Car parks have always struck me as the saddest of places.
Returning from cinemas,
with our eyes attuned to the process of perceiving a two dimensional image,
we are struck by the presence of the third dimension,
by the real.
Everything is heightened.
`â€¦who threw their watches off the roof to cast the ballot for Eternity outside Time, & alarm clocks fell on their heads everyday for the next decade.â€™ â€“ Allen Ginsberg.
`The Mind is the great Slayer of the Real. Let the Disciple slay the Slayer.â€™ â€“ H.P. Blavatsky
Seeing that our once small and esoteric order is becoming larger and more public with each year, I have decided to write an account disclosing its origins and founders of which I am one. Of course, in reality, the order began many ages before our births -- back with the first human to ever achieve freedom from his lower nature. That moment of initiation was the true beginning and no mortal is the founder. But what I offer here strictly relates to the modern movement: our particular push and our current task.
I trace it back to one man in particular: Lars Yenin. People often express to me their suspicion about Yenin because his early life was in no way similar to his later life. It is, someone once told me, as if he were two different people.
Funnily enough, that isnâ€™t so far from the truth, which Yenin revealed to me himself in great detail. Let me elaborate:
During the last months of his `old lifeâ€™, Lars Yenin had a midlife crisis. Others saw it as a negative phase, but he perceived it to be a rare moment of clarity. His family and friends advised him to take some rest, and then `climb back on the horseâ€™. But Yenin saw them only as distractions. His job was monotonous and was never enough to free him of his financial worries. Just when he was beginning to get on top of things, a national holiday would turn up or his car would need registering, and Yenin would have to pay more money out. His family obligations were a source of constant anxiety. He could not help notice that his hair was going grey, and his body was becoming softer and flabbier.
It came to a stage where Yenin felt that all his anxieties, his worries and desires, could be likened to tentacles -- latching onto him and pulling him deeper into the rat race that was society. They even affected his sleep. He had to pull against these emotional tentacles in order to relax enough to get to sleep, and rather than just waking up anymore, these tentacles would drag him out of the dream world and back into the rat race when morning came.
As a result of this, Yenin did not get enough sleep. Say, for one hour of sleep he missed out on in every night; that would be seven hours of sleep that he still needed at the end of a week. Returning from work, Yenin would look at homeless people on the street and heâ€™d think to himself, â€œHow easy it would be to stretch out next to them and just let everything slip away.â€
Then everything fell apart in a day. That morning Yenin went to work and attended an important meeting. He was informed along with many others that the company could no longer afford to keep him.
When Yenin arrived home he discovered a note left by his wife explaining that sheâ€™d left him and took the children with her. It had been brewing for a while, but nevertheless it shocked poor Yenin. He felt incredibly old. Then, after fretting about his misfortunes for half an hour, Yenin suddenly stopped and had a realisation: for the first time in many years he had nothing to do. It was almost freedom. He could have set about finding a new job, but he pushed that thought away and went for a walk to the bottle shop on the corner. The rest of that day Yenin sat at home and drank bourbon with his stereo turned up. When the bottle was empty he decided to catch up on some sleep.
It was only after dropping onto his bed that Yenin realised just how tired he was. He loosened his collar and belt, stretched out, and trying to swipe away the `tentaclesâ€™, he drifted off to sleep.
It was a deep and dreamless sleep.
Later, he drifted back into a half-conscious state and vaguely realised that he must have slept for hours.
Perhaps I should get up now, he thought. There are things to do. But he was still very tired and felt more peaceful than he had ever been; so he swiped away that last `tentacleâ€™ and went back to sleep. This was the day that Yenin completely let go. The hours stretched on and on. The telephone rang and people knocked on the door, but he remained asleep. The hours stretched on until they became days -- and the days stretched on. Nothing could wake him now. Yenin was cashing in on all the overdue sleep he had ever missed out on -- with interest. Although he was completely unaware, the days turned into weeks â€¦ then months â€¦ then years. And the years stretched on into centuriesâ€¦.
Nobody with any relation to him knew that Yenin slept for that long. This is because while he was sleeping â€“ in fact, only two weeks into his sleep â€“ a new Lars Yenin appeared. This Lars Yenin was fifteen years younger than the first Lars Yenin. He staggered home deliriously one night, collapsed onto the bed next to himself and fell unconscious. He was soaked from head to foot and he was bearded. But nobody knew those details either. All that his associates knew was that at around that time, when â€œLarsyâ€ lost his job and his wife took the kids and left him, he became an entirely changed man.
