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.
Sometimes I have the feeling I am about to burst. Then the tears leek out, like steam that’s been compressed, under extreme pressure, liquified not through cold but through gravity. The inner gravity of the black hole in my soul. It consumes my emotions, sucks them in for fear of letting them out. As if something that strong would destroy my surroundings if it got loose.
There are too many emotions in there. It’s developing it’s own dynamic.
People, dogs, children… drunkards, fools, friends, acquaintances, assholes and dangerous maniacs. It doesn’t matter who they are, I don’t want to hurt them with the blunt objects which are my feelings.
So just leak out a couple tears, that won’t hurt anybody. But what about me? I don’t think I can take it any more. The pressure is building, even the black hole can only hold so much… the situation is desperate. The black hole may explode, and what is then unleashed will be far worse than anything the black hole was constructed to prevent.
It’s all so dramatic. Haha.
Like, in the sense of, doing too much, like hey, no don’t… no! Too late. You already have.
Excess leads to wisdom. The problem is, when you’ve excessed enough to get that far, you can’t spell wsdion anymore. You’ve gone overboard. You no longer know or care what wisdom is. Perhaps that is the quintessence of wisdom? No, it can’t be. At the very most, you know the morning after what wisdom is: don’t drink more than you can hold.
The funny thing is, excess has other advantages as well! It allows you, for instance, to forget all those wonderful women you have been acquainted with… at least for a while.
Now, I don’t want you to think I am a misogynist. I really like women; sometimes I love them. Some of my best friends are women. Heh. But they do seem to have a penchant for hurting me, and they always manage to make me feel like it’s my fault in the end, even though my reasoning part tells me that this is not the case. Perhaps I just haven’t found the right one. Perhaps my reasoning part is just a complete idiot and doesn’t understand a fucking thing.
Listening to Babubudu, from Leningrad.
from Shane MacGowan and the Popes. Christ, this song, well, at least the title, applies to every woman I’ve ever had intimate contact with until now. I love them, and it doesn’t work. In one case it took 20 years and two children to find out that it didn’t work, and it takes quite a bit of liquor to weigh that up, not to mention mental and emotional energy (agony?).
But oh well. That’s life, and you’ve got to deal with it. No one said it would be easy, as my very first woman was wont to say. And if I use drink to get me over one or another emotional hump, who can blame me, except myself?
I am reminded of Robert Heinlein, who is quoted as saying: „I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do.“ Now that is a really wonderful sentiment. It combines freedom, morality and responsibility in one simple sentence. Morally free to get completely, responsibly drunk. Har har.
Have you ever noticed how quickly one can jump from crazy women to moral responsibility?
Let’s jump back. Now I am listening to Sick of Love from Bob Dylan. Yeah, I hear the clock tick… I’m in the thick of it… and I’m lovesick. I miss my girlfriend, although we never could get along for more than a couple days… but when we did get along it was so wonderful. She was the most cheerful woman I ever knew, when she didn’t happen to be insisting on being a complete bitch. Almost a whole year we went on like that. And now I’m sick of love, and I’m trying to forget her, though I’d give anything to be with her just now.
Music. I listen to it a whole damn lot. It takes me places I can’t get to alone. It transports me. It makes me laugh and cry, it makes me curse humanity and revel in love. It puts me in a state of absolute tension, it relaxes me to the point of sleep. It tells me tales I’ll never understand rationally, but I know I understand. It massages my soul, and it stirs my intellect. It’s so raw it hurts, and it goes down smooth, like the best malt whiskey. I don’t know of anything on this world that balls so many irreconcilable opposites together, often enough in a single song that just plain hits my nerve.
to Give Succor to My Ailing Existence from Frank London’s Klezmer Brass Allstars. My song of the day. The day went well, the evening was swell. But then a woman dashed it all to pieces with just a few words. Damn you women. I love you, but you’ll kill me yet. Or, more likely, you’ll just reduce me to a weeping lump in the corner.
To conclude: Princess of the Streets from The Stranglers.