Rectitude

Ah, Christ, how’s a knight to live, in these hard old times? A knight of words, nowadays, needless to say. Couldn’t wield a sword worth shit. Could have, maybe, wouldn’t have, probably. A dreamy knight, I would have been. A knight who writes poetry because he can’t turn his fucking brain off. He would have liked to turn it off; he would have wondered at the way the other knights did.
And nevertheless he would have killed. He would have done his duty. Take the salt, and do the duty. With reservations, but nonetheless. Protect his own, and kill the rest. Lucky bastard, got two children to his name, survived to this day. He loves them. So, he’d kill.
Or I’d have ended up a peasant, a churl.
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A Big Thick Wall

It’s really interesting to see how Germany has evolved. I live in this fucking country. Its’ fucking insane, like any so named country. People gotta worry ’bout the weather, ’bout the young folk, like anywhere else. They got nothing better to do. Oh, but now it’s the fucking foreigners. As if that was something new. Oh, don’t worry, you German’s, mother Merkel will keep you safe. It’s truly amusing to see how Germany marshals the countries walling her from the shit goin’ down in the world. Suddenly there aren’t enough refugees to populate the shelters built for them in Germany. It’s a magic trick.
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Don’t You Get Your Hopes Up High

Dash ‘em down, those hopes, for fear they will be disappointed. Keep your head down, baby, flak will fly. Don’t dare rely on anyone else, even if they have tried never to disappoint you, because, no matter how often they may have proven they love you, they just might throw you in the ditch after all. When it comes down to it, they won’t be by your side, will they? You are alone. Never ever trust.
Why can’t I do this? Because I can’t. I believe it is better to be fucked over by the ones you love than to distrust them. Without that trust, life is meaningless.
Of course, this makes me victim to every single human being who doesn’t adhere to the same ideal. All those damaged women I’ve met, who would actually like to believe that I love them… can’t. They’ve met too many men on the way, men who have used them, or men who simply didn’t give a fuck one way or the other.
You simply can’t imagine the energy I’ve expended in the effort to make a woman believe that I love her. All the crazy things I’ve done, just to prove it… just a waste of time. I can prove it again and again… it’s no use. They will never ever believe it. Damaged.
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And the more damaged people I have to do with, the more damaged I become. I try to love and protect them, I try to convince them, desperately, that it doesn’t have to be that way… and I fail. I begin to wonder if they are not right.
I hate righteous people, but nevertheless I feel a sort of righteous indignation when I am confronted with this lack of trust. It hurts me deep inside to think that someone I love might not trust me. I give them my trust, I lay it on the altar like a sacrificial animal, and say, take it. They take it, but it it is not reciprocated. I put more animals on the altar, and say, see: do you now believe? No. Like jealous little gods, they want bigger animals yet. More. Insatiable, never satisfied.
Well, alright, I’m willing to lay something on the altar, now and again. Keep the flame glowing, that’s only right, for Christ’s sake. But the basic trust must be there. That would be a matter of renewing the trust, not of establishing it. For me, it’s established in the moment I say: I love you. I don’t say those words lightly.
Agh. Fucking blog, I hate you. You seduce me in to saying what should be left unsaid, what should be understood without saying. But it isn’t understood. People don’t understand. I have to say it aloud. Again and again and again.
Listening to Doina-Sirba-Hora, from Das Blaue Einhorn.

Shiny Little Things

Grasping apes that we are, we just love shiny little things. Bright stuff. Little mirrors and red feathers for the natives, dear; they just love them.
Well, we have progressed, since then. We’ve progressed to shinier things yet. Little gizmos that do this and that. They produce coffee, they drill holes, they make music, and so on. But they are still shiny, mostly. Unless, of course, they are supposed to appeal to the tasteful set. Then they may be held in subdued tones, pearly white or something, brushed steel, perhaps. Elegant. For „better“ people.
It’s just the grasping part that hasn’t changed, no matter how tasteful we may think we are. We see these things, and we think: waugh! I want it! It shall be mine. Gimme. Buy it.
No! All the while my gut feeling goes against hatö.m Ajnd (Im,*’m now so drunikk, that I am qritinng kzuuzghwyxs cockroaches.)
[Alright, this post has entered the editing stage. As an editor, I ask myself if the last sentence is relevant, or pertinent, or anything at all. It doesn’t make sense, that much is clear. One is tempted to delete it, summarily. I’ve deleted better. Ahh… fuck it, I like the part about cockroaches, whether it has any meaning or not.]
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Some Days Are Like That

