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.

Riding High

No time for blogging. Life is too full. No time to sit and listen to music and muse over life, alone. That’s a good thing. Life is so full right now, so full of good things . . . no time. Listening to This is Ska at full volume. Rude Boy Ska. Taking the time for that, though I don’t have it. Gotta be, cuz I am doing so damned good. Riding the wave, right on high, ambassador of love and money. Desperately beautiful, not because of desperate, but because I can hardly contain it all. Capable, apt, in the fucking groove. You can’t touch me, I am so on high, motherfucker, just try.
Now I am listening to Butthole Surfers, yeah, I can truly say one of my favorite bands of all time. Johnny Smoke. Live version, with double drums. Two complete drum sets playing on that sucker, and that gives a sound that is truly epic, even for my cynical ears, even after all these years. Good to hear that again. Got to settle down, but I can’t get my feet on the ground, riding so high. Waugh! Waauuughhh! An indian brave on his horse has got nothing against me. I’d ride him down with love, a loving grin as I lop off his head on the way to greener horizons yet.
You just can’t possibly get it. There is no way any human being can understand how happy I am. Even Hellstrøm the incapable fool is nonplussed.
If I were to think about it, I would worry about the world. I would ask myself how things will turn out in Iran, whether Trump and Kim will destroy the world. But I have other concerns. Oh, Oh, it’s that feeling, sets me a’reelin’. I’m in another dimension. Carefree, well, sorta. Cut.
When The Trickster Starts A-Poking (Bordello Kind Of Guy) from Gogol Bordello. Be a bad priest. But I am a good priest, everyone believes in me, and I want to make those beliefs true. I am the guru who will give you all you want. Let me fool you, trickster that I am, I know you want to. And, because I am truly on the wave, the legendary seventh, it will work.
Drinking rum, hola. Smoking a cigarette, enjoying it all like hell. Getting accolades just for doing things the way they should be done. That is the best part! Just doing it the way I always did, the best way I could think of, and for that, suddenly, getting praise and obeisance. It’s a wet-dream.
Now Crossed Cheques from Kalahari Surfers. Make of that what you will.
Now I’ll tell you what is really happening (more the fool you are if you believe what I tell you now. But I am sure you will, because I am riding the wave, motherfucker). I’s the boss now, I’s the Man, the Dude with the Whip. Oh yeah baby, brrrrr, yeehah! You wouldn’t believe how many people love the whip. Lucky for them I’m riding the wave, no need to crack the whip. I love them all, I know them all, and as yet there is no need for the whip.
Hahahaaaa. You poor fuckers. You are now the subjects of a complete fool. He rides the wave, perhaps, but he is also only human. He will treat you as best he can, but God only knows how good that will be, eh? But, of course, you will make the best of it. You will encourage him in his foolishness, you will suck up to him, in the belief that it will be to your advantage. You can’t possibly know what a crazy fuck he is.

It’s unbelievable. People you have worked with for many years suddenly believe you are a god. (Listening to Dancing in you Head from The Mekons). It’s voodoo. People you liked suddenly ascribe special powers to you. You are now a god, whether you like it or not. You are the solution to all problems. People stop thinking, all of a sudden. If nothing occurs to them within five seconds, they ask you.
To hell with them. They will learn soon enough that I am a fool. But, nevertheless, they sense that I am on the wave, riding high. They will obey. They could ride on the wave, but they don’t want to. They think it’s too high for them, the damned idiots. It makes me angry. I’m no damned god, but they demand that I be one. No matter how foolish I am, no matter what I do, they will henceforth put me on a damned pedestal. Up there, alone.
Now I am listening to to Nick Cave, Jubilee Street. A beautiful song. Now Higgs Boson Blues. Yeah, I’ll teach it to you.
So now I’m a captain, alone on a ship of fools, though no single one is more foolish than myself. Ah, to hell with it all, it’s just the usual monkey-business, and it doesn’t matter a wit what we do or not. But I am riding the wave, I hear the bells ringing, jingle-jangle, and I can’t help trying to make the best of it all. If we go down, I’ll go down singing, don’t give a damn what anyone else does, that’s for sure. And, whether the ship sinks or not, I’ll be the last damned man off.
So, now you see how it is. If you are an employee you might start to see how your boss sees him- or herself: completely overwhelmed. You might see how they are clutching straws, being complete assholes, because they are drowning in a see of godhood. Not all are destined for that.
Someone like me, who is riding the Big Kahuna, can master all that shit. I am not omnipotent, and if an unanswerable question comes my way, I’ve got the guts to say: what the fuck, I don’t know! “Behold!” they say, “Such humility! Even the Master does not know!” So, even when I haven’t the slightest idea what is going on, my non-answer will be interpreted as wisdom. Crazy fucking world.
Listening to Anapse To Tsigaro from 3 Mustaphas 3, one of the greatest bands of all time.
That reminds me that I have the most beautiful woman of all time at my side. She’s waiting for me.

