Oh, no, woman, I ain’t drunk… unk… hush, baby, le… let’s have another nip.
What did the Conquistadors drink? I mean, they probably ran out of wine on the cruise over, don’t you think?
Listening to Toiler on the Sea from The Stranglers, incidentally.
Did they drink water? Oh, my God.
I am reminded of W.C. Fields. I haven’t the slightest idea any more which film that was, but in essence he describes, horrified at the experience, the crossing of a desert: „Nothing to drink! Nothing but food and water for weeks!“
I am, at this very moment, drinking grog, as it was known to the British sailors of yore. A simple mixture of rum, lemon juice, and water. Alright, I admit it, I put two ice cubes in it, and so it is probably more refreshing than the British tar knew it, back in the day. Ice was, back then, an absolute luxury. But even then, without ice, it must have been quite good. You can put in as much water as pleases you, so it becomes a very light drink if you like it that way. I happen to like it that way at the moment, since I have to get up early tomorrow. Work. The nemesis of our everyday lives. On the other hand, if I didn’t have work, I’d be starving, and if I was starving I’d have to go find food, which would be, you guessed it, work.
Of course, then the results of my work would be immediately recognizable: berries, roots, grubs… can you imagine eating grubs? Do you even know what grubs are? Pupating insects, my friend. Squirming, wormlike things, quite large, if you are lucky. Very healthy, I have heard, if you can get them down. Read Tarzan, he ate grubs raw, and liked it, b’gad.
But the Tarzan we know from films and countless cartoons and god-knows-what-all is not the Tarzan as he was originally conceived. The „real“ Tarzan was an intelligent fellow, though he found grubs toothsome, not just a great warrior. He was not „Me Tarzan, you Jane.“ He knew six different languages, including that of the apes. He spoke fluent French, one of the most beautiful languages on this bloody world, and he was a gentleman in the most holy meaning of the word. The only thing he was not, was a poet. No poet warrior, I am afraid. He could have been though, if he hadn’t been so disgusted with humans and their so named civilization.
And he was right in that: being disgusted with human beings. A disgusting and hypocritical lot we are, generally speaking.
There is such a huge difference between what human beings say and what they do… such huge lies… that I have to hiccup and take another big swig of grog. I might even have to make myself a new grog, although I have to work tomorrow. But in spite of our horridness we do manage, occasionally, a nice thing or two. Out of our horridness grows a sort of beauty, when we manage to transcend ourselves.
There are three kinds of human beauty (oh hell, there are probably a whole bunch of kinds, but these are the ones I can think of just now).
The one is engendered by love of detail, love of patterns, love of nature: we see what nature offers, the immutable, infinite repetitions of nature. Physics, mathematics, they are often reflected in art and the artful crafts, and though they are far beyond my feeble intellectual powers, I have the feeling that the higher planes of physics and mathematics are more like art than science.
The second is the beauty of destruction. The barren beauty of death. Human beings understand that very well, though they can never reach beyond the barrier of death. Human beings can revel in devastation, in the stark silhouette of a spray of blood. They see the beauty inherent in such things. They know, though they often don’t admit it, that death engenders life.
The other is, in a sense, more transcendent. It is the sense of beauty which can not be explained. Beauty we do not understand, though we feel it: Love. We feel love, but we can never understand it. We see a man, or a woman, or we talk to them, or both, and we love. We don’t know why. We can try to explain it: the way they moved, the eyes, the incredible fragrance, what they said, something so full of wit and intelligence, or just the sound of their voice, something… but we will never really understand what it is. We just know that we are in love, and that is the greatest beauty of all. It’s a beauty we feel.
I could use some coke just now. Oh, well, alcohol will have to do. Amphetamines would be nice too. Actually, I’d love to sort of chew the coke-cud. Never had it, but I hear say that chewing the leaves gives a fine, settled, even high that doesn’t fuck you up the way the “refined” stuff does. Refined as in cut with borax. Yeah, well, too good to be true. No access and that’s that. Unapproachable.
Listening to Strawberry from Butthole Surfers. Top that, you sons and daughters of bitches.
