Stupid Fucking Words

Never was a truer word spoken. Rearrange the words. Wrong-right, topsy-turvy… connotations. They will drive you insane, those words. They can mean anything. Far too flexible, the little bastards. Anything but straight out. Devious. Under-the-counter. Ambiguous, suggestive. You think fish are slippery? Get hold on a word.
What you say? What you say?
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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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The Animal in Me (Letter from the Editor)

Many authors choose an animal to represent their persona. It might be a kangaroo, or a swamp rabbit, or whatever. Aesop used animals to illustrate his ideas, in order to make them more accessible. It’s easier to read things about animals, things that might actually apply to yourself, than to believe that a human being might think so.
I’ve chosen a human: Mr. Hellstrøm. He’s an animal too, of course; we humans are all animals. And that’s the point, in a way.
Did you know that animals smell sweet? Have you ever smelled the forehead of a young dog? It’s the sweetest smell imaginable, apart from the smell of your own baby. Of course, animals also sometimes smell like shit. Babies too.
In any case, when you present ideas, no matter how nonsensical or enlightening, as if they came from an animal, people are more ready to accept them. That is exactly what I want to avoid.
I don’t want you to accept what I present here, I want you to think about it. Maybe those thoughts will lead to nowhere, but at least you will have thought them. I don’t want to make it easy for you. Unlike Aesop, I am not trying to propagate. I may seem opinionated, and arrogant . . . and I am. But that’s just part of believing in what you believe in, and presenting it with verve; it’s not propagating. Now, don’t get me wrong here, I am not dissing Aesop. Definitely a cool dude, and I personally love his fables. But I want to go to a level beyond that. I am assuming you are able to deal with it. If you are still reading, then read on.
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If you’ve read around here, then you know that Hellstrøm is a cynical animal. He is a sophisticated animal, otherwise he could not possibly be cynical. Cynicism presupposes a certain level of sophistication, a certain level  of self-detachment that is not, as far as we know, present in animals. Who knows, maybe the animals laugh about us for being so arrogant as to suppose that . . . but I doubt it. So, let us assume that attributing these feelings to an animal is unrealistic, though it may make said feelings more edible for the reader.
Uhh, where was I? So much for the editor being in control.
I’ll tell you one thing: in every blog entry is a sliver of truth, a tiny sliver of me. It’s like I am a loaf of bread, and I take a microscopically thin slice of me and turn in to an entire loaf. That is what makes it interesting for me, and, I hope, for the readers. Slivers of truth contained in wild stories and insanity and musings and ravings and fuck it all. But do not believe that you will come to know my soul, just because I let the little animal in me speak here. It’s just a slice of bread, dammit, it’s not the whole truth. It’s not my life, and you should not take it literally. Each blog entry is just a tiny piece of me, extrapolated upon ad infinitum by Mr. Hellstrøm.
So it would seem that Mr. Hellstrøm is my animal after all, no matter how he or I may buck up against the fact. He might as we’ll be a fucking kangaroo. He boxes when threatened, doesn’t that count? A drunken foolish kangaroo who just can’t stop writing crazy things. Well, if it’s easier for you to think of him like that, so be it.

Writers? Liars.

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!
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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.

The Rules of Writing (Or: Fuck You, Elmore)

Hey, I’ve read books from Elmore Leonard, and enjoyed them. Good writing. That said, I shit on his supposed rules of writing. There are no rules of writing. If there were a rule, it would be as follows: if you can’t write, follow Elmore’s rules, but, if you trust yourself to write, follow your own rules. Don’t trust Elmore, or anyone else.
And if you tell me never to write in the passive voice, I’ll kill you.
Fuck you, Elmore. I’ll just bet you would have liked that statement.
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Time

You lose. There is a sort of deep ferocity about it, isn’t there? The next are waiting. It’s cruel, time. You simply can’t win against time, being mortal. You’ll never get to say all you wanted to… there isn’t enough time. You’re waiting for the right moment, and it just isn’t there. Or it has already past… you’re not fast enough. By the time you’re old enough to realize what you want to say, no one is listening anymore. Time’s up, you’re fucked. Well, perhaps it’s all for the best. Or not. You’ll never know, because you’ll be dead. In any case, you’re fucked.
Listening to Turkeychase, from Bob Dylan, by the by.
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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.