#fuehrerbunker

[justforbooks]

J. G. Ballard’s prose poem “What I Believe” was originally published in the French magazine Science Fiction, in January 1984. It was written in response to a request from editor Daniel Riche for the series entitled “Ce que je crois.” Described as “part poem part prayer” it offers a personal and amusing catalog of tropes and memes, the recurrent imagery, themes, and influences which are to be found in Ballard’s work.

Ballard’s poem subverts the pomposity of the traditional “What I believe” list, where you expect long meanders into politics and self-justification. Ballard’s is more fun, though as equally revealing as those written by Bertrand Russell or E. M. Forster.

“What I believe”

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the  night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the  beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the  excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.

I believe in the mysterious beauty of  Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the sheen on her  lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the  haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel  watched by a tubercular filling station attendant.

I believe in the beauty of all women, in  the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.

I believe in the death of tomorrow, in  the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic controllers at out-of-season airports.

I believe in the genital organs of great  men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher  and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips as they regard the cameras of the entire world.

I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers,  in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.

I believe in nothing.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali,  Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer,  Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon,  and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.

I believe in the impossibility of  existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of  electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.

I believe in adolescent women, in their  corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their disheveled  bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby  motels.

I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen  and midwives.

I believe in the gentleness of the  surgeon's knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the  hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in  the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.

I believe in the light cast by  video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic insights  of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of the  oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.

I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.

I believe in the derangement of the  senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift,  Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

I believe in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker, the Wake Island runways.

I believe in the body odors of Princess Di.

I believe in the next five minutes.

I believe in the history of my feet.

I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.

I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.

I believe in the perversions, in the  infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling  stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.

I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.

I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.

I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.

I believe in pain.

I believe in despair.

I believe in all children.

I believe in maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport indicator signs.

I believe all excuses.

I believe all reasons.

I believe all hallucinations.

I believe all anger.

I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

[horaesempre]

what i believe

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.

I believe in the mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the sheen on her lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel watched by a tubercular filling station attendant.

I believe in the beauty of all women, in the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.

I believe in the death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic controllers at out-of-season airports.

I believe in the genital organs of great men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips as they regard the cameras of the entire world.

I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.

I believe in nothing.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.

I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.

I believe in adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their disheveled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.

I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives.

I believe in the gentleness of the surgeon’s knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.

I believe in the light cast by video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic insights of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.

I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.

I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

I believe in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker, the Wake Island runways.

I believe in the body odors of Princess Di.

I believe in the next five minutes.

I believe in the history of my feet.

I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.

I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.

I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.

I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.

I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.

I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.

I believe in pain.

I believe in despair.

I believe in all children.

I believe in maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport indicator signs.

I believe all excuses.

I believe all reasons.

I believe all hallucinations.

I believe all anger.

I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

[historyandclassicactors]

May 1

1867:  Reconstruction in the South begins with black voter registration.

1877:  President Rutherford B. Hayes withdraws all Federal troops from the South, ending Reconstruction.

1915:  The luxury liner Lusitania leaves New York Harbor for a voyage to Europe.

1927:  Adolf Hitler holds his first Nazi meeting in Berlin.

1937:  President Franklin Roosevelt signs an act of neutrality, keeping the United States out of World War II.

1944:  The Messerschmitt Me 262, the first combat jet, makes its first flight.

1945:  Martin Bormann, private secretary to Adolf Hitler, escapes the Fuehrerbunker as the Red Army advances on Berlin.

1948:  North Korea is established.

Source: historynet.com

[buberzionistold-blog]

Showdown in Berlin Between A Dying Nazi Empire and a Resurgent Soviet One

Hitler's 56th birthday on April 20, 1945 was a grim and sad affair, commented his personal pilot Hans Baur. A committed and unrepentant Nazi after the war, Baur was shot in the leg as he tried to escape Berlin ten days later. The Red Army neglected the wound and its doctors then had to amputate his leg. He was released from Soviet captivity in 1955 pursuant to an agreement between the USSSR and West Germany. Bormann planned to escape Berlin. He had already sent an advance party to fly to Salzberg near Berchtesgarden to make arrangements. Hitler, confused and drug-addled, continued to receive injections in his arse from his quack doctor Morell. The obese smelly SS physician was injecting the Fuehrer with methamphetamine, strychnine and other unwholesome substances. Hitler could sometimes go on a talking jag as the drugs kicked in.

In the Fuehrerbunker underneath the bombed out Reich Chancellery, Hitler forecast ultimate victory to his pal Mussolini, still together after all those years. But not for long. Neither of those two would survive ten days.

Goebbels too was still still trying to cast his old spell over the German people. His birthday oration on German radio epromised listeners that the Nazis would still win the war, and after that there would be peace love dove temple bells in Germany, as its cities were rebuilt with joy and laughter and all men of goodwill embraced Germany.

On the allied side Churchill and Field Marshall Montgomery worried about the Russians conquering Berlin instead of the Allies, as General Zhukov's troops conquered the Seelow Heights and entered Berlin.

Even in Americancaptivity some Nazi true believers attempted to celebrate Hitler's birthday, and other German prisoners went along with it unenthusiasticall. Outside of American captivity Germans celebrated Hitler's birthday with alcohol as before, but this time the celebrants included outmatched German soldiers in the capital drinking to escape their fear and sorrow. Some soldiers had vomit on their uniforms as they marched off to central Berlin in a vain attempt to save their Fuehrer from his inescapable fate.

