Tell Me Something I Don’t Know

I’m tired of being detached. Tell me something new. Forever. Take me. Force me to think. Indocrinate me.

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Spices

How come? Because I had to pick my teeth. That is to say, I was looking for a toothpick, and they are, in this, my abode, to be found in the same cupboard as the spices. Will you tell me now what happened when I opened the door of that cupboard (I love that word: cup-board)? No? Then I will tell you: The wonderful smells of all the spices in there burst upon my nose. Wonderful. A world of spices, and all the varieties of cooking that are made possible thereby.
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I love cooking. It is a creative process, and it starts with how you prepare the ingredients. In any case, the main ingredient should be love. And the second main ingredient should be fearlessness: once you have attained a basic feeling for cooking, you are free to experiment! Yes, you are. Just try, it’s fun! Try, discover! It’s wonderful. It’s better than reading science fiction books. You want new worlds? Start cooking. You may cook three pieces of shit, but for that you will discover, on the fourth, a wonder.
Just today I made a dish that tasted okay, but I’d not make it again. And I am considered, by my friends at least, to be a good cook. Hey, I tried something new, and I almost got it right. Next time I’ll knock your tastebuds right out of their socks.
Listening to Glavnoe, Rebyata, Serdtsem Na Staret from Leningrad.

Aha

Opposites. That is what life is about. Reconciling the opposites within your soul.
The need for peace, and the need for insanity.
The need to dance, and the need to meditate.
The need to slam, to jump, to SCREEAAAM! And the need to submerge yourself in nature, to just listen to the world you live in. Listen to the silence.
’ve you ever felt the wind on your skin? It’s the most basic feeling humans are allowed. The very hairs on your whole damned body are tuned to it. Humans are hairy. Hairy little beasts we are, much closer to porcupines than we would like to admit. And if you are one of those people who shave their whole bodies, well, I am truly sorry for you. You are depriving your body of one of its sensory organs. Your skin can not sense the breeze properly without hair.
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Your whole body is covered with tiny little hairs. They are a part of your sensory system. They register the most incredible things. The slightest changes in air-pressure, for example. If you are properly tuned, you can feel the presence of physical objects you can not see. They change the air around them, through their simple presence. You know they must. Even if you don’t believe you could feel that, you know that must be „feelable“.
Do you really believe you could’t feel that? Do you believe Homo sapiens would have survived all these millions of years without the ability to sense such things?
I know it is totally incongruous, but I am listening to Nina Hagen, Kunst. And now Gloria Halleluja Amen. Now that is not incongruous after all. Think of reasons why.

Borrowed Time

I am so drunk I’ve spilled my wine. I have heard that a true alcoholic is never so drunk that he spills his drink, which is a consolation to me: I spill my drink ever so often (God help my carpet). It follows that I can’t possibly be an alcoholic. Alcohol, you son-of-a-bitch. In my youth I would have nothing to do with alcohol. I drank my first drop at the ripe age of 20 years. I was afraid of it, because I had seen what it could do to a man. I knew a true alcoholic, bless his soul. He beat the alcohol, but he’s dead now, a victim of cancer… and who’s to know if his cancer wasn’t a result of his drinking? Liver cancer.
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This was a man I loved and respected. He was a mentor to me. Later he told stories of his drunkenness, though he drank no more. He told all kinds of stories. He wrote too, though he couldn’t believed anyone would ever appreciate what he wrote. He burned most of it. He was a beautiful person. I can remember stroking his hair, as a child, as he lay with his head in my lap. Well. We’re all living on borrowed time.
Bunkhouse Theme from Bob Dylan.

Whip Me Harder!

Free to express your slavery. Free to obey your self. You are yourself… who will free you from that? You are the sugar, you are the whip. You are trapped in your own skin, and you’ll never ever get out until you die. But you don’t want to die, do you now? You’ll go on and on, seeking a new self, a self which can only be born out of the old. You molt, again and again, but still you can’t escape. Yes. No. Aaa… aa… ask me again! More sugar! Whip me harder! Nothing helps… you’re still you, though you’ve changed.
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And all the while your cage is getting smaller, without you even noticing. At some point there is nowhere to turn anymore. No room to maneuver, because every free moment is taken up with being you, with living up to the aggregate of all those yous you’ve accumulated, all those molted skins piled up in the corners. It’s only then that you realize there is no cage, no sugar, no whip. It’s just little ol’ you. You were free all the while… as free as you’ll ever be.