Philosophical Swill III

Hellstrøm: I’ve found you at last! Mensch, wie get es dir?
Swine: I am not a Mensch, as you know very well.
Hellstrøm: Egal! What’s going on? Why did you leave me, what are you doing here?
Swine: heading for slaughter. The French apparently love pork-chops more than philosophy.
Hellstrøm: What, uhh . . . yeah, I know, but . . . I can save you!
Swine: no you can’t. Just try, asshole.
Hellstrøm: What . . . asshole?! I brought you to Paris, I . . .
Swine: Yeah, so . . . ? Yeah, okay, you did. Never thought I’d see Paris. A simple swine from the country and all. Heard so much about it, and I must say I had a great time. The Parisians loved me, until . . . Well, whatever . . .
Hellstrøm: You are the perfect organic swine, you have such beautiful ears . . . I don’t understand.
Swine: Swines get slaughtered, Hellstrøm. I’m on a stoic trip, Zeno, Seneca, y’know . . . don’t wanna go, but I gotta face the facts.
Hellstrøm: . . . but . . . you have such lovely ears.
Swine: Fuck the ears, Hellstrøm, I’m meat.
Hellstrøm: Your ears . . .
Swine: Christ, Hellstrøm . . . leave the fucking ears already! They sure as hell have nothing to do with philosophy.
Hellstrøm: Well, with my philosophy . . .
Swine: Which is what?
Hellstrøm: Jesus . . . !
[Editors note: at this point the report breaks off. We can only assume that the slaughter was, ahem, carried out, as it were.]
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Too Heavy

The world you are in: too heavy. You walk around, weighed to the ground . . . too heavy. The base-line of gravity is pounding on down in to your body and brain. There is a thin little violin inside you, tasting its notes on high, trying to get above it all, but even it gets pounded down with time. Another glass of wine will not succor your ailing existence. Even the wine is too heavy for you now. You try a light white wine, but no. Slowly but surely, in spite of you resistance, you’re grounded down to ground.
Try as you may, despite all you have, have not, or might, you will soon be no more than slick on the floor. The guitar tries a couple licks, and they too are borne down in the gravitas of it all. The drums are dying out, though you still hear them trying out some jazzy shit in the background. Soon, sooner than you think, you are nothing more that the mathematical line. All you have is length. No depth, no height.
No more walking, dude, you just lie there. All dreams of ooh-aah are no more. No brass will help you now, no ska, that isn’t even a memory anymore. And the line keeps getting shorter . . . until you are just a single point in the vast vista of life, yeah, of the universe.
You are the smallest possible part, a part so infinitesimally small the it can hardly claim existence. You’re light then, aren’t you? No weight. All the things you have done and thought fly from you, because you have no gravity anymore. You are the opposite of a black hole. Hell, this is for the physicists, have you never postulated the opposite of a black hole? I am certain that it exists.
In any case, when you get to that point, you realize that nothing matters. Haha, matter, matters… yeah, whatever. I am one heavy motherfucker, too fucking heavy, and I am lighter than air. I’ll fly over you, but if you fuck with me, I’ll set down on you like, no, not like a ton of bricks, bricks ain’t shit against me . . . like a galaxy, like a fucking universe.
These weights exist, folks, and they weigh down on you all. It’s the Man. The Man who says what you gonna do, and what you gonna think. Heavy dude, I am the Man, sometimes. I tell people what to do. I weigh down on them. And I notice when it is too heavy. It’s hell when you have to weigh down even though it’s too heavy. It does bad things with you, and I recommend avoiding it if possible.
But hey, if it must be, it must be! Stamp down on the motherfuckers! What the hell, it’ll help them realize the they will be stamped down on, no matter what!
Heavy fucking shit. Heavy shit that has to do with how human beings deal with each other. You stamp down because sometimes you have to, because it seems to be the only way to get results. You already tried the soft tour, because you think of yourself as a good human being. You believe in the good of others. But for the most part you notice, with your halfway intelligent ape brain, that others simply take advantage of that. They, also with their halfway (or perhaps a quarter?) intelligent brains, are looking for some elusive advantage. God knows what they are thinking, I certainly don’t. Or perhaps I can guess, perceptive ape that I am. And what I guess is not something nice. I know what the fuck they are thinking, which is naturally to my advantage, but I don’t want to know. I don’t want to think their fucking disgusting thoughts, but I have no choice, and if I have to know, I may as well take advantage of the knowledge.
And that is Too Heavy. That is a burden I carry almost every fucking day, renewed. Each day is a challenge to my humanistic values, the values which say that every human being is worth something . . . but they do everything they can to prove the opposite!
Y’know why? Because human apes are completely fucking nutso. Not only that, they are… oh fuck it. In any case, I issued decrees, and declared that all measures were necessary. I threw my nonexistent weight.
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Drunk at Work

Freely translated from the lyrics of a song from Die Toten Hosen, a lovely punk-rock band from Germany. They are active and popular to this day, but this song is from 1984, so it’s fucking 36 years old.

Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo (this part is exactly translated)

Muffled knocks on the door
What could someone want of me this late?
The Reaper stands outside
„It’s not my turn yet!”, I call

Has my time already come?
Must I go with him?
My time was way too short,
must I go with him?

Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo

I saw, I had no chance,
so I let him in
He was very cold and pale,
so I gave him a drink

Has my time already come?
Must I go with him?
My time was way too short,
must I go with him?

Woohoo, woohoo, woohoo

He forgot his duty pretty fast,
he drank heavily, and it became bright at last
Completely drunk, he went away
Got lucky again

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Philosophical Swill II

Ah, the French. I spoke of them, and I speak of them now, and probably will again in the future. They loved my organic philosophical swine and swill. The thing was, they spoke similar swill in to the ears of my loving swine. My little swine was so joyous to hear it that he shit in their cafés and bistros, enthusiastically, right on the floor, out of mere conviviality.
The French were delighted. The funny thing was, completely aside from the shit, that I had the feeling they didn’t understand a word we said. We spoke English, except I started by saying bon soir out of politeness. Thereupon they assumed we understood their language. They spewed a thousand French words in to my ears in a never-ending torrent. The fact is that I was hardly able to explain my philosophy to them. I must admit that I even understood a few of their words, because I am such an astute fellow, but nevertheless it was rather trying. It was a typical case of humans not communicating at all and believing that they understood each other perfectly. Perhaps we did, though. I threw in an occasional „oohlala“ and „c’est bon, eh?!“, and the conversation lopped along like a bear on vacation.
In any case, at some point my swine disappeared, and though that made me somewhat uneasy, I decided to roll with the blow. I drank „some“ wine and „some“ pastis. The communication got better and better, it seemed. I may even have drunk some French schnapps, though I can’t imagine anyone making schnapps aside from the Germans, or perhaps, on a stretch, the Dutch. But what do I know. I woke up in the morning next to a young French girl stuffing a pain au chocolat in to my mouth. She gave me coffee as well. Damned good coffee, those French, but, I couldn’t help asking her, where the fuck was my swine?
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„Oohlala,“ she said, lit a cigarette, puffed on it artfully, as the French are wont to do, and gave English her best.
„Your, eh . . . – how do you say? – piig, has gone on a soirée, eh . . . il veut faire parler de paris pour les années à venir! Do you know, eh . . . how long you have slept, ma coeur?“
Oh fuck, I thought, so much for philosophy. So much for measured days. That’s what I get for flying to Paris with an organic swine. I thought we understood one another. You fucking pig, I thought.

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 not 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.