Why in all hell do people talk so much? Can’t they just – now and then, for five damned minutes – shut the fuck up? It’s a party, I come on to the balcony, it’s a beautiful evening, the sun has just set… I thought I was escaping from the gabble inside to look at the sky. But no. Some stupid asshole says what a beautiful sunset, a woman takes up the bloody thread and tells us all about the incredible sunset she saw in Australia… which leads to a description of the hotel there, which is taken up by various people describing their hotels in God knows where all… AAAARGHHH! SHUT! UP! I did not, in fact, scream. I kept myself under absolute urbane control. Meanwhile, without anyone besides me paying attention, the beautiful colors faded away. This is the kind of thing that makes me drink three big glasses of wine in quick succession.
The girlfriends always say: you’re so calm, you’re my rock in the swirling stormy water.
Christ almighty . . . if only I could sleep. Where’s the inner calm when I need it, when I’m alone? Sometimes I wonder if that calm they speak of is only a façade, but the fact is, it isn’t. I’ve wondered about it often enough to know. I do feel calm when I am with a woman I love. They make me calm, like balsam on a wound.
What wound is that, that needs staunching so bad? Why is it so raw when I am alone? So raw, it makes me want to rip it open, get at the inner pain, rip it out, dammit! Where in hell’d it come from?
But when I am with a woman I love, I am at peace. I feel no need, no need for anything except her presence. That’s enough, I am satisfied. It doesn’t matter if I am lying half asleep with my head on her lap, or massaging her back – doing my best to make her feel good –, or discussing a piece of art we saw that day . . . I am at peace with the world. That is all I need.
I love art, but I almost never go to galleries or expositions without a girlfriend. I love nature, fresh air, but I hardly go out without a girlfriend. I love good food, but I never go to a restaurant without a girlfriend. I love life, but without a woman who I love and who loves me, it seems worthless. All that love inside me . . . worthless. No amount of inner calm can help me over that hump.
If only I could sleep.
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.
Get rid of the fucking levels, please. Often enough I’ve written about levels and how interesting they are, but when it gets down to the nitty gritty, I make things flat. Reduce it all to one level. At the moment I mean this in the technical sense. You know, technical shit, computers and all.
I get data from all over the world, and I feed it to machines that are supposed to make sense of it. And when they get data that is on many levels, they choke on it, more often than not.
I don’t blame them. If someone were to feed me data that included so many levels, I might choke on it, and no one would think the worse of me, though my brain is far more complex than any software yet invented, so complex that it can even master something we call intuition. So why do people expect that to work with a printing machine, a machine that reduces data to a two-dimensional graphic that someone can look at and understand? These are machines that, in the end, bring ink to paper. It doesn’t matter that the ink is actually not ink at all, but rather artificial resin, or wax, or solvent-based tints. It’s a physical process, dammit. It’s hardware. It’s simple. And though it is guided by software, it’s no wonder that it chokes on levels.
All these levels are only present in our minds, and they have no place in the physical, the real world. At least not in the real printing world. So, no matter what you want to have printed, please, just… just please… get rid of the fucking levels before you send it to the printer.
So much for the technical side, now to the philosophical. Gimme the levels, baby. The more the better. Maybe you’ll force my mind on its knees with them, but I’ll have fun trying to figure them out (well, mostly). Life is not as simple as bringing ink to paper, thank stochastic and the crazed human brain. So, gimme the levels! Make me think, please!
I may not like the truth you speak, but I will think about it. Even if it is a lie, I will think about it. I will take it in my mental hands and turn it hither and thither and look at all the levels and wonder. I’ll pick those levels apart and try to understand them. Why did you make those levels? What do they mean to you, to me? Who are you, that you were impelled to build those levels as you did?
It never ceases to fascinate me: the human penchant to take things apart, to categorize them in to many different little levels. But the most fascinating thing of all is that the actual goal of all this minute analysis is to make an understandable whole. In the end, we want to bring things down to one single level after all. We want to understand everything. We want a formula, a simple statement, that will describe everything. The answer.
That is insane. It’s impossible. Crazy apes! Crazy, stupid apes!
Is that all there is? There’s something in me striving, driving for more. There has to be an answer, it says. I doubt I’ll find it, but someone will, if the human race should be lucky, and survive long enough. Yeah, well, the other side of my coin says, each answer poises new questions. It’s like trying to find the smallest particle… there is alway something smaller yet. And the answer gets smaller and smaller… until there is nothing left but nothing.
I am anything but alone in this, and I know many people find the answer in God. It’s a simple, flat answer. Belief allows them to live their lives in peace, because they don’t have to think about it anymore. It’s as if they’d been printed on a piece of paper, and that’s it, black on white. Well, maybe there are colors, too, but in any case it’s a done deal. Tempting, isn’t it? Someone printed me, with intent, I am a product, made with something in mind, with purpose. Though I may not understand the purpose, just as ink on paper has no knowledge of what it says, I have a purpose.
