Wednesday, December 12, 2007

'Breaking Your Neck-Asana'

'Breaking Your Neck-asana', is a discovery. It is a new type of yoga. The extreme-sport of anti-yoga, a new term of practice and lifestyle. Everything, pieces to pieces, created to oppose traditional yoga. It's a table turned upside down, and let me tell you, it is probably the best way to praise your self-destructivity, and honor it with misery and hopelessness. Why not make this a lifestyle? One with style. Self-declared anti-yoga guru Espen Swynasamana made a new standard to anti-lifestyle. He began studying traditional yoga-paths and styles, and began to feel the need to extend his own horizon and begin something fresh, as more challenging. The 'Breaking Your Neck-asana' was created by going through every yoga-posture and doing it as wrongly as possibly possible. Espen Swynasamana says that 'Breaking your neck-asana' is a discovery. It is the first anti-yoga to be made, focusing the channeling of pain and aches of limbs and bone through 'correct' movement and posture, and striving for anatomic defection. Ofcourse, breathing is not allowed. Not until you feel exhausted enough to simply give up, and lie down. The posture for giving up, or resting, is called, 'Lie Down and Die-salutation'. In this posture you are allowed to breathe, but only if you are choking, otherwise carry on with the insufferably, intolerably aches of the sequence. If you make it to sequence b of the primary series, you should be lucky you are alive, and you will be ever grateful you are done for the day of anti-yoga. Afterwards you will not feel a good sensation, but afterwards you will mysteriously shape a feeling of gratitude because you seemed to have survived. This is the secret of 'Breaking Your Neck-asana'.

Introverted Man (Poem)

the man of the deep forest path
always stopping up
carefully thinking through
always reflecting
here and there
sometimes backwards
sometimes straight forward
always thinking
..of the next move
..of a possible way
mostly silent in contemplation
rarely verbal
respecting the ways and unways
carrying the shifting eyes to facial contour
like a representable chart of many colors, tones, and undertones
always smiling
fake or not
but a smile is all there is to it
and everything will be alright
every experience
has a positive drift about
the everlasting thoughts
popping up
colorised by the soul
taking external form
smiling always
energy formed positive
sometimes shallow
sometimes deep
always servitude

introverted man of the deep forest path
a most definite characteristic
undertaking the adventure
of insight, knowledge, and seemingly useless reflection
seemingly to no end, as no avail
but in the end
he controlled the strings
and the smile he was dressed
hid him well

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

Common Sense

Before starting yoga I was as stiff as a mountain. I barely reached my kneecaps when stretching out after a walk and some warm-up exercises. After two-three weeks of hard work I could already reach my toes. I wouldn't worry about not being able to reach a certain level or goal. It's hard to understand when you are far away, as if unreachable, but just do your current best and have a realistic goal. Practice every day. Have fun while doing it, and you will soon look back at your previous self, and wonder why you thought everything were so difficult. Because it's those little determined goals that will guide you through the hardships, and strengthen your resolve to go on. You can never reflect enough upon your yoga-practice, and perfect your techniques. Soon you will know your body and anatomy with greater understanding, as well as your mental temple.

Although you can try to progress quicker you will have to endure the painful stretchouts - a simple matter of intensification and an increase of pain. Know thine body, or learn it.

Don't be under the impression that I am versed in yoga, because I'm not. I'm just under that certain impression of thinking mentioned above, and it has guided me from a to b, with great positive effects in terms of improvement, mentally as physically.

Monday, November 19, 2007


The cherry-scented leaf falters down from its elder tree, like a droplet of blood, irreversibly running down the cheek of a man carrying the dread expression - whose life is passing by in invaluable moments of pictures, knowing he will soon taste his guttural orchestra of depressive moments in a most soulful, unproclaimed howl of melancholy - ..of his frostbitten, heart-shaped fragments of the deepest chamber in his heart, where before, not even an amours arrow could affect him. The leaf withers upon the touching of grass, like a threatening doom, in the season of withering cherry-blossom trees, and the numbing sight of a man with a suppressed grief of despair in a facial contour resembling the frostbitten ones.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Manipulating One

