Some music to get lost in

I will certainly not only post my own literature in the future. This link is just a suggestion of music I like, but it's about more than that. My goal with Weird Banana Arts is to dedicate a site to the production and experience of art which exists only for the sake of doing art. It doesn't have to be nice, make sense or anything: It is there to get lost in. Art is not just great because we like it, but mostly because it is pure human expression. Free expression. I am looking for art which is nothing but - well, or at least has this as an ideal, that's fine.
So this link is to a soundtrack by James Horner, of the film "The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas". I think this particular track is a great example of free expression. It sounds really unique and what it basically does is to create a soundfield of pure emotional expression. A deeper meaning is not hidden in some clever detail for us to discover, but is immanent in each part as well as the whole of the song. What I find exceptional is that even though what we hear isn't overly experimental or postmodernist, it also doesn't try just to add together a couple of melodies and harmonies in a nice pattern - what most musical pieces do. Instead it creates a field of experience which just flows together in one piece, each note of it contrasting the next one, and at the same time it reaches harmony. Each note and sound is just there for the next one, to weave together, and that is the whole idea of it. No, it's not the masterpiece of all time, not at all, but it is a great example of art as expression of creation.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0W1Xk6KK2hw

The Mind's Riot

Strange I didn't post this one before. I just discovered it in a stack of papers on my desk. I'm quite sure I wrote it when I was kinda drunk, BUT I was having fun and I just discovered that this poem makes actually a lot of sense to me. Yeah, might seem strange or something, but I think it tells a bit about the loss of certainty in life and in thinking and believing.

[The Mind's Riot]

Rioting a House
gingerbread craze
I will hope I broke adown
silvern glance a-light in eye-blaze
the music, the music too -
too much powering motions
Once I spent lifes between towers
glazing a bitch out of a cigarette pot

Let's boil water down -
to hardest essentials
Let's flow and go freely
feelings aside at a fire in minds
we revenge the no-being and reach for a
seldom thing of curse and word-doors
hanging outside on a strict rope of faith
breaking, ...
failing
the weight of a stare.

Axes and Frogs

Finally! I have written the third in my series of Rick stories. And - it has turned out to be of great length for a Rick short story, and I get more and more astounded in the insights I can gather of the possible madness inherent in men.
WHY DON'T MY STORIES MAKE ANY SENSE? You might want to ask.
Well, you should know that they are not supposed to. Art for the sake of art may be a bit lunatic, but does it have to be completely rational? No! It shall be creative. And, yes, it shall be lunatic. This is certainly more interesting than, for example, apples. I could also write stories about apples. I'm certain somebody, somewhere, has done it. But I think a lunatic person in a confusing world devoid of sense is great material. So ... Enjoy!!

[Axes and Frogs]

