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.

Language and Grammar

I am particularly sensitive to grammatical mistakes in the German language, since it isn’t my native tongue. I like to think my English grammar is pretty good, but I know my German grammar is just barely acceptable, though I’ve been speaking it for twenty years now. Nevertheless, I hear Germans making grammatical mistakes in their own language all the time. It’s forgivable in the heat of a verbal conversation, but I’ll admit it sticks in my craw when I read it in normal prose, dialog aside, no matter in which language.
It’s about the flow of a story, for me. Prose has a flow, a rhythm to it, that makes it beautiful, or not. That is part of style, so you can’t simply separate grammar from style, because grammar facilitates a proper rhythm. Prose with sentences that are grammatically false is like a road with potholes, you’re always bouncing up and down, you can’t get comfortable with reading it. Like music with sudden jarringly false notes inserted, it simply doesn’t flow. Besides, there is more than enough flexibility in English grammar to encompass wildly different styles of writing without breaking the rules.
And, after all, language is an important part of the human cultural legacy that is passed on continuously, and it’s self-inherent beauty should be preserved. It’s also about proper communication, and that can’t be done when there are no common rules which everyone adheres to. That said, we also have to realize that languages are living, ever-changing beasts. The rules will be continuously bent and sometimes broken, and if enough people break and bend the same rules in the same way, it becomes common usage and will be accepted as correct grammar.
A good example of this can be seen in Germany, where the English language exerts an increasing influence over the last years. In both languages you have the possessive form, which is denoted in English by an apostrophe and the letter s attached to the noun in question, as in ”Martha’s dog“. In German it’s almost the same, except that there is actually no apostrophe, just the letter s attached, as in ”Marthas Hund“. However, over the last twenty years I have observed that the usage with apostrophe has become more and more common in the German language, though it is quite simply wrong, and I am willing to bet gold ingots against donuts that it will be accepted common usage in another ten years.
So, what’s write, and what’s rong? You’ll have to decide for yourself.

Shadows . . .

. . . as if the shadows themselves where concrete, and threw shadows of their own, a multiplicity of shadows that threaten to crowd my mind in to insanity. So, if I whine in my sleep and you see my legs moving, you know now what I am dreaming of. I’m not a dog chasing a fox . . . The fox is chasing me, it’s a huge, unholy shadow with fangs the size of daggers. I haven’t the guts to face it, though I know that if I turn around it will simply fade away. It’s my own damned shadow I’m running from. It’s me.

Romantics

Undying love. Unless of course you get hit by a taxi on the morrow. Or maybe cancer will get you. That’d be romantic, wouldn’t it now? Or perhaps the woman you love just stops. That’d be romantic too, because then you could live on, pining away at what’s been taken from you.
Fulfilled romantics are boring. Fulfilled… no romantics are ever fulfilled, are they? They just can’t get enough. It’s the heightening of feelings they want, and it seems as if that can only be gained through suffering. If they didn’t have to suffer for it, it wouldn’t be worth half as much. Its the suffering, the trials and tribulations crowned by ultimate victory, that makes it interesting. But the ultimate victory must always remain somehow unattainable, except of course in novels.
Suffering. Romantics are, for that very reason, insufferable. They just don’t get it. They live in a world all their own, a world separate from reality. They are victims of their own need for suffering. They never live. They need people who live in reality, but they can never quite do it themselves, poor bastards. They’ve read too many books. They truly believe there is more than the day to day, more than food, sex, and sleep. They talk, they walk, they sit, just like anyone else, but they are not of this world.

I describe myself. The crowning victory has been denied me, as yet. Predictably. There were a couple of moments where I thought I had it in my grasp, but things turned out differently. Life caught up with me. I’ve tried so hard to leave it behind me… slowly but surely I’m starting to wonder if I can ever succeed. It’s the sublime that I am seeking, that which can not be described with any words, no matter how industrious or creative the writer.
So, for the time being, I walk, I talk, and I sit. I piss, and I shit. I bleed when I am cut.

Shouldn’t Talk About It

That feeling. That sublime feeling. You talked about it, because you thought you’d found someone you could talk to. Really. Talk. To. It was a mistake: to talk about it. You talked too much. You wrote too much. You broke it across your knee until all the magic was gone. If only you had known to shut the fuck up. Christ, keep your big trap shut, can’t you? No, you can’t.
Actually, you thought you were keeping it alive. You tried to sustain the sublime by evoking it, by conjuring it again and again with your beautiful little words. You danced around it like some fucking shaman. Yeah baby, yeah baby, you’re mine, yeah baby, you’re mine, c’mon, be mine, oh yeah.
How could you be such a fool? How could you believe that anyone you love could be swayed by such nonsense? Desperation led you to it, and you simply weren’t smart enough to see the trap. You flogged the idea across the desert until it was dead, you fool! The most beautiful thing in the world, and you tickled it, tickled it again and again, until it had laughed its last laugh. And that was it.
As if love was something finite, like a bottle of water that you drink until it’s empty. You simply couldn’t believe that. You still can’t… but maybe you’re wrong. Maybe.

Tepid Rosé

There is nothing worse, apart from disappointed love.