So we had an ok time together, but not sufficient to satisfy her ignorant and judging nature. Even though I left aside my expectations, she had the most grandiose expectations of the first encounter to be as perfected as the blade of a samurai-sword. Her ignorance beyond reason, because she expected so pervertedly much the first meeting, hereby assuming the outcome of my persona and conclude it an end for both, when our fundament of quality-time has based itself on an extremely satisfactory year of ups and downs and day-long chats, dandling each other like soul-mates of forever. Because I behaved improperly from her mental picture of me she became disappointed and bitter, and now it seems she has become a manipulating haggish troll. So she will use me only in times when she can promote herself above me with haughty egoism. Seems to me her problem is clashing with the reality that is not within her imaginative nature, and it is taking its toll, but all she ever cares about now is her egocentric boost from incentive attempts to patronize me with sarcasm and cynicism, which stung me in the beginning, but her failure to reflect and act compassionately because of certain short-sightedness that proved her promising only over distance-relations has made me realize her real nature. I can only hope she will be taught a real-life lesson so that she may cling to the hope that one day she can beg for my shadow of wisdom. I can only hope she will taste the shame of her own ego. That shall certainly make her as humble as a servant of mine would, if I ever had one.

I mean.. I can understand the tension and passion between two different people, be it long-distance or real-life relations. We all perceive things differently dependent on our persona and current state of the mind. Bah! It matters not.. Sometimes one of two has failed to see the significance of understanding by ignoring time, but if one respect a special someone, one had better respect the certain amount time it takes to see the flower blossom and ripen.. If not, so be it! But it would seem self-explanatory that one have hurt oneself and this 'special' someone - in terms of prejudgment, that in my opinion is injustice to one whom you have shared your valued time with in pastimes of good and bad with so many colors and settings of moods. The saddest part of this grim ending is the bitter aftertaste caused by the presumptuously judgmental one. In other words, someones narrow perspective can be frustratingly difficult to repair if ever worth the hassle. Might as well focus mental power on a brick-wall for more stimulating confrontations.

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Random Random Mother Theresa

I will probably delay the short-stories as I deem fit. I cannot be bothered writing fables and whatnot for the momentum. Just a reminder to myself and perhaps toward a small audience if by any chance the improbability that someone other than me reads this blog rings false, thereby my failure to see the overly fascinating in the idealistic freethinking texts of a man so random in every minute that he in certain occasions would be considered a mutt-mongering madman.

Just like Mother Theresa was so irresistibly compassionate she would be presumed irrationally compassionate, so compassionately irrational the she would be accompanying the rope in the country where everyone seemed to be compassionate only within a certain extent of compassion. But she would not curse them even in her eventual afterlife! For she would be too busy bickering with the people of the next life, especially a band of tedious over-moralistic monks who in this life also had made a spiritual pact of bonding involving the passive art-form of doing simply nothing, making Mother Theresa cantankerous and bitter, hereby placing her in a cage with a gorilla as cantankerous as her, except that the gorilla would be more than able to handle her difficult persona by the usage of brute strength in terms of forced penetration, and the everso good old fashioned art of extreme violence, making Mother Theresa into a pile of refuse that would occasionally still be satisfactory to a newborn necro-pedophile, granny-loving, butt-plunging gorilla, hailing from the ripe booberry fields of ridiculously far south where apes and gorillas lacked underlying conscience, and were considered bastards by the northern yetis of the opposite mountains where rain and snow usually came from below, going up -- where they in good faith believed in making yeti-love, not war and killing-sprees and the egocentricity that should not eliminate the assumptions of random rapes and pillaging of tepee-huts of whatnot.

