MENTAL DISCHARGE, The Diaries of Anonymous Boh part 2


Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

In anticipation of Non Grata’s visit to the United States, here is an excerpt from Al Paldrok’s newest book, MENTAL DISCHARGE, Diaries of Anonymous Boh II. Paldrok will be giving a reading of his book on April 14th at Torus__porta on 113 Stockholm Street Storefront 1A in Brooklyn, New York. Non Grata will also be attending the Anarchist Book Fair on April 16th, as well as performing at The Paper Box on April 21st with Wild Torus, Jon Konkol and more.

It is nighttime, we are somewhere near the Mexican borderline. Ten is driving under his medication and we are too tired to notice he had made it 16 hours already. In the dark I wearily can open my eyes hearing the howling of police cars – we have four flashing machines chasing after us. “What the fuck, I thought this is roadwork” – Ten has driven right through the border control, and keeps on racing. “Pull over, man, pull over noooowwww!” We get the windows open and four shotguns are pointed to our faces, together with blinding flashlights. Ten´s driving license is invalid, expired, the vehicle has got no insurance and our passports are in California.

In the border guard point we all are separated, the fingerprints are taken. After every 5 minutes we are asked, have you got any drugs in the car? No, there are not. The virtual communication has even reached US, our identities are recovered in a couple of hours and then we could see, through their bullet-proof window, a shouting and gesticulating policeman coming in, waving Tom´s tobacco bag. This is the end, I think. But the door is opened and we are told: “Everything fine, you can go now…”

We move back to our car. “Whose tobacco is this?”

“Mine,” Tom says. “What are you smoking man? It smells soooo good, our dogs got crazy on that stink!” I must hold my feelings back hard, not to tell those officers, I can share you this cigarette for each, for free, get home and try it…


Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

All our things have been taken out on the street, unpacked, all the macadam in this tropical darkness under floodlights full of our soggy performance stuff, cameras, clothes. The uniforms stand around us, hands folded on chests and under their surveillance we start to pack again. Ten, who seems to be like in paradise because of our happy salvation, begins to explain them what we are doing here at all and so on and so on, we give lectures in Universities… “Do you have working licenses, guys?”

Haaaaaaa. “Shut the fuck up, man!” I hiss to him, in effort to get the last heavy bag in. As for the last move, I take silver paper from the roof, where the magic chocolates, all melted, are hidden. No documents, no insurance, no driving license, all that strange stuff – and we get away with this! Do not come to talk to me how rude is the American police, especially Texan. In Europe, one of these things would be enough to take the car, make thousands of euros fee, and be arrested after all that.



Taje Tross (Devil Girl) and Al Paldrok (Anonymous Boh)
Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

Estonian Independence Day Feb 24th – THIS IS THE DAY” We join forces with Non Gratas residing in New York – Barbie, Mermaid, Hoke, Alice Wonderland, BJ Dealer and others. The performance would start with solemn speech about Estonia as the tiniest nation on mainland, which has its own government, national television and written language. Three ambassadors are there. During the speech the go-go girls rush onstage, who perform burlesque in the honor of the birthday. At the same time, the real essence of the speech emerges – why talk about Estonia – this is a perfect place for experiment – how to give birth to the new model of mankind, new race – Storm Generation.

For this, everything existing must be annihilated – already religion, real and fictional gods, the military are set in flames, the police machine park goes in puffs of fumes. The room is full of fume. The world of entertainment has reached its violent roots – The Simpson family gone crazy batters the floor with knives, this tandem of Homer-Bart-Maggie are crawling on all fours and make the audience peep around frightfully, sometimes all the mass must escape them. There are no audience and performers anymore, all in one mass, which must make way to birth of storm generation – development of fetus can be observed step-by-step in colorless world ball, that is filling with breath of ideal man Ten. All the old must go – a gang of robots go mad in euphoria, cacophonia.


Photo: Courtesy of Non Grata

Who is now set on fire? – White, yellow and black races, feminists and machos, poets and writers, eggheads and idiots. We are the open nerve of God! Techno-animal sounds get wilder and louder. Mother of Harlots – mother of all the whores and shit drives in on a chariot, the amazons, brutalized, twist in apocalyptic agony, sucking blood from veins of each other, blood of gods Dionysian, delivering it to the doomed. The preacher defends the puffing uterus, its dimensions are superhuman already, the little body is clearly seen. A little dwarf signs the roaming people with black circles, his father is counting days left, backwards, a gorilla wheels the globe like a toy. Umbilical cord won´t snap yet, the uterus does not open yet…

The Storm Generation

we tip our hats to the lost and the beat

we go our own way

we are the storm generation

we are the fucking storm

we are a new generation of artists

we are poets writers painters sculptors composers musicians singers dancers playwrights filmmakers

we are creative expression

we blow away lies and injustice

we are graphic

we are honest

we tell it like it is

we are fierce

we are brutal

we are compassionate

we are gentle

we are kind

we have soft hearts

we are free

we are spirit

we are sex

we dwell in the realms of the creative imagination

we are the creative imagination

we know that the shortest distance between two points is creative distance

we pay attention to the long forgotten wisdomed voices of the forest

we vanquish the overtly materialistic greedy who intentionally destroy mountains

we honor mountains and oceans and eagles and wolves

we cherish mother earth and all her terrible beauty

we are non-violent spiritual warriors

we are lightning

we are thunder

we are songed poems

we are fearless visionary poets

we have wolf eyes

we are more than the eye of the storm

we are the fucking storm

we refuse

we will not bow down

we will never give up

we are God’s open nerve

we are The Storm Generation