I’ve had too much. Fit to burst. I would very much like to continue eating and drinking, but… I’ve had too much. Of course I could, theoretically, go for the Roman thing and stick a feather down my throat, in order to vomit and continue eating and drinking, ad infinitum. But, decadent as I am, I am not that decadent. Jesus, that’s too much, even for me.
Listening to In the Colosseum, from Tom Waits.
Did you ever have the feeling you would choke on the poignancy of it all? Like your life is so fucking full of meaning and emotion and you want to rip the hair from your skull because you just can’t take it? And the only thing that prevents you from doing so is your cursed reason? Thank God for it, because otherwise everyone would ask you, next day at work, what the hell happened to your head. And no one will believe you when you say it got caught in a harvest-machine.
Whoa, boy, whoa. You ever meet people who can’t seem to relax? You engage them in a simple conversation, and it seems as if they take a harmless discussion as a challenge to their intellect. They are rarin’ to go. Whoa, dude, I am not trying to pierce your leather here, you think to yourself. Take it easy, have another drink ― no, I don’t think you are an alcoholic! Everything cool? Just relax. Everything’s cool, believe me. Breathe, just breathe . . . slow down, or you’ll die in a fit of apoplexy.
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.
Just stuff the food and swill the champagne. Act like you think it’s art. Give intellectual commonplaces to your best. Be quasi, you casual little cultural fuck, you. Well… well, it’d be different if it was really good art, wouldn’t it now? Then, you could say: holy fucking shit, this is really cool stuff! or: I don’t understand it yet, but damn, I like it!
But how often does that happen? I’ve been to enough „openings“ to know… that I am not impressed. I know, that sounds totally arrogant, and it is. But, and here’s the wiggle, most of it isn’t even, well, how shall I say… acceptable? I mean, like, better than average. I’d be willing to praise anything above mediocre. But 90% is just plain CRAP, with some fucking kinky concept to accompany it in to the depths of creative hell. So just stuff the food and swill the champagne. Act like you… oh, yeah, I said that already.
I thank God for chili. Chili is even better than a shameless self-promoting blog. It makes up for being only almost as good by being completely honest. But honestly, when I moved to New York, my room was so small the bed bugs were hunch-backed! But honestly… ahem. Gotta find a better line of gab than this…
Alright. I could live on chili. I love it. It’s spicy, it makes me fart all day, it gives me garlic breath… no vampire from one of these ‘young adult reader’-books is ever going to even approach me. I exude an aura of unbitableness.
Listening to Le Pop from Katzenjammer, by the way.
Always remember that all writers are liars. Every human being who ever wrote anything down distorted it in doing so. It’s the Heisenberg uncertainty principle: anything you observe is influenced by the observation. God save you from the observation of a writer (damn, I can think of at least three different ways one might take that sentence…). Every one of them has their own slant.
They’ll wrap you up in their little words, a little present for you, only for you. Writers can turn even a truth in to a lie. Shakespeare said, kill the lawyers first. I say, kill the writers. The most dangerous species on Earth. They spread IDEAS! OMG! They’ll drive you fucking insane! The landing of non-benevolent Martians is nothing against this. Writers are among you!
The weirdest thing is, nobody knows quite what they want. Nor do they, it seems. In fact, hardly anyone seems to care what they have to say. But, nevertheless, as if everyone were after them, they have become experts in camouflage. If they have any truly resounding ideas, most of them have concealed it very convincingly up to this point (your dear blog-writer included, haha).
Of course, they do tell a wonderful tale, on occasion. Don’t discount that so quickly. Sometimes they manage to tie you to the mast and lead you through the channel of sirens, and that’s a fine thing. Very helpful against stress, I’m told. They might even get you to thinking. So pick up a book, and read some sensible lies, instead of dithering your time away reading this silly drivel. Bah, shame on you.
Driviality. It really is too bad I didn’t invent that word. Anyone who can give me a genuine quote with the word driviality in it has my respect.