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.

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.
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Lord Knows You’re Only Human

You’re tired, and you want to go home. And you can’t stop thinking about her, though you know it does you no good. Like Sisyphus you are condemned to push the rock –composed of self-reproach, chagrin, and yearning, in equal parts– up the bloody hill, only to have it roll back down. Your thoughts go in circles. The beer, wine and cocktails sloshing around in your stomach don’t exactly help to clear things up.
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Life

Short, dark, dirty, like a winter day. Nevertheless, there are highlights. Feel the hail on your face, you little fuck? That’s life. Nothing like it, nothing sweeter than that little pain. Those tiny needles on your skin may be the best you’ll ever know.

What is the Cost of Freedom?

Fifty bucks? No? Two hundred? C’mon, we’re talking about freedom here. Twenty-thousand? Face it, you wold give anything to be truly free. But you ain’t got the money. Need I say more?
It has come to my attention that I often use the term “need I say more?“. As if I expected you, the understanding reader, to understand a single fucking thing I write, as if you knew the connotations I am referring to, as if you knew… anything at all. Well, perhaps I just use it suggestively, to sort of force you to understand. Or, who knows, just to make you act as if you understand, to yourself, in your brain. Better than nothing. Do you understand what I am saying? Need I say more? Haha.
But I digress. What is freedom? Are you ever free? Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you have those twenty-thousand buckaroos. What are you really buying? You are free. You can do anything now. Real freedom. Not just freedom from pain, from want, from repression… that’s all just props. Real freedom… you wouldn’t even know what to do with it. Real freedom is, if anything, in your head, and that you simply can not buy. But then again, you can not even imagine real freedom; the human mind is not capable of it, and wouldn’t want it if it was. How are you going to buy something you can’t even think? The coast of true freedom is your own humanity.
Brand New Cadillac from The Clash.

Alone

The person you love is far away, and you feel like you just can’t live without them. You’re stuck in limbo, you’re somewhere in between. You’re not alone any more, but that just makes you more alone than ever. If you were truly alone, you’d have no worries… if everything goes wrong, it’s just you, no big deal. Though it would be tough, one could accept it with a certain philosophical detachment, like a gentleman fighting his bitter fate. But now there is someone else, someone who cares, someone who will suffer when you suffer. You just can’t stand the thought of them suffering, so you have to make sure you don’t suffer… you have to take care of yourself.
You have to. You love this person more than anything you can think of. It’s better than religion, better than drugs, it’s the ultimate thing. There is, quite simply, nothing else you really care about.
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Certain conflicts arise. You feel lonely, so you want to drink. But drinking is bad for you, you know that, it’s fucking poison when you drink enough to conquer that gap… the problem is, eating a healthy salad does nothing for your state of mind. A big glass of vodka can help, verily, poison though it may be. And old habits die hard.
When my girl is with me, I don’t need a damned thing.
Listening to I Want You (She’s So Heavy) from the Beatles.

It’s About Coming Up, and Staying on Top

Revolution. What is that? Change… okay. But to what end? For change’s sake? Really? Have you ever seen a revolution that really changed things? What happens after the revolution, if it is successful? All I see is the basic stages of human political endeavor repeating themselves: perversion, subversion, inversion, new version… of the same old shit. The new boss is the same as the old boss. I wonder who said that for the first time. Probably some stone-age man, thinking about just having had his ass kicked by the boss and his cronies again. The new boss. So, you see, things haven’t changed much for a damned long time. God help us all… oh, shit, I don’t believe in God, so what now…?!
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