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.

Too Much

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.
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Thank God for Reason

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.
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Whoa

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.
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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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Vernissage

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!
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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.

Chili

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.
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