It’s not sex, it’s not your good looks, it’s tenderness that wins a man’s heart, and honesty. You may have looks and style. You may sigh or scream just the way he likes to hear when you come, or something along those lines. That certainly doesn’t hurt, but, by God, it’s tender loving care he wants, just like you. And in keeping with that spirit: loyalty, faithfulness, no matter what goes down. No matter what.
Nobody knows how things will go on from here. Nobody knows. So don’t worry about it too much. Do what you can to anchor yourself in this insane flood we call life, and help others to do so if you can. We’ll all see what comes out in the end, whether we want to or not.
Determinism says you do what you do because of genetic predispositions and social conditioning aka environment. But that still doesn’t mean they can determine your behavior, so go do something crazy to drive them up the statistical wall, please, if you would be so kind. Exercise your free will. Had my fill of statistics lately. I’d rather hear music. Listening to Habib Koité, Saramaya. And now Mannse Cise. Like a damned classical arrangement, if it weren’t for the African rhythms and instruments.
Do I digress, perhaps?
Ah, hell. Just don’t listen to anybody, and do what you want to do, having thought it through. You’ve only got this one life, and when it’s done, it’s done. It’s your last chance. Do it, after considering the consequences. The only thing I ask is that you don’t hurt others on the way if you can possibly help it. Don’t hurt other sentient beings. What’s sentient? you might ask. Fuck if I know, you’ll just have to figure that out on the way. I consider most dogs I’ve known to be sentient, and I’ve met a few humans who left me in doubt. Perhaps sentience is not a the right criterion anyway . . . it’s for you to decide. It’s subjective. Nobody knows.
And when your time comes, don’t take it so hard. Remember the good moments, and let them go. If die you must, then die with dignity. And if circumstances should prevent you from dying with dignity, then at least go down proud of what you have done in life, no matter how prosaic it may seem in retrospect. Wotthehell. Better than nothing.
Existential angst. Fear of living, for what it might do to you. God only knows what will happen! The deepest wounds, the greatest happiness! Joy so strong it threatens to tear you right apart, sorrow so low it seeps in to the marrow of your bones and makes death seem welcome… it’s all one, the pain and the delight. Heavy duty stuff, that. Your brain will squirm under the weight of it all.
Don’t hold yourself back, dive in to it, damn you! Fuck the consequences. You’ll never get anywhere if you keep sandbagging your life. Building little lines of defense as if you could hold back a wave that defies your understanding, haha, good luck with that, old boy. It’ll wash over you no matter what you do, and you should be thankful for the fact. All that defensive behavior will just drive you in to a corner you can’t get out of, and the wave is coming… traps in every corner, every corner a trap.
There is no way for you to have beauty if you fear ugliness. You can’t live if you fear death. You can’t climb the mountain if you’ve never been in a valley. Stating the obvious, am I? Is it so obvious? Maybe it is, but human beings are really great at ignoring the obvious. And even the obvious, in its insidious way, has a thousand little permeations that will trip you up if you think about them too much. Stop thinking, let it happen.
Let the wave wash over you, though it may be full of grit and gravel. It’ll roll you tit over heal, smash you down on to the hard sand, suck you back down in to the water. You’ll struggle up out of it, the worse or the better for wear… but in any case you will be alive!
Writing. An unsocial occupation if there ever was one, for me at least. I know there are writers who take their laptop to the local café and write there, watching the goings-on, meeting friends now and again as they sit and drink their coffee, greeting, conversing, laughing, saying goodbye, but that’s not for me. I’d hardly get a single word down that way. I need the silence I can only get alone in a room of my own. Its only then that the single-minded concentration comes, and the ideas start to unfold in words.
The ideas are already there. They’ve budded prematurely, fooled by the long summer, been hit by frost and fallen to the ground, where they’ve fermented during those two wonderful warm October weeks. They’re waiting for me. All that remains is for me to let them unfold in nice little words that most people, I hope, can understand. All those little words are like notes in a song, to be arranged in the best possible way I can conceive of. It’s a real bitch sometimes, but basically I enjoy it so much I can’t stop doing it.
It makes me something of a recluse at times, but then again, perhaps that’s the way I like it. Not always, mind you; I need human contact, God knows. What would my stories be, without the interaction of human beings in them? Sterile things. But I need that sterility in order to focus. I need calm and silence in order to think. I can’t let ideas unfold when I am surrounded by people, because I am then always thinking about what they are thinking. About what they are doing, and why they are doing it, and what they are thinking while doing it.
Well, not always. Sometimes I just don’t give a fuck what they do or think (pretty often; that is to say… almost always, actually). But you get my drift.
You’re staggering down the sidewalk, cuz’ you’ve had a bit more than less. You know, because the bartender asked, shortly before you left, closing the place down with your last order: don’t you think you’ve had enough?
But, oh hell, you think… no. I want more. A little bit more.
So there you walk, so to speak, in the early hours of the morn’, thinking that you want more. But all the bars are closed. Going up a quiet little side-street on the way home, you fall in to the well-trimmed hedges on the side. Laughing out loud, you lie there, in the shelter behind the bushes. Thinking about what people will think when they see your legs sticking out on the sidewalk on the other side, you have to laugh even louder. It’s fucking hilarious.
It’s a lovely night, so you decide to lie there for a while and look at the stars. Everything is fine, the bushes support your waist comfortably, and you feel the cool lawn behind them on the back of your head, like the hand of a lover.
With a sigh of contentment, you settle in. It’s so wonderfully peaceful. You wouldn’t want anything less than that, and you can’t ask for more.
What if… what if I had to take a piss, no matter what. Perhaps time is like a river. You can throw a pebble in, and you’ll cause a ripple, but the main current goes on. So, no matter what I do, I am going to have to go to the toilet. Excuse me, I’ll, uh… I’ll be right back. So, where was I? Ah, piss, that is to say, urine. I don’t want to offend anyone here, harharhaaardiharhar (Jackie Gleason greets you from the grave).
All those little rivulets of urine I’ve pissed over the years have become a mighty river of time. There is no way anyone can stop it, least of all myself. Or could I? Could I simply say, one fine day, I shall never piss again? My bladder would burst, after a while, and I would cease to be. Would that stop time?
Christ, what makes me piss so much? The coffee, the beer, the rum? Sure as hell ain’t water. But I digress, as so often. Time. That was the subject in question. Damned if I can remember where I heard that, but time is what keeps everything from happening at once.
Is that true? What is time… a concept invented to order the incessant procession of sameness we all face from day to day. Time is a matter of perspection, a matter of scale. It’s subjective. I have no time, I have all the time in the world… there is in fact no difference between these two statements. The only thing that remains is inevitability. Things happen, and in the final analysis it doesn’t matter when. They will happen, all those things.
Just right. Nicely browned, slightly darker at the edges. Buttered, that’s me. Been eating those lovely little roasted coffee beans covered in chocolate. Keeps me zipping along. Add to that a half a bottle of wine, a couple cigarettes, and a bowl of weed, and I’m buzzing like a bumble bee, blundering through the grass to find my little hole, where I do whatever it is that bumble bees do in their little holes in the ground. I don’t want to know. I wonder what the bumble bee-equivalent of toast is.