I need to make a genius category.

This is a section about half way through Diary Of A Genius where Dali talks about his past films and films he had planned on making.  Bravo Dali, Bravo.

At the age of twenty-seven, for my arrival in Paris, I made two films in collaboration with Luis Bunuel which will remain historic – Le Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or.  Since that date, Bunuel has worked alone and directed other films, thereby rendering me the inestimable service of revealing to the public who it was who was responsible for the genius and who for the elementary aspects of Le Chien Andalou and L’Age d’Or.

If I create my film, I want to be sure that it will be, from beginning to end, a succession of wonders, because there is no point in bothering to see shows that are not sensational.  The more numerous my public, the greater the fortune my film will bring it’s author, who has so justly been baptised ‘Avida Dollars’.  But for a film to seem marvellous to its audience, the first indispensable requisite is that the audience can believe in the marvels that are revealed to them.  One must therefore abandon, for of all, today’s repulsive cinematographic rhythm, that conventional and boring rhetoric of camera movements.  How can one believe for a second in even the most banal melodrama when the camera follows the murderer everywhere, travelling even into the washroom where he goes to wash the blood off his hands?  That is why Salvador Dali, before he so much as begins his film, will take care to immobilise his camera, to nail it to the floor like Christ on the cross.  Too bad if the action moves out of the visual field!  The public will wait – distressed, exasperated, breathing heavily, stamping their feet, in ecstasy or, better still, bored to death – for the action to come back into the visual field.   Unless some very beautiful and completely unrelated images distract the audience by parading before the immobile, bound, hyperstatic eye of the Dalinian camera, which will then finally be restored to its true purpose of being slave to my prodigious imagination.

My next film will be exactly the opposite of an experimental avante-garde film, and especially of what is nowadays called ‘creative’, which means nothing but a servile subordination to all the commonplaces of our wretched modern art.  I shall tell the true story of a paranoid woman in love with a wheelbarrow which successively takes on all the attributes of a the beloved whose dead body has served as a means of transport.  In the end, the wheelbarrow is reincarnated and becomes flesh.  That is why my film will be called The Flesh Wheelbarrow.  Sophisticated or ordinary, all the audience will be forced to participate in my fetishist delirium, because it is something that is strictly true and that will be told in a way no documentary could have managed.  In spite of its categorical realism, my work will contain some really extraordinary scenes, and I cannot resist communicating some of them to my readers in advance, for the sole purpose of making their moths water.  They will see five white swans explode one after the other in a series of minutely slow images that develop according to the most rigorous archangelic eurythmics.  The swans will be stuffed with real pomegranates that have been filled in advance with explosives, so that it will be possible to observe with all due precision the explosion of the birds’ entrails and the fan-shaped burst of pomegranate seeds which will hit the cloud of feathers as one might imagine the corpuscles of light bump into each other, so that, in my experiment, the seeds will have the same realism as in the paintings of Mantegna, and the feathers the flowing vagueness which made the painter Eugene Carriere famous.  In my film there will also be a scene representing the Trevi fountain in Rome.  The windows of the houses round the square will open, and six rhinoceroses will fall into the water one after the other.  After each rhinoceros falls, a black umbrella will rise open, from the bottom of the fountain.

In another scene, the place de la Concorde will be shown as daybreak, slowly being traversed in all directions by two thousand priests on bicycles carrying placards with the very vague but still recognisable effigy of Malenkov.  And then, at the right moment I shall show one hundred Spanish gypsies killing and cutting up an elephant in a Madrid street.  They will leave only its fleshless skeleton, in this way transposing an African scene that I once read about in a book.  At the point that the pachyderm’s ribs become visible, two of the gypsies who, in spite of their savage frenzy, do not for one moment stop singing flamenco, will penetrate the carcass to appropriate the best giblets, the heart, the kidneys, etc.  They will begin fighting over them with knives, while those who stayed outside will continue cutting the elephant into pieces, occasionally wounding the fighters inside, who with a horrible, piercing joy stuff the animal’s interior, now transformed into a great bloody cage.

Nor should I forget a singing scene in which Nietzsche, Freud, Ludwig II of Bavaria, and Karl Marx will sing their doctrines with incomparable virtuosity, answering each other antiphonally, to some music by Bizet.  This scene will unfold on the banks of Lake Vilabertan, in the middle of which, shivering with cold, the water up to her waist, a very old woman, dressed as a torero, will be balancing an omelette aux fines herbes on her shaven head.  Each time the omelette slides off and falls into the water, a Portuguese will replace it for her with a fresh one.