For a start he renounced everybody he ever knew. Nobody saw him anymore. When they called, he was very short in explaining to them that he was busy. They thought, as you would, that this was because of his recent losses. When a group of his old work buddies finally decided to confront him at his home, they found he had moved out and left the house to his wife. And she had not met with him face-to-face since they broke up.
For six months after that, there were occasional rumours of Yenin sightings, as his old friends called them. People said they saw him drive passed on the road, or at the airport, or in a crowd. He looked different somehow, said the rumours. Maybe he had a face-lift to make him look younger, and something was wrong with his right eye. Maybe it was not Yenin but actually his illegitimate son â€“ that would explain why his wife left him. Either way, by then nobody really cared anymore.
All the while, the first Yenin kept sleeping.
About five years later, the second Yenin became a millionaire and moved into a country property. Whenever he moved anywhere, he would cart around the sleeping Yenin too, so that nobody would discover him and cause trouble. He had an underground room made at his property especially for the first Yenin to sleep in, safe and undisturbed. It was at that time, when the new Yenin was financially secure, that he began his work in the new psychology. The Yenin I shall tell you about here is the second one. The original Yenin is asleep during the entire discourse of all the events that follow.
The second Yenin never slept at all.
to be continued.
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A Kiwi theatre-goer gets caught up in World Cup FEVER!
by Tom Doig
I'm not a big soccer fan; hell, I'm not even an Australian citizen. So when I found myself at a friend's house waiting for the Australia-Japan game to start, I was barracking for Japan Â after all, they had much better haircuts. But sport does strange things to people. By the end of the second half I was cheering the mighty Cahill, booing the Egyptian ref (bloody pyramid-builders!), spilling my beer - and when we won, I was ecstatic. Go Aussie! I mean, you Australians must be very pleased with yourselves.
They were. Biking home down Sydney Road, every driver was leaning on his car-horn, while blokes leaned out of car windows, waving Aussie flags and Aussie scarves and yelling "Go Aussie!" and "Aussie Aussie Aussie!" and sometimes "Aaauuussssiiiieeee!" Captivated, I biked past my house, following the jubilant traffic towards the city. In between the green-and-gold people hooting and hooraying across the road, there were dejected little clumps of Japanese fans waiting for taxis, immobile, face-paint looking incongruous and sad. When I finally headed home, nearly two hours after the game had finished, I was hooked Â not on the soccer, but on the fans.
There's a derogatory term for people like me: "theatre-goer". It refers to people who go to big sporting events for the atmosphere, rather than the game itself. When I told some of my hippy friends I was going to Fed Square for the Croatia game, they were aghast. "What kind of drunken idiot goes to Fed Square to watch sports?" they asked, horrified. That's what I wanted to know.
To make it to Fed Square for the 5am kick-off, I stayed up all night drinking. When I got there at 4.30am, Fed Square was already full to capacity, closed off by policemen and security guards in bright yellow vests. I trudged excitedly through the mud down to the second screen at Birrung Marr. I got up close to the action, so close that each pixel was the size of someone's head, and when nothing was happening it was like a banal acid flashback. Strangers hugged each other, and took endless pictures on their mobile phones. The game - we didn't lose. The fans lost it. There was an impromptu victory parade on Swanston Street. A taxi had its back windscreen smashed in; a tram's glass door panel was shattered, and a few of the pizza cafes' glass facades had been fractured.
As the sun rose over Spring Street, a young guy scrambled up the windscreen of a delivery truck onto the roof, where he hollered and jumped up and down. Two more guys joined him, and the three of them jumped and rocked the truck - fans on the ground rocked the truck - the cops charged in on horseback, hitting people out of the way.
By the time the celebrations made it back to Fed Square, the 8am spandex set were weaving through the staggering fans on their $4000 bicycles at full speed, dinging their little bike bells, nearly flattening the cops trying to direct traffic. But the emblem of the anarchy was a rogue packet of crumpets lying in the gutter by Bourke Street Mall. A waste of good breakfast product Â has everyone lost their minds?!
I resisted the urge to go to the Welcome Stranger, and pedalled shakily home to bed.
Before the Italy game, Elizabeth Street was a mess. Pissed kids bellowing what could only I've been ’Adavance Australia Fair'; teenage boys running up to any, every girl with Aussie face-paint, yelling ’Aussie!' and copping a feel; some dude with blood running down his painted cheek, strutting along the tramlines Å
I got to Fed Square nearly two hours before kick-off, but the cops had already closed it off. Walking down to Birrung Marr, I joined a mob who tried to rush Fed Square from the river side. We got past the first group of security guards, ran up some stairs and hit the orange-and-white barricades. "You're not going anywhere," the security guards said. "Get past us, and there's still two more barricades. DonÂ¹t bother." I didn't bother. The atmosphere at Birrung Marr was electric. Whenever a shot of Guus Hiddink came onscreen, screamed his name in unison. Then we lost.
