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.

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The Flag

I’ve already written about patriotism, so you may already have an inkling of what I think about flags. Flags are signs, signs for something or other… I really like signal flags, you know, the kind sailors used to make themselves understood before the times of radio and all. But I can not stand flags as signals of a nation or an idea.
What made me think of this was a very good anti-war film I saw recently, in which many human ideals and feelings were presented. Personal feelings, personal ideals, a good story, great acting. I won’t say which film it was, since that is absolutely irrelevant. What ruined it for me was that, at the very end, truly, in the last 30 seconds, the American flag was shown, as if it represented those ideals and feelings. As if the sign of a nation could represent those things.
Because that is the very thing which disappoints me about America. It doesn’t live up to its ideals… I mean, what kind of fucking sick joke is that supposed to be? It doesn’t even approach the shadow of those ideals within a hundred miles.
I love ideals, poor forlorn romantic that I am, and I know how difficult it is to live up to them. But at least I am honest about it, to some small extent. I don’t go around saying: look at me, I am an idealist, see how I live up to it, see how good I am, how pure! I don’t wave my flag, and I don’t hoist it up on a damned pole for all to see, because I know how foolish that would be.
Unless, of course, you consider this blog to be a sort of flag pole, the posts being flags. In which case I have only one thing to say: a blog is not a flag pole. Christ, even I notice the difference.
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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.

Children

Little sons and daughters of bitches. And bastards. We all say son-of-a-bitch, as if the father had nothing to do with it. Alright, I’m not a bastard in the original sense of the word, but I’m sure there are some people who would call me a motherfucking bastard.
I’ve got two children, and I love them, but when I see how they edge up against each other, how they needle each other to the point of insanity, I start to wonder: why in hell do they do that? Rascals.
It seems as if there is something in children, just the same as in adults, which makes them want to fuck with other people’s minds. The nearest available victim is the sibling, since the parents are basically unapproachable in that area (well, most parents anyway, I’ve seen kids who torture their parents too). Not that they stop there, the same thing applies to any group of children; it starts in kindergarten.
I’s a thinkin’: ah, my innocent, wonderful little son, such a smart little boy… then I hear how he pissed in the bushes of the kindergarten playground and mobbed some poor ass together with his friends. Alright, I’s thinkin’, pissed in the bushes, don’t give a fuck about that… My daughter didn’t piss in the bushes, but I’ll just bet there were far more hurtful verbal cat-fights that went on.
Mobbing. Just a new word for an old thing: people fucking over other people. Children do it just the same as adults, and I wonder why. Why? Why do humans do this? It seems inseparable with social life, and that is exactly the thing that makes me insociable. I don’t engage in that shit, at least not consciously. That’s the thing, it seems to be a basic instinct among social animals. Establish the god damned fucking pecking order. Who is the boss, who is the henchman, who is the outsider…?
God, how I hate it. I know it’s normal, but I hate it all the more for it. I just don’t understand why people have to be so hateful to each other. It’s like the wolf-pack I once observed in a wild animal park. The park-ranger (for lack of a better word) explained that a wolf-pack is a social group, as we watched one of them being harried by the others, yelping in helpless fright… and a hierarchy must be established. And reestablished, again and again. And the poor bastard on the bottom rung of the ladder, well…? Harried, a miserable fucking life.

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It’s wrong. I’m telling you, it’s wrong. Even the last poor bastard at the bottom has redeeming features. Maybe he has talents that could help us survive, as a group. And if not… we are not wolves, dammit. We are smart enough to see beyond the basics. Teach your children that, force them to it, the way I (try to) do. Sometimes you have to use force, mental force that is; explain it, again and again. Make them understand, show them. At the very least, you should try to fight against base instincts. Teach them that this is a place worth living in, even for the lowest of the low. The lowest human being has beauty within them, just the same as a wolf on the bottom rung. Poor bastard. I once read a book in which a child was killed by his own father for losing food which was essential to survival. The father simply dashed his head against a rock. The kid was a little fuck-up, I suppose, and his father lost patience with him. What he might have been capable of no one will ever know.
Base = bad? No. Base = stupid. The basic survival strategies of a pack of wolves should not apply to us. We are that much smarter, dammit. I think. Or are you nothing more than a wolf? Are you a child? Do you really believe that there is a single human being, or, for that matter, a single wolf on this earth, without any intrinsic value? An intrinsic value afforded by the simple fact that they are alive, and among us? They belong. They are beautiful.

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.

The Bus is Goin’ Mighty Slow

People are getting hostile. They want equality. Oops, no, they want power. The people, you know, the people, the multitudes, all those people who live like shit… the people. The people who don’t read this, because they are busy working their asses off to keep living. Time to stop giving them lip-service, like I am doing here, because they will rise.
You know what Napoleon said? People will fight harder for their interests than for their rights. How right he was. It’s a terrible thing, but it is a fact supported by history. He used this fact to manipulate the entire european continent.
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So, look at the interests of the people now, and look at what is going on in the world. How long can it go on like this? How long can people in power slow the bus?
Long claws they may have, but they can’t hold on forever.
Blue Arse from The Mekons.

Drunken Soul

Walking along, on and on. Tottering on the razor’s edge, staggering, step after wavering step, falling down, down… no matter, you’re not going to give up now. Not ever. It’s your particular way to stagger. You’ll stand the pain, if you should fall on the razor’s edge. You’ll get cut, like a hundred times before, but wotthehell.
Cut to the bone, but you have to stand up. You have to show the world you can take the pain. Indomitable will, and so on. You talk to your drunken soul: you goin’ to give up now, you lazy little cunt? Down to the last minute, down to the last second, down to the bitter fucking end: keep your head up. Walk proud.