Rick disobeyed his car and left it in order to enter a doorframe.
He observed it then be struck by a bolt of lightning that sizzled and tunked the night in green light and sent drops of molten metal flying past his shoulder onto the wooden door, where they hissed furiously and ate holes. A voice from within the entrance shrieked in Chinese, something like "You Bastard It's Always The Same (What the hell did you do to my DOOOR) With You Dammit Everyone In This Country Is The Son Of A Tibetan Lama And A Capitalist Chicken..."
Rick, a man of diminished composure, hurried inside and bowed slightly to the dried-out-looking woman leaning over the counter which held a sortiment of dead and living but unhappy frogs.
"I'm sorry. My car was angry."
"Well don't let it happen again!" A husband said in English, piercing the dusty air with soundwave. Rick got a glimpse of him in a shadowy corner where he stood with an huge axe and used it to forcefully carve monstrous chess figures of formidable height, a height that slightly dwarved the monocled figure of the man with the name Rick. He was a bit mistempered being outnumbered by the sharp axe and the sword of the Knight Piece which rose up behind the stoutly breastmuscled husband (retired). "I didn't intrude", Rick said, and took torn out pages from a fashion magazine from his pocket. He then watched a giant moth which circled one of the battered ceiling lanterns that failed brightening the room. "As an afterthought. I meant, I didn't want to intrude." He sat carefully on the wooden floor, then he got up, removed a glass shard from his behind, and sat again. He crossed his legs and meditated.
"I don't think he intruded", Gertrude - the elderly Chinese woman - said to her husband (they weren't married, but Rick thought he had wed them, which is another story, so what the hell.) "Do you think so?"
"Maybe he thought he had interrupted something", the husband said.
"Oh, you mean, because we are married."
"Are we?"
"I thought not." Gertrude pulled one of the bones from her hair and consulted it for signs.
"I think, though, I just declared us to be married, didn't I?"
The man shook his wild grey hair confused and stopped himself to swing his axe and hit a big chunk from the bishop in front of him who gave a satisfying groaning noise of splintering and pain. The Asian fortune teller looked up from her frog collection as her husband said, "I don't really get this philosophical stuff. I'm more into practical matters, as you know." She regarded him from hooded eyes. "Now why did you have to kill that nice bishop?"
"Why not? It's my job. I craft chess pieces."
"But usually they're wooden!"
"So?" The man let his eyes sweep over the body in front of him. "Once the rigor mortis has set in, he will make an excellent chess piece. We should dry and mummify him." He leaned on the shaft of his axe and yawned. "I think I'll get me a beer. Do you want any?"
"That awful grain drink? No thanks. Anyway, where did you get you that bishop?"
"Oh, I don't know." The crafter wandered into the backroom. "He was just hanging around. Kinda looking around the shop or something, came through the side entrance." He appeared in the door with a two-litre bottle of beer swinging from the hand not occupied by the axe. "I think he was the guy always pestering you, trying to close your shop for practicing heresy. Consider it a favor."
The female Gertrude Chinese heretic woman spied over the top of the counter again. "Your friend, that Rick guy, is still sitting on my wooden floor since he and that car of his conspired to destroy my nice door. Strange American chicken."
"I don't know him so well. I always thought he was your friend."
"What? For ten years? I was of the thinking that he did come to the crazy-wedding place with your friends. Well, doesn't matter. At least he tried to wed us when the priest with the black attire didn't want to."
"I'm still trying to figure out why he didn't let us marry."
"I am still very sure that it was because I am not in the Capitalist party."
"Sure."
"Don't you get smart with me. I know very well of these political matters."
She spoke from the counter which she seldom left to the little man on the floor. "Can I ask you what you are doing with the papers on your head?"
Rick awoke from his trance to see things with a new clarity. "Frogs", he said, showing deep inside into the transcendent state of the universe. Then he said, "I try to let the knowledge which is depicted on these pages sicker into my head. It is a new form of reading." Gertrude looked sceptical. "Does it work?"
"Not yet."
Rick took a good look around the room, perceiving the clouds of smoke, the cubistic paintings on the walls next to crazy African masks staring through the room, the carnivorous flowers in the display window, and the looming chess figures in the crafting corner. He also saw the small ornated and brightly colored door which, he knew, led to adjacent rooms that were far larger and filled with things that no chance visitor was ever supposed to see. He elegantly overlooked the bloody corpse on the floor. He asked, "Can you tell me why I'm here?"
Dieter-Helmut, the craftsman and the murderer with the axe, said, "You don't know why you came here?"
"No."
"Perhaps you wanted to visit me."
Rick's uncertain eyes flickered to the corpse for an instant. "I think not."
Gertrude fixed him with a contemplating gaze. "You don't know why you came here."
"No."
"Hmm... Do you remember coming here?"
"I just remember something about Tibetan Lamas?" He looked at her, confused. "And I remember starting to meditate."
"Strange. Your car was struck by a lightning bolt when you came in here."
"What? Really?"
"Yes. It killed my door."
"I'm sorry to hear that. They say such things do happen."
She stared at him intently. "The sun was shining. There was no single cloud in the sky."
"Well..."
"You said your car was angry."
"Ah. That would explain it."
"This is another matter I was going to talk about." She looked at the corpse, at the door, at the mess outside, and snapped a few words in Chinese to her murderer husband. He left obediently and appeared in the door a few moments later with a broom, a bucket, a shovel and wearing a bulky apron.
"Your car has been destroyed. It has completely molten. It is not usable anymore."
"Perhaps we could remelt the parts in your oven...
"Trust me. It cannot be repaired. I know of such things."
Rick knew better than to argue.
"Should I clean it up?"
"Don't worry. Dieter-Helmut will do that. He has to remove all the blood anyway." She shot her husband in question a dark look.
"Since your car melted, you cannot leave. That may be a problem." She stroked the head of one of her surviving frogs. "Having no means of leaving, the only solution I can think of is that you move in for a while until we think of something."
Rick thought it over and shrugged his shoulders. "If I'm unable to leave, then it seems so. Well, why not." He thought of the chess crafter and his axe.
"Don't be afraid of Dieter-Helmut. It looks like I did some mistakes, but I always thought of him as tame. He's a nice person, really. Even though he is no person."
She evaded the quizzical gaze Rick gave her and studied her frogs running around in their cages and tiny mazes and mechanisms. Every now and then a little "Pling!" would sound and a chunk of disgustful food would pop out of one of the walls. After a moment, she looked up brightly.
"Oh, I know why you're here. You're the chessplayer!" She pointed at the monstrous pieces at the wall and the very dead bishop.

