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I Took a Plane to Die in Denver

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Mr. Joshua Shaw

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“Ouvi, que não vereis com vãs façanhas, Fantásticas, fingidas, mentirosas, Louvar os vossos, como nas estranhas Musas, de engrandecer-se desejosas: As verdadeiras vossas são tamanhas Que excedem as sonhadas, fabulosas, Que excedem Rodamonte e o vão Rugeiro E Orlando, inda que fora verdadeiro. Por estes vos darei um Nuno fero, Que fez ao Rei e ao Reino tal serviço, Um Egas e um Dom Fuas, que de Homero A cítara par' eles só cobiço; Pois polos Doze Pares dar-vos quero Os Doze de Inglaterra e o seu Magriço; Dou-vos também aquele ilustre Gama, Que para si de Eneias toma a fama.”

“But at the end of three days the Brahman arrived in an Indian boat, and went to the captain-major's ship, and came on board, and made a great salutation to the captain-major, saying : " Sir, as I bring you a good message, I did not ask leave to come on board. The Zamorim sends you this letter. Order it to be read, and give me an answer, as I wish to return imme-diately." The captain-major asked him of what race he was. He said that he was a Nair and a Brahman. The captain-major ordered a scribe of the King of Cochym, who was in the ship, reckoning cargo, to read the letter, and he read it. The captain-major then sent the Brahman, with the letter, to the King of Cochym, in the skiff, and the Indian boat with the rowers remained at the ship. When the King heard the letter, he laughed to himself without answering anything, and sent it back to the ship. The captain-major summoned before him the rowers of the Indian boat, and ordered them to sit down on the ground, and told them not to get up, or he would order them to be executed; and he ordered their hands to be tied together, and told them to look well at everything. He then ordered the Brahman to be taken by the arms by two Negroes, that he might not fling himself into the sea, and said to him: " Brahman, tell me what the Zamorim ordered you to do." He replied that the King had not told him anything, except to deliver that letter and return immediately with the answer. The captain-major told him to swear by the head of the Zamorim that he spoke the truth, and he would not swear. Then he ordered him to be tied to the bits, and sent for an iron shovel full of embers, and ordered them to be put close to his shins, until large blisters rose upon them, whilst the interpreter snouted to him to tell the truth about what he came for, and what orders he had received, but he would not speak. The captain-major let him remain thus, and the fire was brought closer by degrees, until he could not bear it, and he said ho would speak the truth, and he confessed all that the King had said to him, and had ordered him to look and see; and he said that now that he had spoken the truth, let him order him to be killed, since he would not return to Calecut, for if they did not kill him, he should kill himself by his own hands. The captain-major questioned him why he would not return to Calecut, and would kill himself in order not to go thither. He said: "I do not deserve to live since I have discovered the King's secret." The captain-major said: " If, then, you will kill yourself, who will carry the answer to the King?" He replied, the Negro boatmen would carry it. Then the captain-major ordered the Negroes of the Indian boat to be unbound, and a white cloth to be given to each of them, telling them to row hard and return quickly. He then ordered the upper and lower lips of the Brahman to be cut off, so that all his teeth shewed, and he ordered the ears of a dog on board the ship to be cut off, and he had them fastened and sewn with many stitches on the Brahman instead of his, and he sent him in the Indian boat to return to Calecut.”

“Artists are agents of chaos. It is the artists job to encourage entropy, to promote chaos. Idols must be killed, icons crushed, beliefs shattered. It is the artists job to encourage legitimate, unadulterated, raw thought and emotion. Art that does nothing new, that simply fills an established role, is not art. It is a product. A stale, stagnant product of a disgustingly mundane process that has been done so much it is assumed mandatory. Little different than feces. The last thing the world needs is to get shittier.”

“Niet zo lang geleden dacht hij (en Vlieghe en Dondeyne geloofden het ook) dat moeders pijn in hun buik kregen, de weeën, en dan snel naar de wc waggelden, hurkten, kakten, dat de drol meteen door buurvrouwen uit het water werd gehaald vóór hij kon smelten, en op het zeil van de keukentafel werd gelegd, waar hij door teder tegen elkaar koutende ouders tot een kind werd geboetseerd, waarop, door intens gebed opgeroepen, vanuit het raam of de schoorsteen een wind begon te waaien die neerstreek over de bruine klei, de adem van God die leven blies in de stront die kleuren kreeg en als van rubber begon te plooien en zich uit te rekken, en dan brulde naar zijn Mama om de eerste papfles.”