Don’t quite know how to regive the little trilling, whistling noise I am thinking of. Phonetically, that is. If you were sitting in front of me, you would hear it. It is a noise that expresses the will to dominate, it says: I am going to win. But it is also a noise that seeks an echo, like a damned bat looking for it’s prey. It says: I’m on a roll, show me where you are, you little bastards, so I can bear down on you, and finish you off. I am a fruit bat, at the moment, though. I am enjoying an apricot, with a drop or two of wine to go with it. But even a fruit bat won’t say no to meat, if it should present itself.
Listening to The Floppy Boot Stomp, from Captain Beefheart.


Be Thankful

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.

I’m Not Fucking Around

Burn it down, rip it out, demolition, self-destruction, and so on. Something to be said for that. There are times when one would very much like to do so. Insanity, so inviting, with it’s absolute negation of responsibility. Combine it with violence, and there’s pretty much no answer anyone has, aside from sedation.
From the other side: what answer do you have to simple insane violence?
Or, to follow the suggestion presented by my lousy typing, what answer do you have to wimple inane violence? I know all too well what inane is, but what is, in fact, a wimple? Look, let me wimplify the whole thing for you. I’ll just stop writing now, so don’t even start thinking of the wimplications of it all. Wimplety?
It would appear I am fucking around after all.


There are those times when something rears up inside one and sort of screams and gibbers at the world. Something that protests at the craziness and futility of it all. It’s the insane little mouse in you giving the swooping eagle of life the finger right before the end. And who knows… maybe he’ll get away with it. This time.