Should I pursue women? God knows I could use one. I mean, just to keep me warm, in bed, for Christ’s sake. For the company. For the feeling of not being alone, for the simple intimacy. Simple intimacy… is it simple? Will any female do? One might think I am experience enough to know, but, bloody hell, I am not, and I don’t.
I love women, and exactly that is the problem. I fall in love. Undying love. But maybe she’s just a little bitch who doesn’t give a flying damn.
Nevertheless, I admit I am afraid of giving up my aspiration to true love. If I give that up, what is left? Solace. Comfort. On the face of it, not bad things… but I want more.
Just as an aside: I may not be pursuing a woman just now, but I am pursuing my third bottle of wine, so you can’t take any single word I write on its face value at this point.
So I am slowly coming on to the trickster level now. I’d accept being coupled, take advantage of the situation, be bloody charming (for those who are wondering, yes, I can be truly charming, when I want to), for Christ’s sake. I’d make the best of me, just to have a woman by my side right now.
If you are a persevering reader you may have noticed that I rink. Uhh… drink. You might even think, he drink a might too much: butch: the fact is, I don’t drink nearly enough.
I do not drink enough to destroy my life. I do not drink enough to erase the memory of deeds done. I do not drink enough to quench my thirst, I do not drink enough to make me spell bad even when I have an injured finger. Any bad spelling you may find has been spelled bad in the heat of the moment of typing and not corrected because it is supposed to be that way. Do you think I drink so much that I do not correct my own work? I do not drink enough to make me stop thinking… alright, I admit it, I can, when necessary, when put up to it, when there is no choice, drink enough to make me stop thinking. Exceptions to the rule, and so on. I do not drink enough to make me stop drinking.
The point is… aha. You’ve got me there. Apparently I have drunk enough after all. So, and now, at last, I come to the question: is that a problem? Must there be a point? Must I know what the hell I am doing? Must I know what I am talking about? Must I even know what I am thinking? Do we have a problem here?
I got no problem. You, reader…! You gotta problem? You tryin’ to fuck aroun’ with me here? You… you wanna see the scars on my knuckles up close, motherfucker?!
I thought not. So c’mon, Let’s go to the corner bar in your brain and have some schnapps. Buy me a drink or two and we’ll talk about the old times we’ve never had, or about God, and the world… or whatever. Because, for those of you who haven’t noticed in spite of the clues I’ve given, it is time I let the cat out of the sack: I am fictional. I am a figment of some crazy author’s overheated imagination. So the only place I get to drink is in people’s thoughts: Mr. Hellstrøm, the virtual barfly.
Perhaps you have an unused room somewhere in that big old brain of yours, with nothing in it except a desk, a chair, a bottle of rum, and an old-fashioned typewriter. Maybe there is a picture on the wall, with dust clinging to the frame, but that is irrelevant. If you would be so kind as to lead me there, once we’ve finished our drinks (just one more, a double, if you please), I could write something for you. Don’t mind the noise of the typewriter, you’ll get used to it. Chapter two
Poor thing. I am so sorry for you.
Don’t you hate pity? No matter how lousy I feel, I don’t want to be pitied. Sympathy I’ll take, just barely, but pity? No way. Fuck off.
No one who pities me can be my friend. A friend will say: I feel for you, but bear up to the burden, dammit. I feel for you, but you will conquer the situation, you’ll make it! No one who says: oh, you poor thing… can be my friend. That goes against the grain. Gets my hackles up in no time flat.
Oh holy fuck you have no idea how I sit here under the glaring unforgiving light of some fucking sun or other and write this fucking shit for consumption by who knows what for creatures, creatures that are are unknown and strange to me like animals, be they out of a flipping fairytale or horror story, a terrible story of normal life, which is, in the end, more fearsome than all of the other possibilities that any human being can think of put together in one huge animate piece of…
I am not listening to music right now.
In the end I am only afraid that my voice will… stop. That I will cease to speak, that I will cease to care to speak. For that is the end. When I cease to care to make my thoughts known then I cease to exist in my own mind.