Free

I think there is no boundary to free speech. Though they may be such a thing as hate speech, which is forbidden in Germany (where I live) for historical reasons, I don’t think hate speech should be forbidden.
Hate speech should be fought with tooth and nail, but nor forbidden. Speech is to be fought with speech and experience; better speech and better arguments, but also personal experience.
You can say anything you want to. If I disagree with you, it is up to me to say my piece in a way that will kill yours. KILL! Let the better argument win, and yes, I don’t want my argument to kill yours, that was just a joke, but it is important to realize that arguments can win or lose. If you have a good argument, make it win!
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Why? Because speech is thought expressed. You may try to forbid it, but you can’t get inside of peoples heads (not yet, at least). What people think will be expressed, and you simply have to deal with it. Supressing it will not help in the least, it will simply drive it underground and get it out of sight. Bad.
Of course, this assumes that you are able to understand my arguments, which, if we want to be honest, won’t always be the case. People who read this blog will probably be more receptive to cogent argument (I hope…), but people who read this blog are not typical people. Typical people aren’t used to analytical thought, and, after thousands of years of getting along, they are not about to start with that shit now.
I think it is important for you, the people who read this blog and understand it as it is meant to be understood, to realize that you are not typical. Most people just don’t get it, or, even if they could and actually wanted to do so, do not read this blog or other sources of information that might help them along the way.
Nevertheless, free speech is the only way to go. The opposite would be to assume that arguments shall not prevail, but rather power, or ignorance (which can only be fought with, you guessed it, free speech).
Whether it be the power of the state, as in Germany, which forbids certain types of speech, or the power of society, which forbids certain types of speech with the threat of ostracization, or even incarceration, depending on the momentary societal situation, the only way to fight it is with good arguments. Or experience.
Personal experience is very important. For example, a simple person (forgive me for saying it, but there are human beings who are “simple”, without having any less “worth” than anyone else) can benefit hugely from experiencing different cultures. It’s a very simple thing, which, perhaps, seems natural to any university student at a big campus, or to anyone who lives in an international city: seeing and meeting people from different cultures. Talking to them! Sitting next to them! Oh my God!
I think you have to realize that this is something that the greater part of humanity is not used to. As soon as you get them used to it, well, they’’ll get used to it. Christ, it’s that simple, sometimes. Put a right wing asshole next to a left-wing black man for half a year, and he will (perhaps) realize that the black man is of course a perfectly normal human being (they might even, God forbid, become friends).

Dream Nr. 456

My Dearest,
I was a fool to join this venture. I never thought it would end like this, with me writing to you. We went in with a clear mission. Booty, slaves. Nobody knows better than I that no plan survives the first battle, but this… this is different.
We tore them apart. But then they got into our minds, and they turned us in to a thousand pieces. They ripped the puzzle apart and set it together anew, again and again. They fucked our minds. But I am getting ahead of myself.
We landed, we whipped them. That is to say, we slayed. We hacked them apart. Our weapons were superior, not to mention our tactics. Though they were not unused to war, as they had casual strife with neighboring tribes, they were compariaively disorganized. It was the usual bloody mess. We killed the men and children, we enslaved the women and what men survived. We used them as we pleased.
The women were the problem, that’s what I think. It may sound stupid, but they had a way about them. The music they played, that weird foreign beat, the way they walked. There is dissent. Our men fight one another for the women, though they be but slaves. The women are like a baking sheet full of cake, each one of them a piece.
The Captain has lost control. Rolf and Fjorad have disappeared. Murdered in their sleep? Eaten? The priest is gone too, not that I care.
It is insane. That beat . . . that foreign beat . . . I can’t sleep. The drums, these foreign drums! How can they dance to such a strange beat? They take our minds apart.
I would go away, but the men have disassembled our ship to build huts. I do not know how it will end. Forgive me for this disjointed report. I write this letter in knowledge that it will probably never reach you, my love.

Philosophical Swill

Will you be my swine? Can I drive you? Can I put you in a pen? You would be the perfect listener, with your long swine ears. I could confess to you, all my sins, even harmless ones, while I shovel your shit away. Of course you’d be an organic swine, you’d be able to go out, if you wanted to, and you’d get purely organic swill. Far better swill than humans get. Our days would be perfectly measured I would think. It would be best if you were a flying pig, then I could get on you and we would fly to France or something. Paris. I will fly you, it’s better than driving. We will enthuse the Parisians with our organic swill, in the physical, verbal, and philosophical sense.

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Dear Editor

You son of a bitch, you take all the good shit out, and now you post harmless shit as if it  was from me! I hate your fucking guts. If there is a single thing I’d like to say to you it is Fuck you, you soulless bastard! You have no idea of life as it is truly lived. For you, everything is just words, just possible meanings and possible interpretations. You’re a fucking hairsplitter, you even split the fucking split hairs. You’re insane, completely off the register asshole fucker. You have bo idea. If I could I would kill you. Fortunately for you I am a pacifist and a coward, otherwise I wo7uld get myself a gun and shoot you in the fucking head. Headxshot, motherfucker, kill your ass. I got friends, the<y’ll break your legs if you keep fucking with my writing. You know I care about that. They’ll do it for a fucking case of German beer, motherfucker. You know I would do that, even if I wouldn’t kill you myself, so stop fucking with my prose, asshole! Next time I see something wrong I’ll send the Hungarians, you son of a bitch! You didn’t post anything for months, though I wrote and wrote, what the fuck? Ain’t it good enough for you, you fucking jerk? What do you fucking know?
You know what I am listening to now, you fucking scum of the earth? Dancing in Your Head. If the Hungarians don’t work out I’ll set a fucking voodoo on you. Yeah, now you’re wondering, aren’t you? I’ve got your fucxking hair, motherfucxkere, set a fucking voodoo on you, nails in your headdd. Believe nme, ain’t facing around anymore, Christ!
And no money either… you promised me! Fucker!
[Note from the Editor: Uneditet]