To be continued...

Flowing Breeze

Something gaped through the darkness. It was an eye staring at me. It was the candle which lit a path I could not breath the name of. It was a mesmerizing circle in the night sky which beckoned me through the playful wind whispering in my hair. I felt it float with the wind through every part of my body when I left the window.

You think my last one was crazy? Wait till you meet the monkey.

Yeah, well, the debut about some guy named Rick (see my last post) was maybe of an absurdity which I gotta work hard to create again, (I will!) - but it certainly can get a lot crazier. I had written that last story like maybe two months ago, creating my character Rick. I'm writing this evening about how I like him, because he is a real


[EVERYDAY-HERO]

That. Rick... You know him, not? He's the guy sitting in the bathtub, saying it's raining shit. He actually believes it. It all started with a dual-blade system.

He was just standing there, right in the moon-beam shine, regarding his neighbors through his telescope and thinking about shaving. When he had descended the steps from his post of wilderness, he opened the lid of his toilet and retrieved his razor. It was dripping. He just looked around, smashed his mirror from the sink for the hell of it. His face smiled thousandfold in the shards, fracturing his grin into a gaping wound. He stopped smiling. He kept thinking about everything he could shave with his shaver. It was freaking him out. He decided to visit the monkey in his yard in his panties.

It was a bit difficult to think straight because Rick doesn't understand language. At all. For him everything was just a bit odd, a bit likeable, and a bit peanutbutter. That sentence was after him. Visit the monkey in his yard in his panties. Whose panties? Rick's, or the monkey's? Rick was about to encounter a pantie'd monkey, and he himself was gonna wear panties, too, he decided. That is him. That is Rick. Rick is wearing panties. The monkey is wearing panties. Hadn't he given his only pair of panties to the monkey? It didn't make sense. Rick smashed his head against the empty space above the sink, formerly occupied by the shards of a mirror (or by a mirror? How could he say it was not broken, because obviously it was?) - well he smashed his bald head, his almost-bald head which he was gonna shave, against the not-existent mirror and stumbled back and fell into the bathtub. The water started running. A brown tube of unnecessary hair wax fell into the tub, and the water turned brown, and soon it was spilling all over the place. When Rick regained his consciousness he was convinced it was raining shit. The monkey had climbed the roof and was banging his hands, or claws, or whatever they are against the window. His genitalia showed below his panties, which he had put on his head, and they were blown up and reflected thousandfold in the shards of the mirror. Rick went unconscious again. His monocle fell into the shit-water. Rick dreamt of his dual-blade system. Just another typical day for him.

