Being in love is hell. You thought you were suffering when you had nobody to love… just wait ’til there’s someone who you care about. Sure, you’re happy, because someone loves you, someone you love, but… you wonder. It is the fate of mankind to think. It’s our curse: a big bloody brain.
Thinking means wondering. Wondering whether she loves you as much as you love her. Wondering how you are going to make it all work. Wondering. Thinking about fucking logistics. Like: she lives in another damned town, 150 bloody fucking miles away. Driving there, you wonder about the cost of the damned gasoline. You become a mathematician… how often can I afford to see her? And then: am I crazy? How can I think of money, when I need to see her, every possible minute?
Holy shit. It’s enough to make you drink. But you can’t really enjoy drinking anymore, because you have someone who cares for you, meaning you should take care of yourself, meaning… you should eat healthy stuff, exercise, and not spend so much money on rum. No rum. After all, you don’t, oh Christ, want to disappoint her. On the other hand, she seems to know you better than you know yourself…
Oh, dear. Oh, oh, dear.
It’s the kind of thing that makes you want to dance in your socks. You need that sliding movement. You need to skid along the floor, like a damned ice skater. That’s the only thing that suits the feeling, the feeling… whooh! Crazy! Everything is possible. You’re a hawk, swooping down at three hundred miles an hour. You’re going to kill, you’re going to conquer. Nothin’ gonna stop you. Except maybe the rum, and 150 miles.
It’ll burn you. Burn the flesh clean off your bones. Bake you so hot you can’t think. Burn you until you start to feel the heat at last. You thought you were hard boiled… hah! You don’t know a thing! There’s nothing that love couldn’t weigh up. Irony? Cynicism? Rage? Murder…? All nothing against the dragon of love. You’ll burn.
You thought love was a sappy thing, a sweet sigh of surrender in the darkness? Meet the dragon. Love is a warrior, an assassin, a knife in the back. The sweetest pain there ever was. Love is the biggest fucking bomb in the universe. A raging berserker. It’ll kill you. All it needs is a glance, and it’ll kill you. You haven’t the slightest chance even if the dragon of love is just a little green iguana like the one in the image above.
How do you define rock ’n’ roll? I define it as sex. Indeed, it was originally a slang word for the sexual act. The sexual act? Which one? There are so many possibilities…
Which begs the question: is sex about procreation, or about eroticism? You may argue that the one has nothing to do with the other, but I challenge you to substantiate your arguments to a most surprising degree, for you will find it very difficult to convince me that the two are not inseparably entwined in the human psyche. Even though I do not wish to produce further children (for heaven’s sake, I already have enough of the little rascals), I still want to make love.
I? I want to…? Or is it my body that wants to rock ’n’ roll? Gotta be careful there, because there are animal desires which control you, you little porcupine. Basic human needs that are genetically encoded so deep in our psyches that we can’t grasp them intellectually. The need to procreate. Never forget that humans are animals… spiny, squishy, crazy little animals. Perhaps part of our craziness lies in the need for more than simple procreation. In fact, I don’t even think we are alone in this, in the animal world. Plenty of animals show a need for more than the simple sexual act. So perhaps we are at least not the only crazy animals. Perhaps all animals are crazy. Perhaps life itself is just an insane anomaly.
Yeah, but now rock ’n’ roll is just a kind of music, which is pretty damned funny when you think of the original meaning.
Listening to Na Hui from Leningrad.
Feelin’ good, goin’ to a party in a minute, see some friends, drink some wine, talk some shit. Oh yeah. Swim in the drink we call life. It’s good stuff, what we swim in. We can be happy not to be looking for the next little crawling grub to eat, to keep us alive. Happy not to be living in the fucking jungle. Be thankful for civilization, aye.
Listening to Dancing in the Head, from The Mekons.
Be thankful that I am not a warrior. Be thankful that I believe in humanitarian ideals. Be thankful that I am, at heart, a peaceable being, in spite of the fire that burns within me. Be thankful that I have not murdered every single fucking person that has done me harm. Be thankful for my reason. Be thankful that the knife in my hand is only good for cutting cheese. Be thankful. This is civilization. Tame the beast within. Had I been raised different, I’d cut you. Cut, cut, cut you.
If you are a persevering reader you may have noticed that I rink. Uhh… drink. You might even think, he drink a might too much: butch: the fact is, I don’t drink nearly enough.
I do not drink enough to destroy my life. I do not drink enough to erase the memory of deeds done. I do not drink enough to quench my thirst, I do not drink enough to make me spell bad even when I have an injured finger. Any bad spelling you may find has been spelled bad in the heat of the moment of typing and not corrected because it is supposed to be that way. Do you think I drink so much that I do not correct my own work? I do not drink enough to make me stop thinking… alright, I admit it, I can, when necessary, when put up to it, when there is no choice, drink enough to make me stop thinking. Exceptions to the rule, and so on. I do not drink enough to make me stop drinking.
The point is… aha. You’ve got me there. Apparently I have drunk enough after all. So, and now, at last, I come to the question: is that a problem? Must there be a point? Must I know what the hell I am doing? Must I know what I am talking about? Must I even know what I am thinking? Do we have a problem here?
I got no problem. You, reader…! You gotta problem? You tryin’ to fuck aroun’ with me here? You… you wanna see the scars on my knuckles up close, motherfucker?!
I thought not. So c’mon, Let’s go to the corner bar in your brain and have some schnapps. Buy me a drink or two and we’ll talk about the old times we’ve never had, or about God, and the world… or whatever. Because, for those of you who haven’t noticed in spite of the clues I’ve given, it is time I let the cat out of the sack: I am fictional. I am a figment of some crazy author’s overheated imagination. So the only place I get to drink is in people’s thoughts: Mr. Hellstrøm, the virtual barfly.
Perhaps you have an unused room somewhere in that big old brain of yours, with nothing in it except a desk, a chair, a bottle of rum, and an old-fashioned typewriter. Maybe there is a picture on the wall, with dust clinging to the frame, but that is irrelevant. If you would be so kind as to lead me there, once we’ve finished our drinks (just one more, a double, if you please), I could write something for you. Don’t mind the noise of the typewriter, you’ll get used to it. Chapter two.