The Race Question

Pardon me, but what in hell is that? What is race? I know there are people willing to kill each other on the basis of racial differences, but I do not understand why. Don’t they realize that all human races are mixed? Shit, even if you ignore statistics, which are often misleading, you can be pretty sure that, for example, as a typical American white boy, you are a mix of God only knows what. I am an American „cracker“, as they used to call me in school in New York City, back in the day… well, what-all blood runs in my veins? Czech, English, French, American Indian (if the family reports are to be believed), and no one knows what else. Perhaps I am, at heart, a Bulgarian? Or a Cheyenne? Who in hell knows, and does it matter? If we are to believe the scientists, I am descended from humans who wandered from Africa in any case. Does that make me a black man? Does it make a difference? No. We are all human beings. No, we do not all have the same desires and needs. No, we are not all „equal“. What the fuck is equal? I don’t want to be equal, I want to be unique, dammit. Every single human being is unique, and, if you will, that is what unites us.

The Sink

You decide to hit your head against the sink. You are very drunk, but the pain is nevertheless exquisite. You do it again, and again. She will never come back… again. Is that blood? Yes. Again. Something cracks. Is it the sink, or your head? You aren’t sure, you are extremely drunk, and the blows to your head aren’t helping either. Again. Your vision blurs… at last, you think, some results. Again. The sink cracks. The landlord will simply have to replace it. Again, again, again… again! My God, the pain! Get it done! Again! She will never come back! Again! You pass out and fall on the hard white tiles.
It was one of those cry for help things.

Bitter

So you’re in love and she isn’t anymore, and you lie alone in bed, trying not to think. She’s the best thing you ever had. Even as the thought occurs to you, you know how cliché that sounds… but there it is. She is creative, intelligent, passionate, capable of deep feeling, and honest. She doesn’t want to hurt you, she just can’t love you anymore, and is being honest. But you can’t help being hurt. You feel like a dog that’s just had it’s leg torn off, and stands there, utterly bewildered, blinking stupidly at the stump. Not yet even remotely comprehending how, or why. In a state of shock.
Unfortunately, you are not a dog. If you were, you might think: fucking bitch… she smells so good… oh well. You would go on with your life without worrying. But you are cursed with the ability to think, being a big-brained ape with nothing better to do. So you think of the promise you made. You never actually said „I promise“, but the promise was there, in your heart, clear and sweet like the air after a thunderstorm. She knew that, she saw it in your eyes, she felt it in your hands. She heard it and read it in the beautiful words you unfolded before her in a calm stream of love and certainty. That’s why she waited so long. Longer than she actually could… she counted on you, and you failed her. Circumstances prevented you, you say to yourself, and it’s true enough, but nevertheless you wonder what you could have done, what desperate measures might have led to salvation in spite of it all. You were already on the verge of doing something insane when she pulled the ripcord. You felt in your bones that things were getting ticklish. Circumstances! The word threatens to split your head.

It’s bitter. So damned bitter. You’d rather kill yourself than taste that taste; but it would be tantamount to cowardice not to face the facts. She’d pity you then, and hate you for betraying her belief that you are a good person, strong, a man worth loving… no matter whether she loves you anymore or not. That would be worse than anything you can think of, for even now you still want to please her. It is better, in that case, to drink some more wine. But even drink doesn’t help in the least, much to your chagrin. You drink more, and more, and even then… what’s the point in drinking, when it doesn’t stop the pain?
So, what recourse do you have? Face up to the horrid truth: you’ve lost her. The one that got away, like some damned fisherman’s tale.
She never did you wrong. If she had, you could at least indulge your mind in thoughts of morbid revenge, or in the belief that she isn’t good enough for you. Not even this avenue of emotional escape is open to you, and you begin to wonder if you can ever even stop loving her. You’d cry if you had any tears left. You contemplate the stump. Blinking. Stupid.
Listening to Don’t Bother Me from the Beatles.

What the Psychologist Really Thought About

Goddamn, he’s at it again. Ranting on about something or other… every time he gets started I can tune out for at least ten minutes. Though sometimes it’s pretty funny, actually. He has a dark sense of humor that appeals to me on occasion. What’s he on about now? Honest what? Hypocrites? Ahh, Jesus… what was Margaret planning for dinner tonight? Oh, yes, those little pork-medallions on toast with gorgonzola and spring onions and chilies and… yum, that’s something to think about. I must make sure I get the right kind of gorgonzola on the way home. Dear me, how did he get off on that tangent? The sound of silence? Well, I can chalk up another ten minutes of wasted time. I am well paid for that wasted time. Damned if I care, don’t feel the least bit shabby for it, it’s hardly enough for enduring his incessant bitching. Oh, Salad! I dare not forget the salad. What would be a good salad with those pork-medallions? Radicchio? Oh my God, wine… better make a list. Margaret would kill me if I forgot her wine. Oh, he’s asking something…
„Watcha writing down, crazy as a loon?“

No, no, Mr. Hellstrøm, harmless notes, I assure you. Well, that seems to have satisfied him. He’s a bit awry, I don’t doubt I could convince him that my shopping notes were some sort of shorthand code for notes on his mental health, wouldn’t that be amusing? What would the psychological equivalent of radicchio be? Hehe. It would be a complete violation of the trust implicit in our relationship as patient and psychologist, of course. Ah, well, another time perhaps. The hour is nearing its end, thank God. Amazing how the time flies, when you think of food. What did he just say? A letter to his editor? What? Now he’s going on about lemmings…
Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Hellstrøm, but you lost me there for just a moment, between editors and lemmings, and unfortunately todays session is also at an end. Perhaps we can delve in to the subject again next week?