Towards the end of the film, we shall see the globe of a candelabra that alternately swells and shrinks, then is covered with ornaments, then fades, burns bright again, turns liquid, hardens anew, etc…. I have been thinking for almost a year about this summary of the entire political history of materialist humanity, symbolised by the morphological transformations of a marsh-mallow, simple and recognisable in the outline of the candelabra’s globe.  That long and very precise study lasts exactly one minute in my film and corresponds to the vision of a man overwhelmed by the sun, closing his eyes and painfully pressing them against the palms of his hands.

All this I alone can achieve – being, of course, inimitable – because I am the unique being, with Gala, who possesses the secret which enables me to create my film without ever having to cut or use montage.  That secret alone will bring endless queues to the doors of cinemas where my work will be shown.  Because, contrary to the expectations of the naive, The Flesh Wheelbarrowwill not only be the work of a genius, but it will also be the most commercial film of age, since there is on quality that always rivets everybody’s attention - the prodigious!

There’s no feeling that’s worse then the feeling of being bloated.  A helium balloon weighed down to the earth by two merciless twigs.  Stepping over a fallen mirror and catching your reflection looking up at you.  A terrifying disgusting view of the present.  You should look to the future and tap dance on the egg shells that are the past, but no man, and i mean no man should be forced to take stock of his current situation.

Since last Friday leading into this Wednesday my step dad was in town, a series of conferences. Old men in dark suits with grey hair telling eight hours of grey tales about the health problems of Canada.  A series of codes, designed to resemble future plans and constant burdening needs.  But this is all a strategic way to ask for more money.  Some try desperation, some use force and self assertion, but make no mistake, as one beggar to another, its all for a handout.

The weekend is a blur, I remember taking the bus home at eight am Saturday morning, that’s Friday night.  Saturday night ended at noon on Sunday, my phone and house keys missing.  And between all of this there were dinners and movies with my step dad.  Each meal on his company credit card.  But i hated those meals, restaurants that serve you more food then you want.  I ordered a hot chicken sandwich at st hubert.  I sat waiting for my chicken on a bun, instead they tossed down some dark meat on two cheap merit selection slices of bleached white bread, covered with over salted beef gravy, soaking and pointless topped with some frozen peas.  I tried again the next night for a chicken sandwich somewhere else, but they burnt it, amateurs.  Most favors are annoyances, that simply suck you into someone else’s failed way of life.  Give me a can of pineapples and the blood of Christ on ice and leave me to my ways.

And come Monday the cycle began, up at noon, work until five then dinner again, then watch a movie with my step dad and drink a measly six pack until midnight.  Except for the desperate hours after he left i was surrounded.  It was like being married.  What a horror film, married to your step father.  I drifted through the week a zombie with spasms of unproductivity.

But it wasn’t all bad.  I remember kicking a chair into the dance floor at a bar.  It glided with such speed and accuracy taking some bozo out at the knees.  It was beautiful, i could taste the excitement in the air.  but just like that i was told to take it easy, calm it down.  No one likes a trouble maker, and maybe that’s sensible.  When you’ve trained your legs to dance on the dark side its usually others that fall before you.  They don’t have the footing mastered.

I also remember one night a small liquid vomit mid conversation at six am in a room.  You can spend a whole night drinking and talking, only to finally say it so perfectly and succinctly with a beer colored golden burst of vomit.  Of course, though you have finally spoken the truth and nothing is left to say, you grab another beer and babble on.

I just began reading a book by Salvador Dali.  Diary Of A Genius.  Of course everyone likes Dali, and having one of his paintings hanging on your wall is as tacky as an image of Jesus with a boner, Elvis, the king sucking it off, pills falling out the side of his mouth, a little white under his nose.  Is it powder, or a little spillage from the man on the cross.  Its up for debate.  Actually give me that statue, just give me those pills.  To hear someone say Dali is their favorite painter is so obvious and ridiculous.  Of course you like Dali, and Johnny depp, and the Beatles, and you jerked off to a victoria secret when you were young, and on and on and on. 

But I’ve found Dali’s writing to be even more entertaining then his other work.  So ripe with ego and strange sentences.  Filled with obsession and paranoia, a dash of psychosis and ripe sexual hunger.

What follows is the prologue to the book, Diary Of A Genius, written by the man himself.