I Hate Glasses

Hate the motherfuckers. Gettin’ old, shortsighted… put me out on the sea, ask me what stands on the sails of a ship two miles away, and I’ll tell it to you. If only I could read a book at two miles distance . . . unfortunately, the print is too fucking small. Put it in my face then, that is the way one reads books, after all . . . well, uhhh . . can’t see a damned thing.
It’s progressive. By now I have the feeling it’s geometrical. The more I try the worse it gets. It’s hell for someone who likes to read. Alright, alright, dammit, gimme the reading glasses, fuck it. But no, that is not the end of the tale.
1.0? 1.5? 2.0? How far can it go? Makes me feel like I’m running on borrowed time.
It’s endless, I can tell you. With each number you descend further in to reader’s hell. Your glasses get thicker and thicker, until there is no glass thick enough. I haven’t reached that point yet, but I am sure it is coming.

Little frames around your field of vision, that is what drives me insane (well, it doesn’t, but I like to think it might). But it is definitely annoying. Very. Not only that, it makes you feel like an old man. Well, hell, fuck that, don’t mind being old or young or whatever, but still…
In any case, there you are, in the restaurant; forgot to take your glasses with you, didn’t you now? Can’t possibly hold the menu two miles away, can you now? Even if you could, the types is simply two small to read at two miles distance, isn’t it now? What to do? There you are.
Slowly, oh so slowly, you learn from this experience to always have reading glasses with you, in some convenient slot or pocket. Summer presents an obstacle, because it’s so damned hot you can’t even stand to carry a jacket with a pocket where your glasses might abide. To carry a jacket adds to the exertion of daily life, which increases, infinitesimally, to the heat you have to tolerate. It’s already intolerable, so… you hang the glasses on your shirt. Talk about feeling like an old man: Not only do I need reading glasses, but they are hanging on my shirt for every asshole to see.
Not only that, you develop habits connected with you glasses. You clean them, compulsive fuck that you are. That is to say, at every convenient moment, or even at inconvenient moments, you take those motherfucking glasses from your shirt, blow on them, and rub them clean with your shirt. Preferably in the middle of important conversations with people who you can’t afford to look like a compulsive old shortsighted fool in front of. Oh, well, too late. Might as well fess up.

Can’t sleep

My girl is away. Can’t sleep. I can drink though. Don’t do me any good of course, still can’t sleep. Smoke, drink… kill time, days at a time, days in a second, each second a day, until she is back. Let the damned day break. I look in her eyes, but they ain’t there; even so I drown in them. How can one become so attached to another human being? It seems perfectly right and insane all at once. It’s like lying down and asking to be killed and expecting it to happen and it doesn’t… and that meets my foolish hopes. I only went down to be pulled up. I can’t help being surprised that it actually worked, which makes me love her all the more, of course. Christ, what a woman, I think . . . if only she was here, I’d show her how very much I fancy her . . . but she ain’t. I want to seize her in my arms, crush her to me, kiss her savagely and feel how she bends back to receive it. I want her to seize me and push me on to the bed with that demanding look in her eyes, that look that says show me what you have, buck, show me how you love me. A little push that makes me surrender, fall for the moment, but . . . a little push that also shows she wants me to, well . . . to take her.

It’s not like it sounds. It sounds like conquest, but it ain’t like that. Men have a tendency to speak of love in terms of war, but that is just a mask. I am convinced that it’s the men who surrender and give women what they want. Behavioral science actually confirms this, but what the fuck do I know. I can’t sleep, I’m drunk, so you can’t believe a word I say anyway. I’m just waiting until she comes back, until I can become sane again.
Listening to In Your Garden Twenty Fecund Fruit Trees from Frank Londons Klezmer Brass Allstars,