Monday, November 5, 2007

Hundred Stories

It all started when the monk, Haki left the gates to stroll into the wilderness, as he always did. He always carried his shakuhachi-flute with him, and he always sat down in the heart of the forest, near a giant tree, where he with great skill began his storytelling. Sometimes he played the myths of ancient creatures, sometimes endeavoring sagas of past wars and great warriors, sometimes he wept through his flute the loss of his young son, who was killed in the rural area of Shanghai many years ago. It was when he played this mellow story that a little boy hiding, witnessed the wealthy monk sitting on a shrubby root beneath the great tree. The monk, as perceptive as he was - had already noticed the boy - actually, he had noticed his presence for over a month, so he automatically assumed the boy was a stray orphan. But he continued playing as if he knew nothing. Eventually the dirtily ragged boy in curiosity strafed his head up, from behind a bush, to get a closer view. Still, the monk continued to play, as if none was there. After some time he suddenly stopped playing, and said; "Do not be afraid child. You have been in the woods for quite some time. I have seen you many times before in the woods, but I would not scare you away.. Come closer! Let's have a look at you." The boy hesitated. But eventually walked over to the monk. "..My name is Haki, a monk of the forbidden gates of Shanghai. Tell me boy.. do you like my flute?" The boy nodded slightly, becoming less cautious. He suddenly looked at Haki with awe and wonder. "My name.. is.. Kuroru.." Suddenly becoming shy, tilting his head down on the forested ground of autumn leaves covering the dirt. "Boy! Come with me to the gates! ..I will take care of you. I will teach you how to play the shakuhachi, and we can play together in the forest." Kuroru began to cry in happiness, trying to hold back his tears, he nodded many times. And so Kuroru traveled alongside the monk Haki, to the forbidden gates of Shanghai.

Sunday, November 4, 2007

Walking Alot

Friday, second of november, (three days ago) a 21 year old man was stabbed in the back in Heggedal. I walk this certain route every day. . I generally stroll alot on day basis, and the thought of becoming a victim to any, (atleast) suspicious business downtown frightens me a tad. It's a good thing I tie my running shoes every day..

Saturday, November 3, 2007

Mind Focus

Lately I have been writing a lot more in my diary. I have been trying to grasp the methodical art form of withholding one thought and maintaining it long enough in my mental temple to write it down throughly, the way my mind expresses it so lovely, to assure quality of text. Otherwise I would just ramble bits, some more interesting than others, but eventually cross over by a train of thoughts, so my text will eventually fall out of its meaningful context. Not only does it spare my mind of eventually exploding of mental overload, it also keeps me more calm and relaxed and focused, generally making me feel better, which again, gives me opportunity to write more realistic, interesting, and mentally intriguing, because a one-thought 100% focus becomes a very genuine truth, in a way.

Summing this up I feel certain that the source of one's confidence would be greatly appreciated by anyone who would find it, because it makes up for a more interesting life. So one should weight one's own purpose in life. Why would anyone's purpose be to grind painfully through life when there is beauty and knowledge and joy hidden deep within one's will. It only requires a bit of self-encouragement.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

The God-Tome Of Remur (Part Two)

None but the overlord were acquainted with the one true wizard above in the highest level of the tower, overseeing the asylum and it's courtyards on a kingly chair. His presence unknown to all but the overlord, his lordship's personal assistant and ultimately a taskmaster to those duties dire enough to reach his attention. He was also the keeper of scholarly assignments and projects to all the other understudies. Below in rank were the seven master-rank magicians of the circle, who responsibly lectured the senior-magicians into the long road of mastership. The senior-ranks again lectured the newly accepted apprentices making sure they were knee-deep into the vast pensum of bookly lore and alchemical practices.

The God-Tome Of Remur (Part One)

Once every twentieth year the high-philosopher's society of Salanom - the capital of the Salanomian empire of the southernmost continent of the land Ebb - turned the monumentally large page of the ancient tome that was once a most precious diary of an avatar of godhood, called Remur.

Again, it was time to declare a change of tides with a simple turn of the page of wizened philosophical wisdom for the inhabitants to abide by in a new era of outcome - the seemingly simple ceremonial task of turning a monumental page. By past experience of years through recorded tides of mankind it was almost expected that people would indefinitely presume the godly page of Remur to form a new era into the yet unknown in terms of wondrously brilliant thinking, becoming new-age principles. The ceremony took place in the grand courtyard of highened philosophical discussion, guarded by magically blocking energy. Only the wisest of the wise-men of master-degree were admitted entry. Ironically, they were the only few competent enough to disarm the magical blocking-mechanism surrounding the courtyard, so it would seem obvious why they unquestionably would claim the owning of the prestigiously grand ceremony. This had proved to strengthen the commoner's growing faith in arcane schooling, therefore a commonly used argument to that of the wise-men, justifying their agenda, which only the chosen ones knew about. The ruling and protection- and owning of the god-tome, and the continuation of hierarchy.
Failure of withholding secrecy had penalty in torturous death. So was the way of the wizard's life, a secretive, perhaps feared one.