating other new realities, which you can study too, and that's how things will sort out. We're history's actors . . . and you, all of you, will be left to just study what we do'."
"You mean...you don't give a damn, George?"
"I mean You speak through me, God, not the other way round! Is that clear?"
"Yes, Mr President."Advertiser links ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3631783/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3631783/ Wed, 20 Oct 2004 02:59:12 PDT
I rocket out leaving the traffic behind. I feel fast, I feel free. I want more power, I want more speed. I pass through a rapidly closing gap between to cars. Was that an inch away from my left ankle, or was it more like five. Did that driver look like he wanted to knock me down? I feel like a mosquito or a fly must feel, buzzing around making an annoying sound, bobbing and weaving, reflexes taught and rapidly reacting. Did I make a light miscalculation there? Was that close? I pray for forgiveness under my breath. I always pray for protection as I start my little moped. I always place my faith in Him that if he wills you harm no other can ever protect you. When I take my chances I apologise for my abuse of that trust. For pushing my luck and I pray that if it goes terribly wrong, with tainted love, that I will die quickly and peacefully and see no more machines and no more fuel lines. That I will go to Him and He will ask with what have you come to Us. And I will say, Ji’tuka bika. I have come to You with You, for You are all I have. ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3624003/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3624003/ Tue, 19 Oct 2004 01:58:32 PDT
Alone with everybody.

The flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.
there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.
nobody ever finds
the one.
the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill
nothing else
fills.

Charles Bukowski (i think i remember that correctly) ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3609553/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3609553/ Sun, 17 Oct 2004 09:28:12 PDT
To any that may be interested I have a very nice website that you may see some interesting audio lectures from a very moderate and wise imam (a very rare thing).

[link]

I wish you all a good month.

Love

Youssef ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3564374/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3564374/ Mon, 11 Oct 2004 10:51:26 PDT ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3539661/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3539661/ Fri, 08 Oct 2004 03:53:33 PDT ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3517599/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/3517599/ Tue, 05 Oct 2004 09:25:25 PDT
I’m still a child in a false womb of a faceless woman with an iron mask.

Reading: The Book of Repentance, Al Ghazali
V, Thomas Pynchon

Listening: Mos Def
Watching: Cappelle’s Show ]]> ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/2262501/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/2262501/ Tue, 20 Apr 2004 10:57:31 PDT ~bujacob http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/2027983/ http://bujacob.deviantart.com/journal/2027983/ Wed, 17 Mar 2004 03:47:46 PST
I stood on the square at lunch today. Gazing out over the artificial waterfall at all the couples and friends lunching together. They sit close to each other and I gaze out over them. I feel that I'm staring at a post impressionist painting. The scene is beautiful and it moves me, but I have no means to access it anymore then I could jump into a Monet and join in the picnic, having a taste of someone's basket.

A Maria Calas aria is playing on my I-Pod. A strong breeze is blowing over me and it refreshes me. I notice a girl, a woman really. She's dressed in black; black shoes, black stockings a black skirt. Draped over her shoulders is a beautiful black shawl made of a fine wool. Her black her is mussed by the breeze and I feel that I'm staring at Calas herself. My chest tightens. I feel that I'm watching a scene from an Italian film. She searches in her bag for something and is surprised not to find it.

I find her looking around, flustered and rushed. I take her in with my eyes, loving her for she moves with my music. I feel waves crashing at my feet though I stand in a city square surrounded by building, yet I hear the breaking surf. And she begins to walk towards me, without deviation. With purpose and determination. I know that she is coming to me. Before she can ask I take out my lighter, and she smiles surprised. I light her cigarette for her, amazed and grateful that the wind has not extinguished it. It appears to me as a lighthouse whose everlasting light can guide me home. She thanks me and walks away, stopping a little further by the wall.

The music changes to some classical interlude and the increased tempo is only matched by the beating of my heard and the tightness of my breath. I wait until she gets off the phone, and I approach her walking softly. I tell her my name and reach out my hand for her. An awkward moment passes as she passes her cigarette to her other hand to take mine. I can't remember her name, I'm not sure if she even mentioned it. She's new to the square. I ask how she likes it and she responds positively. I feel flat, my tone maintaining my secret. She seems perturbed and eager to leave. I do nothing to stop her from walking away. No desperate declarations. I do not beseech her, I do not beg, only watching her walk away the wind urging her on. I light another cigarette and wonder if she said goodbye. ]]> ~bujacob