“There is a greater difference between one man and another then between two animals of different species.”

MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

Ever since the French Revolution there has been growing up a vicious, cretinising tendency to consider a genius as a human being more or less the same in every respect (apart from his work) as ordinary mortals.  This is false.  And if it is false when applied to me, the genius of the greatest spiritual order of our day, a true modern genius, it is even more false when applied to those who, like the almost divine Raphael, embodied the very genius of the renaissance.

This book will prove that the daily life of a genius, his sleep, his digestion, his ecstasies, his nails, his colds, his blood, his life and death are essentially different from those of the rest of mankind.  This unique book, then, is the first diary written by a genius.  And it is more than that:  it is written by the unique genius who has had the unique fortune to be married to the genius Gala, the unique mythological woman of our time.

Of course, all will not be said today.  There will be blank pages in this diary, which covers the years 1952 to 1963 of my re-secret life.  At my request, and in agreement with my publisher, certain years and certain days will remain unpublished for the time being.  Democratic societies are unfit for the publication of such thunderous revelations as I am in the habit of making.  The unpublished parts will appear later in the next eight volumes of the first series of Diary Of A Genius – circumstances permitting;  otherwise they will appear in a second series, by which time Europe will have restored her traditional monarchies.  In the meantime, dear readers, I ask you to hold your breath and to learn all you can about the atom that is Dali.

Such are the unique and prodigious, but also wholly true, reasons why all that will now follow, from the first word to the last (and without my having to do anything about it), will inevitably be a work of genius, through and through, and for the sole reason that it is the faithful diary of your faithful and humble servant, Dali.

I heard this song three or four years ago. I always knew i would use it in something. Then it faded from me. About a year and a half ago I shot a short film about a drunken country singer. A day of his troubles. It was called Colt Cousins and the Heavy Hands.

While editing I realized the story followed the song somewhat closely. My intro was set, the only trouble was that everything else had been filmed. I didnt have the footage that would now lay the ground work for the whole thing. I have a camera, and all i need is the main person going around town on a bike drinking, smoking and leering in a waved pattern down the road. But It seems all involved, including myself, like that bike have no motor. Have no drive.

Someone first played me this song in the early morning one weekend past and it just gets better as the hours continue to tick, tick, tick away.

Being 26 staring into the grim future that is 27 with no intentions left of killing myself I have no idea what to do with my life but continue on as a failure.

I saw a trailer for a documentary called How to draw a bunny about three years ago. Its about a new york artist named Ray Johnson. I guess he was around during the warhol times. I always wanted to see it but I forgot about it.

About a year ago I searched the internet, but i got nothing. And somehow I came across something that reminded me of it again tonight, and so, again I searched. And again, Nothing. I did find these short online videos though.

The downloading world has been failing me in flying colors lately. Not to mention my hard drives are resting on their two fatal final gigs. What sick conspiracy is at play here. Whatever play it is it’s foul. I will not love my enemy, im no chicken fucker. The only cure is total destruction. Tear the insides out, paint the walls in shining beeping microchips like a vegas architects wet dream.  Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhm going to bed.

LISA LOEB.

We got back to the house after the bar. The night isn’t important, or the house for that matter. We ordered some after hours beer and some other things. Someone at the house became insistent on getting some girls over. For some people images must be upheld, no matter the consequences. So he reached deep into the wells of his phone even it meant landing on some trolls.

Three girls arrived to promises of beer and those other things. They got nothing. There were two blond girls and a small brown haired girl. I don’t remember their names but I’d seen one of the blond girls at a photo show a couple years ago. She disgusted me then and she disgusted me now. Both of these blond girls looked as though they had brushed up against every STD from herpes to the famed amazon ape itch. The one did have these long black nyloned legs. The only redeeming value stretching out from a poison mind. And even those only conjured up images of a tortured trout abused by curved mackerel and spear nosed marlin.

Now I’m not for euthanasia, but if i were to read in the newspaper “a car driving west at midnight was found wrapped around a pole on Sherbrooke near Lionel Groulx. 2 found dead” and these two girls were the ones found dead, well this world just might be a better place. No family would care, People like this don’t have mothers, and they should never be mothers.

Its an interesting thing about Lionel Groulx metro. Its name is in commemoration of a preacher of the past, a preacher who fought for segregation, a preacher who had no time for the negro. And now where this monument to his twisted name, Lionel, a somewhat black name i may add, or maybe that’s just Lionel Ritchie playing tricks with my head. Either way, where this structure stands has become a part of town inhabited by a large portion of black people. His cracker hatred unknowingly seeping from the pores of the cement where men with style lean.