A tiny pocket of Italian fans bounced up and down, while everyone else went flat. Back on Elizabeth Street, a dozen hardcore Aussie fans chanted "Fuck the Italian bastards', before lining up for pizza. I headed to Lygon Street to watch it burn. Lygon Street didnÂ¹t burn. There was just a few dozen Aussie fans chanting "get a fucking passport", a line of cops on horses, and a few Italian boys chanting "ThereÂ¹s gonna be a riot".
A few of the Aussie fans mooned the Italians, and I was struck by something Â not a bottle, but the fact that half the exposed arses weren't white! There were quite a few Aussie-born Viet and Chinese crew yelling angrily at the "wogs". These ABCs were angry, at something, and they had green-and-gold paint all over their faces. But it surely wouldn't have taken much for the rest of the mob to turn on them Â video footage of an Australia-China table tennis final from the 80's would've done it.
As I was leaving, one of the mobÂ¹s ringleaders came striding past me. He was about 17, wearing a long brown jacket and jeans Â no green, no gold. He looked very pleased with himself. "Have a good night?" I asked. "Fucken awesome," he replied. "The cops can't pin anything on me. If they pick me up, I've only had two glasses of wine. I've done nothing. Now I've gotta get a taxi back to Eltham, to check in with my parole officer at 9am."
This guy was from a juvenile delinquents' correction centre, and proud of it; he is schizophrenic, but "fine as long as I take ma pills mate". I wanted to ask him what being an Aussie means to him; what he thinks of Italians; what he thought of Medina Cantalejo's decision - but it didn't seem relevant anymore.
THE MAN WHO NEVER SLEEPS
A novel by Levin A. Diatschenko
â€œTrespassers wouldnâ€™t understand.â€
If you take thought as a tangible thing, imagine the clouds of thought hanging about our heads. Imagine the roof of thought-fog hanging over our citiesâ€¦
Beginning as a murder mystery the story unravels until it gradually unveils the origin and purpose of an organization so esoteric that it doesnâ€™t even have a name.
Lars Yenin is an overworked family man, who never gets enough sleep. When he loses both his job and family, he lies down to sleep and doesnâ€™t wake up. The mysterious coma continues for years. Two weeks into the sleep, another man who looks identical to Yenin arrives and takes over Yeninâ€™s life. Within a short time, he becomes a world-famous occultist.
This new Yenin never sleeps at all.
Chaz Darf is a sorrowful emigrant whose only enjoyment in life is art. Most of his days are spent smoking cigars on the front steps of the block of units where he lives. Nobody knows anything about his life before he came to Australia.
When Chaz goes missing, and murders of seemingly supernatural circumstances take place, the police are left with only one clue: Chazâ€™s paintings, which clutter up his unit. Every painting is of the same subject: a beautiful but deformed woman. Thatâ€™s not much help, though. What the police need is the help of an expert in the occult â€“ they go to Lars Yenin.
The Man Who Never Sleeps is Levin A. Diatschenkoâ€™s first novel, a blend of metaphysics, mystery and science fiction. Since its launch in the Darwin Fringe Festival, followed with its nation-wide distribution, it has attracted an underground following of readers as diverse and individual as the characters in the book.
During the months of August and September, The Man Who Never Sleeps will be released in a serialised form on www.undergrowth.org, featuring new illustrations by the author throughout. Readers will be able to subscribe to a special email list to receive updates when new chapters are uploaded weekly at http://www.undergrowth.org/neversleep.
Reviews â€œDarwin-based Diatschenkoâ€™s first novel instantly exposes the promise and talent we can expect from this young Australian.â€ -- Mary Polowski, STU Magazine.
â€œFrom vampires to sociological questioning, The Man Who Never Sleeps moves in a sequence similar to a dream, wherein the plotlines, characters, and their development is in an eternal state of change.â€â€“ STU Magazine.
â€œStarting out as somewhat of a thriller, the plot of The Man Who Never Sleeps quickly changes with various characters playing narrator, each more bizarre than the last.â€ -- STU.
â€œIf you like your books starting with a murder mystery, developing into a kind of gothic horror, but with metaphysical links back to society and a little black humour on the side â€¦ then The Man Who Never Sleeps is for you!â€â€”Jan Goldsmith, Published Or Not, 3CR.
â€œIt deserves to sell to alienated urbanites the way Harry Potter sells to snot-nosed brats.â€â€”Briohny Doyle, Voiceworks Magazine.