helga von porno

Tales of my fortunes in London involving philosophy time travel heroin addicted granny, prophesy, prostitution, murder, global conspiracy, friends, and personal finances. I am from east germany and fled to england when my parents where murdered and have been living here unofficially since.

Wednesday, April 19, 2006

Happiness

Having climbed the piss smelling concrete stairs to the ninth floor of this kings cross tower block, I stood on the balcony corridor outside 907 looking at the blue sky over the Gas cylinders. I raised my left hand into the blue and it shone translucent white with pink mosaic around the knuckles, my nails just pink of white. My frail hand against the fresh spring sky touched the happy thread through my life back to my childhood and into the future. There I was, deeply happy and complete, from my heels to my head, no content but my hand and the sky and my soul pulsing inside me.
The door opened, and the two men, skin-headed and tatooed, let me though the door into the flat behind. Back to business.
The door slammed shut leaving you outside on the balcony with the dead fish eye lense looking at you vacantly. You try to find the happiness I felt there in that place, but it is gone, leaving nothing but the wind and the deep blue sky and the sound of children hurting one another.

Wednesday, April 12, 2006

My Day

Defeated Vladamir the builder in an illicit fencing tournament on the top floor of a building project in Kings Cross. Won £400 against the odds, as Vlad is known as the best street fencer in London, with the title, "The Impaler"

Played chess with Professor Rutger, famous for his paper on the foundations of logic, and also a prostigious chess player, fornicator and gourmet. Won twice in whites, and once in blacks, leaving him in a foul mood and bereft of an heirloom.

Rehearsed trapese at the circus school, achieved a quadruple back somersault landing on horse back and jumping through hoop of real fire.

Spent the evening spending my winnings in st John's for fish, followed by drinking in Soho. Managed to down one more vodka than Toffee Tim, Eton's most famous lush. Left him face down on the table.

Went home and cried for lonliness. When will I ever find an equal?

Thursday, April 06, 2006

The Philosopher's Casino

I was skipping through the streets of London in a rapture this fine spring evening when evening turned to night and I became lost.

On a narrow cobbled lane dank with the Thames I spied a basement level arched entrance with the words "The Philosopher's Casino" curved across the top in sequenced light bulbs.

The door man took my muff, the cover charge was a paradox, so I gave him one of Zeno's.

Inside was a huge hall teeming with chatterers around tables, reminiscent of an auction house, a stock exchange or a flock of pedestrian geese.

The tables were games where the punters bet upon philosophical problems. There was 40/1 on the definition of beauty, 8/1 on a physicalist reduction of mind, 3/7 on the foundation of mathematics, 0/-0 on the liars paradox. Around each table were bald pates, beards, pipes, and half moon spectacles gesturing and spluttering. Dotted around the tables were armchairs provided by the house.

I went up to a table and saw a French man had just won a huge pile of cash from a bald pated scotsman. "Anyone else?" Said the Frenchman, "Show me some proof of the external world."

The croupier set the odds at a 100/1 since the French man had been winning this bet for a long time against some of the best philosophers of the world.

I elbowed my way to the edge of the table. "I'll bet a thousand that the external world exists!" I piped.

"Boo, not worth my while, " sneered the French man, "Ten thousand of your English pounds if I can doubt any of your proofs, One million pounds for you if I can't."

"Done!" I cried and spat in my palm. He looked appalled and declined to shake my hand til he had pulled on a kit glove.

My heart started racing, I had to win, I didn't have ten pounds, let alone ten thousand, and I knew that these philosophers could get pretty nasty when you don't pay your debts. One friend had had his face ripped off, the wound covered in hot honey and red ants and left in the gutter screaming to death. The police did nothing, such was the grip of fear these philosophers had over the city. My friend's only crime was to try and pass off an Epistemological argument for a Metaphysical one over a three pound bet.

I started with the old "If my hands are before me, then the external world exists, here is my left hand, here is my right hand, therefore the external world exists."

"Ah," said the French man, "But I could be dreaming, in which case, I could have the sensations of you holding up your hands, without you holding your hands up at all. You have succeeded in demonstrating only that I can percieve your hands. But perception doesn't guarantee truth."

Now I made my killer move, "But if you are dreaming, then our bet took place in the dream, in which case, I have proved that the dream exists. If you are not dreaming, then the bet took place outside the dream, in which case I have proved the external world exists. You cannot both claim that you are dreaming and that you have won the bet. Therefore you owe me a million pounds!"

The assembly around the table applauded and turned like mere cats to face my interlocuter. "But if I am dreaming, you aren't even real," he faltered.

"In which case, nor is the million pounds that you owe me, so you may as well pay up!"

The croupier squinted at the Frenchman. "Pay the lady Rene, looks like your luck finally ran out, dream hypothesis, pchah!"

I bought several crates of champagne and high quality catering and had them delivered to the homeless on the streets. Then I went home, lined my box with cash and fell into a happy slumber.

Today I went searching for the philosopher's casino, but it was no where to be found. I thought I came across the same arch in the same cobbled street, but there was no great hall, just a step with a few boxes and an old drunk dribbling in his sleep.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

ressurection

On the third day I lifted the lid of my box. The sunlight poured in and filled me with pure energy. The birds were singing and children were laughing and playing in the streets.

I got up to find that my hair and become a fine platinum blond. I wore a simple white dress that buttoned up the front and fell like a veil over my pail frail form. The only contrast to my snow white skin was my scarlet lips, two cherries in the snow in the winter.

I skipped into Soho picking dafodils and smiling and laughing at passersby.

I saw an old drunk lying in an alley way that smelt of human shit and was dotted with blood tipped syringes. His eyes were half closed with utter despair. His face was a creased up old map of the wrong way to live.

I shook him gently and held his sorry head by the hair behind the ears and pointed his face up to mine.

"I love you, I love you," I said, right into his eyes and poured love through my palms into his head. I kissed him full on the lips and sucked in his foul fetid breath.

I left daffodils in his lap and skipped away to do more good deeds.

For example they gave me too much change at the dildo shopand I pointed out their error immediatley.

Monday, April 03, 2006

chrysalis

I've realised that the change was only beginning. After the complete destruction of my self esteem and respect my interest in the world dwindled. I became listless. The sunlight abhored me. I took to lying on the floor for long periods, moving once a sun cycle to drink water from the tap and lick salt. My thoughts flattened to a low hum.

But the draft bothered me so I built a box. But I was weak so I eat offal.

The box I made from mahogony and lined with red satin.

In the box I felt nothing.

Nothing yawned wide and deep and horrific. But I was cold and felt no pain.