The Blog…

… has been languishing. Languishing badly indeed. There were things Hellstrøm could have posted, but… nah. They weren’t ripe. It’s not like Hellstrøm hasn’t been writing, but it wasn’t the right stuff for the blog, or it just wasn’t ripe. Write, let it lie, look at it sometime, write more, edit, write more, cross out half of it because it’s shit, write again, it’s still shit, and so on… That’s the way it goes, and it isn’t something that fits itself to the blog. Fifty and more posts in petto, it goes its own way, and one picks and chooses what comes in the blog, because God knows Hellstrøm doesn’t want to expose you to everything he writes, nor does he want to expose everything he writes to you. He is a judicious son of a bitch, and you should be thankful for that. It’s bad enough as it is.
But, in spite of not wanting to encourage anyone to expect a surge of posts, I can say that there may be a couple of things coming. Have a seat, brace yourself, haha! No, but seriously, you know that joke about the fleas in a New York hotel, the ones with hunched backs…?
The main problem with writing things for the blog, to be honest, is that most of it is foolish drunken ranting. There may be a grain of truth in drunken ranting, but you have to be drunk in order to do it. Or, to be more specific, you need not only be drunk, but be drunk alone. Can’t write in company, for Christ’s sake, writing is a solitary occupation. And if your life is normal, you don’t get drunk alone, nor are you alone at all very often, late at night, in front of the computer, in a writing mood. Which is to say that Hellstrøm’s life has become somewhat more normal, no real desire to get drunk alone. Besides, Hellstrøm may write drunk, but his editor is stone sober in the morning. God help the son of a bitch (which one?).
The fact is, Hellstrøm is getting on in years, and even Hellstrøm can’t stem the tide, much as he’d like to. He has responsibilities, the old bat. One might almost say he’s become a responsible person. Almost. He manages to steal away, now and again, and he always hedges his responsibilities to an acceptable level. In spite of all the requirements he has no intention of ever meeting anyway. If there is one thing Hellstrøm knows how to do, it is staving off the world to keep himself from going insane. Hellstrøm will always fight them off (I haven’t the slightest idea who they are). Just because he’s paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get ’im. He’s a million miles away, motherfucker, you’ll never get ’im, and though he loves writing all this shit, he doesn’t give a flying damn if anyone reads it. He’s got other brands in the fire, other cats to whip.
Hellstrøm is doin’ good, God damn his dirty little soul. He don’t deserve it, but he ain’t been abused lately. Try as he will to make it all bad, he’s doing good. The devil braying outside his door is being ignored. God only knows how long it’ll go on, but he’s taking full advantage of the situation. He’s a hound that’s taken the scent, and he won’t let off until it’s reached its end. He has the feeling it never will. He wants more. He’s riding the Big Wave, he’s cruisin’. How much longer? Well, good luck to him, the sucker. At the bottom of his soul, in spite of it all, he was always naíve. On the other hand he’s an old codger, so look out. It’s a dangerous combination.
Listening to Jubilee Street from Nick Cave. Look at him now. And then Ska Fort Rock from the Skatalites. God damn, let those horns take you away…!

Your Spirit

Once, in the bowels of the earth, there was a man. He didn’t know how he got to be there, but he didn’t like it, so he decided to climb. He was so deep down that there was no where else to go but up. One fine day he got up to the top, climbed out, and saw the sun for the first time. It hurt his eyes, but nevertheless it was beautiful, and so heavenly warm, after all those years of worming through the cold earth.
He wandered about, cursed at and reviled by those who saw him, until he found a woman who could see through the dirt coating his skin. She cleaned him, and fed him. He did not know why, he just knew that it was glorious. He was freed from the earth at last, utterly, and he wondered if he should continue his journey upward, but he did not know how.
How can I fly, he asked her. You can not fly, she said, only your spirit can fly.
What is my spirit, he asked.
It is the one thing in you which never changes, she said. Only you can know what your spirit is. Every man, every woman has something which never changes. That is your spirit.
How will I know it when I see it, he asked.
You can not see it, she said. It is not like a piece of earth, or a drop of water. It is like a flame, but it is not a flame. You are a fool, but nevertheless you may find it.
He didn’t understand any of this, but he went on to seek his spirit. He traveled across the earth, and he trafficked with many peoples. Every time he met them, he sought out a woman, and asked her, where is my spirit. Some said, your spirit is a flower. Some said, your spirit is a bird. Some said, your spirit is in the stars. There was even one who said, there is no spirit.
After many years he met the first woman again.
I am a fool, he said. I haven’t found my spirit.
Yes, she said, you are a fool. Now lie down and rest. She laid a hand on his brow and said, close your eyes, and stop looking, only then will you find your spirit.
With her hand on his brow, the whole world changed.
My spirit is in you, he said. I feel it. And your spirit is in me.
Now you understand, she said. You are not such a fool after all.
It was then that their spirits flew, together.