The teenage years are long gone, but nevertheless your girlfriend, the woman you love above all, tells you is she ending the relationship by sending you an SMS to that effect. Nothing personal, right?
Then, crying, before you even have the chance to get miserably drunk, you spill your first glass of wine in a simple mishap, splashing it all over the table and wall. Of course, you are living in a furnished room, so neither the table nor the wall belong to you. You spend the next half an hour desperately trying to clean it up, thinking of the bill the landlord is going to present to you after he has had everything renovated. But of course there is no way to get red wine out of wallpaper, and it seems the table was never properly oiled… the stains will remain forever.
In the process of cleaning, or rather trying to clean, shortly before giving up, you tear a fingernail off on the corner of the table. You watch the blood oozing out, cursing in pain –I can’t fucking believe this!– knowing for sure that the wound will infect itself in the next days no matter how well you take care of it.
Fuck it, you say too yourself, I’ve got to get out of here. You go down to find that some fool has parked so close to the car that you can’t get in. So you have to crawl in from the passenger side, so angry that your coordination is affected. First you step in the deep puddle there, soaking your foot completely, then you slip and bang your head on the gear stick, allowing a beautiful welt to blossom across your brow.
By now you are barely in control of your rage… you are so furious that you’ve almost forgotten the sorrow that is weighing your heart down like a ton of bricks. Almost. She… she…! With a sigh that lies somewhere between relief and deadly misery you settle down in to the driver’s seat at last.
After having missed gears a couple of times, causing horrible grinding noises that make passers-by look at you curiously –how embarrassing, as if you hadn’t been driving a stick-shift for the last twenty years, for Christ’s sake– you back out of the parking space somewhat abruptly, grazing the car parked next to you. Not the car that was parked too close, which you were conscientiously trying to avoid, but of course the car on the other side. And you’re driving the car of your ex-father-in-law, a cantankerous old fellow who will simply freak when he sees the scratches on his car, the car your ex-wife kindly allowed you to use without his knowledge while he is away on vacation… this thought is stopped abruptly by you grinding the car in to the big rock behind you, the one that is so hard to avoid because it is just a bit too low for you to see it in the rear and side mirrors. The one you’ve watched others crashing in to from your balcony time and again, laughing and swearing it will never happen to you. Unconsciously you are also cursing the circumstances which force you to rely on the kindness of your ex-wife.
Motherfucker! you scream, slamming your hands against the steering wheel again and again until the bandaid comes off and the blood from your finger drips on to your new pants, which had somehow remained unscathed up to this point. Startled, you jerk your hand to the side, causing little droplets of blood to spray all over the passenger seat.
It’s then that the landlord drives up in his Porsche convertible and parks in the spot you’ve just vacated, giving you a quizzical glance as he goes by. You’re reluctantly thinking about getting out and telling him of your little mishap with the wine when your cell-phone buzzes again. It’s another SMS… And it serves you right, you lazy bastard! she writes.
You get the picture? Some days are like that.
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Children

Little sons and daughters of bitches. And bastards. We all say son-of-a-bitch, as if the father had nothing to do with it. Alright, I’m not a bastard in the original sense of the word, but I’m sure there are some people who would call me a motherfucking bastard.
I’ve got two children, and I love them, but when I see how they edge up against each other, how they needle each other to the point of insanity, I start to wonder: why in hell do they do that? Rascals.
It seems as if there is something in children, just the same as in adults, which makes them want to fuck with other people’s minds. The nearest available victim is the sibling, since the parents are basically unapproachable in that area (well, most parents anyway, I’ve seen kids who torture their parents too). Not that they stop there, the same thing applies to any group of children; it starts in kindergarten.
I’s a thinkin’: ah, my innocent, wonderful little son, such a smart little boy… then I hear how he pissed in the bushes of the kindergarten playground and mobbed some poor ass together with his friends. Alright, I’s thinkin’, pissed in the bushes, don’t give a fuck about that… My daughter didn’t piss in the bushes, but I’ll just bet there were far more hurtful verbal cat-fights that went on.
Mobbing. Just a new word for an old thing: people fucking over other people. Children do it just the same as adults, and I wonder why. Why? Why do humans do this? It seems inseparable with social life, and that is exactly the thing that makes me insociable. I don’t engage in that shit, at least not consciously. That’s the thing, it seems to be a basic instinct among social animals. Establish the god damned fucking pecking order. Who is the boss, who is the henchman, who is the outsider…?
God, how I hate it. I know it’s normal, but I hate it all the more for it. I just don’t understand why people have to be so hateful to each other. It’s like the wolf-pack I once observed in a wild animal park. The park-ranger (for lack of a better word) explained that a wolf-pack is a social group, as we watched one of them being harried by the others, yelping in helpless fright… and a hierarchy must be established. And reestablished, again and again. And the poor bastard on the bottom rung of the ladder, well…? Harried, a miserable fucking life.

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It’s wrong. I’m telling you, it’s wrong. Even the last poor bastard at the bottom has redeeming features. Maybe he has talents that could help us survive, as a group. And if not… we are not wolves, dammit. We are smart enough to see beyond the basics. Teach your children that, force them to it, the way I (try to) do. Sometimes you have to use force, mental force that is; explain it, again and again. Make them understand, show them. At the very least, you should try to fight against base instincts. Teach them that this is a place worth living in, even for the lowest of the low. The lowest human being has beauty within them, just the same as a wolf on the bottom rung. Poor bastard. I once read a book in which a child was killed by his own father for losing food which was essential to survival. The father simply dashed his head against a rock. The kid was a little fuck-up, I suppose, and his father lost patience with him. What he might have been capable of no one will ever know.
Base = bad? No. Base = stupid. The basic survival strategies of a pack of wolves should not apply to us. We are that much smarter, dammit. I think. Or are you nothing more than a wolf? Are you a child? Do you really believe that there is a single human being, or, for that matter, a single wolf on this earth, without any intrinsic value? An intrinsic value afforded by the simple fact that they are alive, and among us? They belong. They are beautiful.