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.
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Free

I think there is no boundary to free speech. Though they may be such a thing as hate speech, which is forbidden in Germany (where I live) for historical reasons, I don’t think hate speech should be forbidden.
Hate speech should be fought with tooth and nail, but not forbidden. Speech is to be fought with speech and experience; better speech and better arguments, but also personal experience.
You can say anything you want to. If I disagree with you, it is up to me to say my piece in a way that will kill yours. KILL! Let the better argument win, and yes, I don’t want my argument to kill yours, that was just a joke, but it is important to realize that arguments can win or lose. If you have a good argument, make it win!
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Why? Because speech is thought expressed. You may try to forbid it, but you can’t get inside of peoples heads (not yet, at least). What people think will be expressed, and you simply have to deal with it. Supressing it will not help in the least, it will simply drive it underground and get it out of sight. Bad.
Of course, this assumes that you are able to understand my arguments, which, if we want to be honest, won’t always be the case. People who read this blog will probably be more receptive to cogent argument (I hope…), but people who read this blog are not typical people. Typical people aren’t used to analytical thought, and, after thousands of years of getting along, they are not about to start with that shit now.
I think it is important for you, the people who read this blog and understand it as it is meant to be understood, to realize that you are not typical. Most people just don’t get it, or, even if they could and actually wanted to do so, do not read this blog or other sources of information that might help them along the way.
Nevertheless, free speech is the only way to go. The opposite would be to assume that arguments shall not prevail, but rather power, or ignorance (which can only be fought with, you guessed it, free speech).
Whether it be the power of the state, as in Germany, which forbids certain types of speech, or the power of society, which forbids certain types of speech with the threat of ostracization, or even incarceration, depending on the momentary societal situation, the only way to fight it is with good arguments. Or experience.
Personal experience is very important. For example, a simple person (forgive me for saying it, but there are human beings who are “simple”, without having any less “worth” than anyone else) can benefit hugely from experiencing different cultures. It’s a very simple thing, which, perhaps, seems natural to any university student at a big campus, or to anyone who lives in an international city: seeing and meeting people from different cultures. Talking to them! Sitting next to them! Oh my God!
I think you have to realize that this is something that the greater part of humanity is not used to. As soon as you get them used to it, well, they’’ll get used to it. Christ, it’s that simple, sometimes. Put a right wing asshole next to a left-wing black man for half a year, and he will (perhaps) realize that the black man is of course a perfectly normal human being (they might even, God forbid, become friends).

Dream Nr. 456

My Dearest,
I was a fool to join this venture. I never thought it would end like this, with me writing to you. We went in with a clear mission. Booty, slaves. Nobody knows better than I that no plan survives the first battle, but this… this is different.
We tore them apart. But then they got into our minds, and they turned us in to a thousand pieces. They ripped the puzzle apart and set it together anew, again and again. They fucked our minds. But I am getting ahead of myself.
We landed, we whipped them. That is to say, we slayed. We hacked them apart. Our weapons were superior, not to mention our tactics. Though they were not unused to war, as they had casual strife with neighboring tribes, they were compariaively disorganized. It was the usual bloody mess. We killed the men and children, we enslaved the women and what men survived. We used them as we pleased.
The women were the problem, that’s what I think. It may sound stupid, but they had a way about them. The music they played, that weird foreign beat, the way they walked. There is dissent. Our men fight one another for the women, though they be but slaves. The women are like a baking sheet full of cake, each one of them a piece.
The Captain has lost control. Rolf and Fjorad have disappeared. Murdered in their sleep? Eaten? The priest is gone too, not that I care.
It is insane. That beat . . . that foreign beat . . . I can’t sleep. The drums, these foreign drums! How can they dance to such a strange beat? They take our minds apart.
I would go away, but the men have disassembled our ship to build huts. I do not know how it will end. Forgive me for this disjointed report. I write this letter in knowledge that it will probably never reach you, my love.

The Army of Losers

That’s a song. From Die Toten Hosen (The Dead Pants, a German punk band). A song about losers, about the fight against time. It’s a leftist song, about the fight against the “Fließband”. Against Ford. “Fließband”, what is that? The assembly line, the ultimate inhumanity. I thank Christ I never had to work on an assembly line.
On the other hand, my first job was as a baker in an organic bakery, with cool people and a loose atmosphere, but even there we were trying to make a sort of assembly line. We tried as best we could to make things efficient, make the beautiful, eatable things we produced (and they were delicious, I can assure you), as best we could. In the end it was about making money, but making money with somethng useful.
So that’s the thing, making money by producing things that other people need and want. That’s all well and good, and there’s nothing wrong with making those processes as efficient as they can possibly be. We wanted to produce what we made in the best way possible. Sure, it was about profit too, oh yeah, that’s the zest, that’s what makes it interesting.
The problem is when people who don’t care about making things that people need or want take control of these processes, people who are not interested in anything except their own profit. They don’t care about quality, they don’t care about use, they don’t care about anything except profit. They will fuck you in the ass if they can, and if they can’t, they’ll send their henchman to beat the living shit out of you. And if that doesn’t work, or if you’re in a country where the government acts like they don’t want that shit, they’ll send their lawyers to do it for them. How is an average person to deal with that? Well, honestly, they can’t, and that is why this society can not go on in its present form. There is no way that this system can go on. It can exist in a certain atmosphere for a certain time, but it is not truly viable.
The question is, how is the army of losers going to react? They will react, you can be sure of that. At some point the pressure will become to high, and they will react. Put pressure on things and they will explode at some point, that’s simple physics. It applies to society the same as it applies to material. Well, you might say, Hellstrøm, you jerk, you’re wrong. Society is not physics. Ooha. Well, I can simply laugh at that.
Why? Because society is physics. Society is algorithms, isn’t it? That’s what they are telling us these days. It’s all math. Yeah, baby, statistics, I can tell you what you will probably do. In all likelihood you will. You can’t help it. You’re on the assembly line of life, and you will do what is expected of you.
But, and any statistical expert will confirm this, there are statistical swings. It’s not all about the middle line. Every honest statistic should take that in to account, but they don’t. They’re all on the middle line, betting on it, the stupid motherfuckers, hoping for it, even though they know it isn’t true. Gamblers. It’s the human condition, we’re all gamblers.
We all know what happens to gamblers. They win, or they lose. But these gamblers are betting with our whole society. I’ll leave it to you to think about the consequences.
Yeah, flaming trees line the streets. Singing the Higgs-Boson blues. The army of losers are lining those streets too. They are probably (seen statistically) the ones who set the trees an fire. Totally surprising! No algorithm predicted it.
Don’t cry just because we’re in for interesting times. That’s life. Ah well, wotthehell, cry if you must, then at least Cry Tough, from Alton Ellis & The Flames.
Happy New Year.

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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