I Hate Glasses

Hate the motherfuckers. Gettin’ old, shortsighted… put me out on the sea, ask me what stands on the sails of a ship two miles away, and I’ll tell it to you. If only I could read a book at two miles distance . . . unfortunately, the print is too fucking small. Put it in my face then, that is the way one reads books, after all . . . well, uhhh . . can’t see a damned thing.
It’s progressive. By now I have the feeling it’s geometrical. The more I try the worse it gets. It’s hell for someone who likes to read. Alright, alright, dammit, gimme the reading glasses, fuck it. But no, that is not the end of the tale.
1.0? 1.5? 2.0? How far can it go? Makes me feel like I’m running on borrowed time.
It’s endless, I can tell you. With each number you descend further in to reader’s hell. Your glasses get thicker and thicker, until there is no glass thick enough. I haven’t reached that point yet, but I am sure it is coming.

Little frames around your field of vision, that is what drives me insane (well, it doesn’t, but I like to think it might). But it is definitely annoying. Very. Not only that, it makes you feel like an old man. Well, hell, fuck that, don’t mind being old or young or whatever, but still…
In any case, there you are, in the restaurant; forgot to take your glasses with you, didn’t you now? Can’t possibly hold the menu two miles away, can you now? Even if you could, the types is simply two small to read at two miles distance, isn’t it now? What to do? There you are.
Slowly, oh so slowly, you learn from this experience to always have reading glasses with you, in some convenient slot or pocket. Summer presents an obstacle, because it’s so damned hot you can’t even stand to carry a jacket with a pocket where your glasses might abide. To carry a jacket adds to the exertion of daily life, which increases, infinitesimally, to the heat you have to tolerate. It’s already intolerable, so… you hang the glasses on your shirt. Talk about feeling like an old man: Not only do I need reading glasses, but they are hanging on my shirt for every asshole to see.
Not only that, you develop habits connected with you glasses. You clean them, compulsive fuck that you are. That is to say, at every convenient moment, or even at inconvenient moments, you take those motherfucking glasses from your shirt, blow on them, and rub them clean with your shirt. Preferably in the middle of important conversations with people who you can’t afford to look like a compulsive old shortsighted fool in front of. Oh, well, too late. Might as well fess up.

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Can’t sleep

My girl is away. Can’t sleep. I can drink though. Don’t do me any good of course, still can’t sleep. Smoke, drink… kill time, days at a time, days in a second, each second a day, until she is back. Let the damned day break. I look in her eyes, but they ain’t there; even so I drown in them. How can one become so attached to another human being? It seems perfectly right and insane all at once. It’s like lying down and asking to be killed and expecting it to happen and it doesn’t… and that meets my foolish hopes. I only went down to be pulled up. I can’t help being surprised that it actually worked, which makes me love her all the more, of course. Christ, what a woman, I think . . . if only she was here, I’d show her how very much I fancy her . . . but she ain’t. I want to seize her in my arms, crush her to me, kiss her savagely and feel how she bends back to receive it. I want her to seize me and push me on to the bed with that demanding look in her eyes, that look that says show me what you have, buck, show me how you love me. A little push that makes me surrender, fall for the moment, but . . . a little push that also shows she wants me to, well . . . to take her.

It’s not like it sounds. It sounds like conquest, but it ain’t like that. Men have a tendency to speak of love in terms of war, but that is just a mask. I am convinced that it’s the men who surrender and give women what they want. Behavioral science actually confirms this, but what the fuck do I know. I can’t sleep, I’m drunk, so you can’t believe a word I say anyway. I’m just waiting until she comes back, until I can become sane again.
Listening to In Your Garden Twenty Fecund Fruit Trees from Frank Londons Klezmer Brass Allstars,

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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Talk

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.
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Inner Calm

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.
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