Got Nothin’

Well, that ain’t true. Too bad. Nice headline though.
I’ve got something, perhaps less than I want… does that count?
Listening to Shika Shika from 3 Mustaphas 3. It doesn’t fit the headline… won’t tell you why I am listening to it, though there is a specific reason. Some things in life will always remain a mystery, haha.

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The Power of a Child

All the hordes of promises you have made dance around you, needling you. Laughing you out. Though you consider yourself a man of your word, there is no way you can fulfill them all. Circumstances prevent you. That’s your bitter fate. The woman you loved above all, the woman you promised everything, in your heart, has turned away because you couldn’t fulfill them.
You’re ready to kill yourself. You even know how. It’s easy. Just go to the red light district, get the nearest whore, allow yourself to get connected to the pimp, who certainly knows someone who can sell you a pistol and ammunition. Costly, but worth it.
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A fucking gun. Your uncle, the gentlest man in the world you ever knew, taught you how to use them. He allowed you to load a 22-calibre rifle and do target practice with it; fourteen years young, you were. You saw him shoot a rattle-snake that was lying on the hood of his pickup with a pistol. Afterwards he took it apart, cleaned it, and put it back together. The pistol, not the snake. You barbecued the snake. So you know what you are about, you have a good memory. Why would I want to do this, you ask yourself, once again. Because life has no meaning for you anymore. Without that woman, it simply doesn’t matter.
You are drunk. You know you are drunk. You know that when you are drunk your feelings take the upper hand. But on the lower hand, in vino veritas, you say to yourself. Why shouldn’t you live what you feel? Or die what you feel.
And then, in the middle of the fucking night, as you sit on your balcony –smoking your second or maybe third to last cigarette, you think– a family passes by on the sidewalk below. The child in the buggy they are shoving before them is saying “papa”. Papa, papa, papa it sings, so happy, so innocent. You feel an instant glow in your heart.
So much for killing yourself, you romantic jerk, you reflect.
The power of a child.

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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Honest Hypocrites

Give me an honest hypocrite any day. At least then I’ll know what I am dealing with. People who know they are hypocrites, who are up front about it, at least with themselves. They live with a sardonic grin on their faces. But please, oh please, save me from the hypocrites who truly believe in their own bullshit. Those are the dangerous ones.
It’s the little biddy telling me that we have to do something for the poor while she lives on the inheritance of her predecessors, an inheritance pressed out of people who worked sixteen hours a day for pennies. She pays her dues to various charities, and she feels very good about that. It’s the young urban professional telling me we really need to finally do something about the situation in Africa, though the company he works for is robbing resources from that very continent, and killing people in the process.
Dangerous. In such cases, the word honesty takes on a whole new meaning. The problem is that truth is on many levels, and people who believe in what they say are very convincing, though what they say may have nothing whatsoever to do with what they do. That yuppy wouldn’t give a cent to the corner bum. Nor would the biddy, most likely, for she has already paid to help poor people, hasn’t she now?
Either you live in the world as it is and you’re glad you’re not in the bottom half, and you know you’re glad and you look at the bum on the corner and say, tough tits; or you don’t think that’s right and you actually do something about it. I won’t tell you which direction I go with this, because that is not the point. I will say that either direction is okay with me, as long as you are honest with yourself.

Violence

Once upon a time, a woman I loved asked me a hypothetical question. She was sick of my procrastinating way of dealing with things. She was tired of my way of waiting up, seeing what is going down, and most likely not doing anything to really influence the situation, lazy bastard that I am. She said, if you were coming to meet me, and you saw that a man was molesting me, what would you do? I said, I would wait and see… see if you can deal with it alone. So then she asked the next pertinent question: what would you do if he laid a hand on me, got rough?
I wondered if I should really tell her that those are the moments I am glad I don’t carry weapons. I can only hope that there are none to hand, if it should ever come to that. I am, generally speaking, a peaceable person. I don’t want to hurt anybody, I really don’t. But I know myself. I know what puts me in a rage, and I know that the control I have then breaks.
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I told her I would then immediately intervene. That is, as far as it goes, the truth. I didn’t say that I would probably pick up the nearest blunt object and whack it across the back of his head, and then pounce on him and smash my fists in to his face until my knuckles broke. I didn’t tell her that, should a gun be at hand, I might very well simply shoot his fucking brains out, on the spot.
Now you’re probably thinking: what a bullshitter, bragging about what he would do, if. But you don’t get it. I think violence is wrong. I’ve been on both ends of violence, and either way, it basically sucks. I know what others are capable of… been beaten so bad I landed in the hospital. I know what I am capable of, and I like that even less than landing in the hospital. I know I’ve enjoyed being violent, and that’s worse still. The last thing I would brag about is my capability for violence.
Have you ever, like me, woken up one fine morning and wondered where the blood on your knuckles came from? Horrible thought, isn’t it… but worse than the thought is the fact. Memory dawns on you… and you realize that violence is horrible. It’s bad. Though it may even seem necessary at times, it’s still wrong. It’s the last stupid exit you take when you know no other way out, or when you are so drunk that you are reduced to base instincts. Or when the situation is so intolerable that… I don’t want to think about it any more.
It’s those moments, when I am not fucking around anymore, that frighten me for myself. For all of us. I realize then what humans are capable of.
I shouldn’t have written this post. It reminds me of the beast in me, the anger I fight to keep down day for day. The beast that wants to fight and kill. Better to be lazy, and to let things go their way. Just please don’t put me in that position where I see no other way out. Please, brother, don’t force me to it. Cuz’ I ain’t violent, until that moment, dammit, until that very moment…

Sitting at the bar
Not drunk, just drinking
Listening to the music
Thinking how beautiful it is

Loving people, loving life
Loving myself
Teaching myself
How to feel good

Being good natured
Being human

Until that moment

Nobody
Fucked with me
I didn’t want to hit anyone
In the head

Until that moment

That moment
That moment…

Until that very moment
Tshak!*

*Flesh and bone, motherfucker.

Drinking and Thinking

A very, very bad combination. Normally, you drink in order not to think. But when you drink and start to think… well. That’s the moment when you know something has gone horribly wrong. The moment when you realize you have drunk too little, or perhaps not enough… or maybe you just didn’t drink fast enough? In any case, you’ve somehow missed the point. The point of no return? No, that’s not what I meant… uhhh; no. The decisive moment? No, it’s not that either. The point. You missed the point. You know what I mean, don’t you? Christ. As always, the answer is not at the bottom of the glass. How often are you going to try this until you give up? It’s the third bottle, every damned time. That’s when you start thinking again, and it’s no good.
Just now a tractor drove past, in the middle of fucking town, in the middle of the fucking night, b’god. What the hell is going on here? Listening to Running from Milky Chance. Trying my very best to stop thinking.
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