You know that kind of every-day-heroes? Can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em. Worse than women.

Some Guy Named Rick - or - Sex on The Moon

Here is my debut. My new favorite character. My already famous short story about some guy named Rick (you don't really have to know him). He's great because he's such a heroic character. Believe me. I wrote this story for a kind of fun literature session in my creative writing group, which explains the awesome topic, Sex on the Moon! Well I opted for metaphorical sex on the moon and just went crazy, creating this character I don't understand at all. Okay - to put it more literatic, I'm trying to create a genre which consists of elements of Nietzsche, Dadaism, Postmodernism, Kafka, Shakespeare, lollipops, senselessness, madness, vulgarity and Heraklit. I'll name it Weird Banana Art. Satisfied?

Well, just judge for yourself. Go on, read it!

[SOME GUY NAMED RICK]

Rick was perceived as a small man with curved back and some hair beneath a head with a bald top. His character was acknowledged as one of diligence mixed with a trickle of shyness, except at those times when his beloved ones could describe his behavior at best as "lunatic".

"Come", his wife called to him once in the middle of the night, when he was occupying the roof-top together with a long steel rod. "It is required", she added, and he felt an uncertain, if unfounded, guilt; for he had previously found her sleeping breast oddly reminiscent of a large and unproportionate crater, and felt a sexual desire inappopriate for such a plain object like his wife's breast. Still, for him the anatomical roundness of the object seemed to be that of a double crater, and he had given in to the lure of the not-day: To indulge, languishly, in the eye-cratered rough surface of his mind, attracted by its unfortunate tidal pull gravitating towards his uncertain sleep.

He descended vaguely between the staircase (from his point of Luna-observation). His wife's eye focused by inch on his monocle, and thereby he knew she knew (he hadn't known previously, neither of her insight nor his own action-being-questionable) that he had betrayed her - a narrowing of an eyelid, rather, like a lense focusing - he had betrayed her by means of a steel rod, on accounts of his unregretting voyeurism, indeed, completely lunatic: "It is required", she added, vanishing into the features of a stranger, "that I leave - your house is no longer, you but a wrinkle in your own imagination, turn into a non-person amongst your brethren, forever stamped - you leave your wife to utter loneliness during an eternal moment," the thing said, "to have obscene sex with a bitch on the moon."

Getting on The Train

My Name is Jace or Weird Banana, whatever you want. You can also call me that goddamn monkey, if you feel the need.

I'll post some completely lunatic art on this site. Well, I can't draw and don't play a real musical instrument, but maybe some of you guys will help me out with that. Meanwhile, I do philosophy and write.

My hope is that my stories, poems, 1-page-insults and whatever else I decide to write are sufficiently full of awful craziness, and if you wish them to be even weirder just tell me right away and I'll deliver. You can also pay me a great amount of money if you feel like it.

I'll be getting on the train by posting an introduction poem which is not that absurd yet, but shows a nice bit of melancholy. Just so you readers won't be scared off at the first glance, because my second post will be completely lunatic.

[NO BLOODY TITLE]

Headlights arrive
dancing over stale faces
of nothingness-persons who whisper
to silent voices in their phones
- their sparks of inspiration
vaporizing

Lost calmness
flees the room of screaming solitude
unnoticed

I never felt alone before
it's like an inner fire
the flames sting in my eyes like
cigarette smoke
- at my feet a foreign beggar
sucks his lungs
full of madness
looks at us like he's
a child given up.

His isolation's a companion
in our hall of hollow laughter
trains arriving going nowhere ?
- Let's see where nowhere's located:
Just an eternal dream
fleeing visions
of a world sleeless
a world of grey beggars
grabbing in wastebins

..For lost childhood
Images of yesterday
Lost but in facebook
- Communal suicide sweet as honey mustard

A single man may turn the train.
He's meditating in the glaring sun
in desperate melancholy.

[IT'S BLOODY FINISHED]