"Where Hitler is going he doesn't need anything from anybody, least of all from you."--A fictional Albert Speer to a fictional Traudl Junge in the masterpiece Downfall. (The only problem I have with the film is in its whitewashing of the SS doctor Shenck, who ran a slave labor project in a concentration camp where he experimented on prisoners.)

[bocaccio-barcelona]

EN LO QUE CREO

Creo en el poder de la imaginación para rediseñar el mundo, para liberar la verdad que vive dentro nuestro, para contener la noche, para trascender a la muerte, para encantar a las autopistas, para congraciar a los pájaros, para ganarnos la confianza de los locos.

Creo en mis propias obsesiones, en la belleza del choque de autos, en la paz del bosque sumergido, en la excitación de un balneario desierto, en la elegancia de los cementerios de automóviles, en el misterio de los estacionamientos para coches de varios pisos, en la poesía de los hoteles abandonados.

Creo en las pasarelas olvidadas de Wake Island, que apuntan al Pacífico de nuestras imaginaciones.

Creo en la misteriosa belleza de Margaret Thatcher, en el arco de sus fosas nasales y el brillo de su labio inferior; en la melancolía de los conscriptos argentinos heridos, en las sonrisas hechizadas del personal de las estaciones de servicio; en mi sueño sobre Margaret Thatcher siendo acariciada por ese joven soldado argentino en un motel olvidado, observados por un empleado de estación de servicio tuberculoso.

Creo en la belleza de todas las mujeres, en la perfidia de sus imaginaciones, tan cercana a mi corazón; en la unión de sus cuerpos desencantados con las encantadas cintas de las cajas de supermercado; en su cálida tolerancia a mis perversiones. Creo en la muerte del mañana, en un tiempo exhausto, en nuestra búsqueda de un nuevo tiempo en las sonrisas de las azafatas y los ojos cansados de controladores aéreos en aeropuertos fuera de temporada.

Creo en los órganos genitales de los grandes hombres y las grandes mujeres, en las posturas corporales de Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher y Lady Di, en los dulces hedores que emanan de sus labios cuando se ponen frente a las cámaras de todo el mundo.

Creo en la locura, en la verdad de lo inexplicable, en el sentido común de las piedras, en la locura de las flores, en la enfermedad guardada para la humanidad por los astronautas del Apollo.

Creo en nada.

Creo en Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dalí, Tiziano, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, De Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Durero, Tanguy, Cheval, las Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, y todos los artistas invisibles que están en instituciones psiquiátricas del planeta.

Creo en la imposibilidad de la existencia, en el humor de las montañas, en el absurdo del electromagnetismo, en la farsa de la geometría, en la crueldad de la aritmética, en las intenciones asesinas de la lógica.

Creo en las mujeres adolescentes, en su corrupción por la propia postura de sus piernas, en la pureza de sus cuerpos desordenados, en los rastros de sus genitales dejados en baños de moteles gastados.

Creo en el vuelo, en la belleza del ala, y en la belleza de todo lo que alguna vez ha volado, en la piedra arrojada por el niño pequeño que lleva consigo la sabiduría de hombres de estado y parteras.

Creo en la amabilidad del escalpelo del cirujano, en la geometría sin límites de la pantalla de cine, en el universo oculto dentro de los supermercados, en la soledad del sol, en la cháchara de los planetas, en lo repetitivo de nosotros mismos, en la inexistencia del universo y el aburrimiento del átomo.

Creo en la luz que las grabadoras de video proyectan en las vidrieras de los negocios, en los conocimientos mesiánicos de los radiadores de los coches de showroom, en la elegancia de las manchas de aceite en los hangares de los 747 estacionados en aeropuertos.

Creo en la no existencia del pasado, en la muerte del futuro, en las infinitas posibilidades del presente.

Creo en la degeneración de los sentidos: en Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

Creo en los diseñadores de las pirámides, del Empire State Building, del Fuehrerbunker de Berlín, en las pasarelas de Wake Island.

Creo en los olores corporales de Lady Di.

Creo en los próximos cinco minutos.

Creo en la historia de mis pies.

Creo en las migrañas, el aburrimiento de las tardes, el miedo a los calendarios, la traición de los relojes.

Creo en la ansiedad, la psicosis y la desesperación.

Creo en las perversiones, en el enamoramiento con los árboles, en las princesas, los primeros ministros, las estaciones de servicio abandonadas (más hermosas que el Taj Majal), las nubes y los pájaros.

Creo en la muerte de las emociones y el triunfo de la imaginación.

Creo en Tokio, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.

Creo en el alcoholismo, las enfermedades venéreas, la fiebre y la fatiga. Creo en el dolor. Creo en los chicos.

Creo en los mapas, los diagramas, los códigos, los juegos de ajedrez, los acertijos, la tabla de horarios de las aerolíneas, los indicadores de los aeropuertos. Creo en todas las excusas.

Creo en todas las razones.

Creo en todas las alucinaciones.

Creo en todas las furias.

Creo en todas las mitologías, recuerdos, mentiras, fantasías, evasiones.

Creo en el misterio y la melancolía de una mano, en la amabilidad de los árboles, en la sabiduría de la luz.

J. G. Ballard