These two girls yammered inanely as i kept the beer in the bag between my legs not trusting these drink fiends a minute. It was the small mousy brunette that seemed so out of place here. She was sitting to my left saying nothing as everyone carried on. She had those glasses that Lisa Loeb wore. You know the sort of thin ones that look like Jordie LaForges visor, but with lenses, with little wings in the top corners. I think hers may even have had little kitty images on the wings, or something of that nature. She had brown hair with bangs down to her eyes and the rest long and framing her face. In fact she almost looked exactly like Lisa Loeb, not the type of girl you’d expect to be out late on a night like this. So young and innocent.

I heard her saying something to her friend. I couldn’t quite make it out. “Did you just say Lil Whyte” I asked. She looked up at me with those innocent eyes through those thin glasses. “Hell fuckin yah mother fucker, I love that fuckin shit.”

Ahhhhhhh. I never expected Lisa Loeb to talk like this. Almost instantly she had the ipod plugged into the stereo, Like a psychopathic cat. Just like that the first song played. It was a lady bragging about doing eight balls of cocaine while pregnant. I think she claimed it was her singing. She did know every word, in fact she was standing rapping along, a seasoned veteran. I said nothing and sipped on my beer cautiously. Within seconds she was playing smell yo dick. Screaming the lyrics along possessed by the idea of the scent of a cheating dick.

Every second word out of her mouth was a swear word. Maybe the pregnant cocaine song was her. And her, just a throwback to that one year of fame for Lisa Loeb. This young girl, A child forgotten in the midst of stardom, forced to find her way through the cruel streets. Seeing life through the hardened cracked lens of an auteur’s nightmare.

I could barely take it all in before the music player was unplugged and she was out the door. It was six am, and the streets were safe for no one with her around. A little dangerous pixie filled with gangster dust. Out there with the cold Montreal wind, off to commit some beautiful crimes.

I couldnt think of anything to post and havent posted anything in awhile, so im just writing some nonsense, where this story will end up by the end, i have no idea.

BINKY, SNIFFY AND BLOW TRAIN.

Binky called up his cousins sniffy and blow-train.
“look, sniffy, its friday night, were going to put wine in a can and hang out at the slaughter house.”
“for gods sakes binky your a blood hound, cow guts make me puke, and you know how they turn blow train on.”
“fine, forget it, your right, i cant be around blow train with a blood bone. lets just go peep on father oblivions wife.”
“will there still be wine in a can.”
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME, OF COURSE THERE WILL BE WINE IN A DAMN CAN, jesus.”
“Vagos for life.”
“I Yi yi yi yi yi.”

Binky walked like a pyscho path, he was duck footed and preposterous. He looked like lurch from the addams family, and he leaned back real low like he was doing the limbo when he walked, his giant hands in his pockets. He wasnt intimidating and was a master at human relations, except in job interview situations, it was a terrible conflict. His first wife was a tramp. His second wife was always on the road. She was placed 18th in the country for bowling. The bowling with those small balls and all the pins. A reputation like that must be up held, for the family name. But binky loved her, and all the ashphalt in the world could never build a road that their love would not venture.

Sniffy and blow train were twins. They always had cake and ground beef in their pockets, a survival tactic. Just because your stranded in the woods doesnt mean you shouldnt have a little dessert, and just imagine you were kid napped, a criminal has a lot on his mind and sometimes forgets to eat, with the right kind of food you might just have a new friend. They had huge heads and milky souls, they walked with their knees high in the air like a russian platoon. Always with the black suits, the black shirts, the black ties and the black slicked back hair. Animals, they stunk of rotting meat always. Dogs would sell their masters up the river for ten minutes in a room with these twins.