Well, I am literally laughing out loud, rolling on the fucking floor at that statement… purpose? You’re kidding me, right? You… *gasp* you can’t mean it seriously? Hahahaaaa…..! Oh shit, I’m gonna die, can’t get no air…! *Gag*
Alright, I survived. I didn’t die from that gut-laugh. My body prevented me from dying for lack of air. It’s part of the paper I’m printed on: my physical body will not allow me to give up. Not for comedy, not for philosophy, not for anything. No matter how hard I laugh or cry over it all, I have to go on. The man in me won’t let me give up.
That man in there, what does he want? I don’t dare forget him, because he is the one who drives me, in the end. He may think about all these things I describe, but basically he has another agenda. He wants to see his children grow, he wants to live and love… the basic things of life. He is an ape, and he knows it. He has no problem with that knowledge. He couldn’t care less about the world at large. He’ll kill to defend his own, and he’ll drink a drop on the way to make the killing easier. He doesn’t give a damn about purpose, provided it’s not his own purpose. He’s been indoctrinated with certain ideals, but he’ll bend them to suit his needs and desires. Slightly. He can’t, after all, jump out of his own skin. Even if he could, he wouldn’t want to. Fortunately he has not been brought up to believe in God, for otherwise he would most likely do so.
He has been brought up in doubt. He doesn’t know, therefor he inquires. Sometimes it makes him unhappy, nevertheless he reminds himself that, as Voltaire put it, doubt is not a pleasant state of mind, but certainty is absurd. On the other hand, it is his sense of absurdity, when he thinks about it, that keeps him from going insane. That, and his belief in love. Belief.
Oh, shit, belief? I might just as well believe in God, or? But for me, God is just a concept. I can’t feel God. I can feel love. You can tell me a thousand times over that love is just a mixture of chemicals in my body and brain that make me feel that way, and intellectually I will pay you heed, but you will never ever convince the man in me. So, when it comes down to it, am I just as bad as a fanatic religionist. My glands rule me, crazy little animal that I am. But I am at least aware of it, and I don’t swear it is the only truth for all of mankind. I wouldn’t go out and kill other people because they don’t love.
However, this is the belief that keeps that crazy little ape in me in line. If it weren’t for that, I would run amok. Without that belief, my life would be worthless, and I would show all the other crazy apes what that means: I’d kill, and kill, and kill… because I don’t like people. They are a bunch of fucking assholes, slaves to greed and idiocy and the feeling of power. Love, that is the most meaningful thing for me. It’s the way I am built, nothing I can do about it. Without love, I’d be a loose cannon.
So, you may be wondering, like me, how I came from levels in print-data to love and death. Just goes goes to show how everything hangs together. Or how a creative mind can establish weird connections. A crazy mind, what the fuck. As usual, you can’t take anything I say at face value. Trickery. The rings under my eyes hang down to my balls, and that is an indication of how seriously you should take my statements. Very seriously, or not at all.
More rum, please.
You know, I’ve made so many right choices in my life, and so many wrong, and in the end it hardly seemed to matter. Some of the very best choices I’ve made led to hell. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, though. And there were times when I thought I was being foolish, irresponsible, maybe even just plain crazy, but I just couldn’t help myself, I had to do it… and in the end it led to wonderful things. And all of that, just the other way around.
Christ, how am I to find my way like that? No fucking system, just probabilities, possibilities… it’s enough to drive a man insane. Especially a man like me, an organized, systematic type who sees flaws in the system and wants to correct them. Correct it, for Christ’s sake, make it whole, make it make sense. As if I could correct the vagaries of life, as if life was a bloody fucking workflow. As if I could force it to be like it should.
Perhaps all that is normal, and most people just accept it and go on without a further thought. No pattern, no system, inherently flawed. Perhaps I am a stupid sick fuck because I think about it. Nevertheless I am still trying to understand it all.
It’s as if I had heard of the perfect poem in which lie all the answers I’ve been looking for. I’d always known that this poem must exist, and I climbed the hermit’s mountain to read it, only to find that some asshole has killed him and torn it to pieces. There they lie, flecked with blood, and I frantically collect them as they blow away in the wind, crying the while, because this can’t possibly be… God, the injustice of it! Blowing away in the wind! No!
What’s left is a collection of gibberish. little bits of paper with one or two words on them. Even if I manage to piece some of them together, they are incomplete. Even if I spend my entire life on it, I will never be able to make sense of it. I sit here, moving the pieces around, combining, rearranging, again and again, trying to find the right way, until I feel like dashing my head against the wall.
And all the while I have the sneaking suspicion that I am on a fool’s errand. That bastard inner voice is telling me that the man who killed the hermit was on the same mission as I am. Another crazy idiot looking for the answer. I just know that the hermit told him there is none. I just know that is why he killed him and tore it all to pieces, and that, in the end, the laugh is on me.
Gimme a drink.