Father oblivions house was huge, so was his wife. Sniffy and blow train played with the meat in their pockets as they watched her shower. Binky sipped on his wine. Her pubic hair was like a grey wild tumble weed that had finally found its home. Binky thought of his wife as he smelled the rotting ground beef.
“goddamn it sniffy, this is ridiculous.”
“Shut it binky, i need this.”
“father oblivion is a good man.”
“He’s a bible humper, all that woman needs all of a mans love, hes got half his head up in the clouds eating jesus out, hows a woman gonna get any love like that.”
“what are you talking about sniffy.”
“Life man, im talking about life.”
“I hate it when you guys fight, I cant focus on my art.” cried blow train.
Blow train had fastened the ground beef into a beard on his face.
“Im going to go in there, this is my disguise, she’ll never know the difference.”
“you’ve lost it blow train.” Shouted Binky.
“ha, father oblivion, more like father oblivious.”
“but its not him your trying to trick.”
“dont bring me down, i hate you both.”
Blow train ran to the front door, there was no stopping him. Binky and sniffy watched cautiously from the bushes as blow train rang the door bell. They watched as father oblivions wife stepped from the shower and put a towel around herself. It was a Tiel beach towel with a huge image of the san jose sharks logo. They watched as she dissappeared from the bathroom, they watched as blow train fidgeted with his hands in his pockets nervously, squishing the ground beef and cake. What was going to happen next, its strange how one minute a normal night can so quickly turn to something much different.
“for chrissakes sniffy, we should have just went to the slaughter house, cows dont call the fucking cops.”
“My brother knows what hes doing, hes a master in these situations.”
Binkies human relation skills werent working, maybe his mother was wrong all this time.

Father oblivions wifes name was Raven. She heard the bell ring, who would come here, at this hour, father oblivion was out doing sermons, out shaking hands with the devils in the name of god. She walked to the door thinking of tacos, nachos, gorditas and burritos. Maybe it was a lost mexican with a cooking addiction. It was all about positive thinking, if you think positive things rapists and murderers never come to your door, its a scientific fact. Raven understood this.

Raven opened the door and stood staring at the large headed man dressed like a door to door salesman for the satanic bible. A beard of ground beef. Her eyes fluttered as she tried to take it all in, this smiling creature, the essence of bizarre. The physical actions werent transmitting from her mind, finally her sense came to her as she screamed at the top of her lungs and tried to slam the door shut. Blow train was on it like lighting lodging himself between the door and the frame.
Sniffy and Binky were up and running towards the scene, things had gone terribly wrong. How could a simple peep turn so disastorous, this was the type of thing that only happened in the movies.
When they got to the door Blow train had just pushed through, blow train was chasing raven through the house screaming. “i love you father oblivions wife, i love you, i made this beard for you.” And she was screaming, “your not mexican, your not mexican.”
Wine was spilling everywhere.
Behind blow train Sniffy and Binky ran, yelling after him. It was just like an episode of Friends. That blow train, that phoebe.
Raven stepped on her cats tail. It was black with blue eyes, it screamed like a dirty trumpet.
All of a sudden the whole thing came to a halt, Raven was cornered in the living room, Blow train slowly moving towards her full of apologies. The t.v. was at full blast, a baseball game between the toronto blue jays and the Detroit Tigers, the announcers speaking loudly. Sniffy and Binky were about to pounce on blow train when everyone stopped, their attentions drawn to the t.v. The announcer spoke.
“ladies and gentleman, i havent seen a game like this in years, Up to bat, Vernon wells, its the bottom of the ninth and the blue jays are down by three with the bases loaded. And the pitch, and crack, that ball is going deep, its going, going, going, oh my god its a home run.”
“A grand Salami” yelled Raven.
For a brief instance all the past events seemed not to matter as everyone cheered in the room.
And just as quick as it started Everyone stopped, realizing the scene they were in, Raven cautiously began.
“your a blue jays fan.”
“I love the blue jays.”
“me too” binky chimed in, but no one much noticed.
Raven looked at this man in front of her. He wasnt mexican, but you could make tacos with that ground beef beard. Blow train slowly reached in his pocket and pulled a hand full of cake from it and held it out. Raven cautiously reached for the cake and took a bite. It was a strange taste, almost spicy, as if, as if there was chili powder in it. By god there was. Right there in the cake was a mexican twist. Was this man a genius, her soul mate.

It was no time before the whole group was cooking tacos and watching old world series reruns. Joe Carter, The candy man, ROBERTOOOOO ALOOOOOOMAR.
The broken and strange, the physically and emotionally deformed all needed love. They needed it the most, because for most they could not even find it in themselves. And for most they lay, watching, drying up on the shores as the rest wallowed in the midst of there egos and so called love, making it look so easy, so right.
Raven hoped that maybe tonight Father oblivion would be a little late from sermon, hell, if there was a god maybe there would be a car accident, if there was a god, maybe he’d never come home at all.