Riding High

No time for blogging. Life is too full. No time to sit and listen to music and muse over life, alone. That’s a good thing. Life is so full right now, so full of good things . . . no time. Listening to This is Ska at full volume. Rude Boy Ska. Taking the time for that, though I don’t have it. Gotta be, cuz I am doing so damned good. Riding the wave, right on high, ambassador of love and money. Desperately beautiful, not because of desperate, but because I can hardly contain it all. Capable, apt, in the fucking groove. You can’t touch me, I am so on high, motherfucker, just try.
Now I am listening to Butthole Surfers, yeah, I can truly say one of my favorite bands of all time. Johnny Smoke. Live version, with double drums. Two complete drum sets playing on that sucker, and that gives a sound that is truly epic, even for my cynical ears, even after all these years. Good to hear that again. Got to settle down, but I can’t get my feet on the ground, riding so high. Waugh! Waauuughhh! An indian brave on his horse has got nothing against me. I’d ride him down with love, a loving grin as I lop off his head on the way to greener horizons yet.
You just can’t possibly get it. There is no way any human being can understand how happy I am. Even Hellstrøm the incapable fool is nonplussed.
If I were to think about it, I would worry about the world. I would ask myself how things will turn out in Iran, whether Trump and Kim will destroy the world. But I have other concerns. Oh, Oh, it’s that feeling, sets me a’reelin’. I’m in another dimension. Carefree, well, sorta. Cut.
When The Trickster Starts A-Poking (Bordello Kind Of Guy) from Gogol Bordello. Be a bad priest. But I am a good priest, everyone believes in me, and I want to make those beliefs true. I am the guru who will give you all you want. Let me fool you, trickster that I am, I know you want to. And, because I am truly on the wave, the legendary seventh, it will work.
Drinking rum, hola. Smoking a cigarette, enjoying it all like hell. Getting accolades just for doing things the way they should be done. That is the best part! Just doing it the way I always did, the best way I could think of, and for that, suddenly, getting praise and obeisance. It’s a wet-dream.
Now Crossed Cheques from Kalahari Surfers. Make of that what you will.
Now I’ll tell you what is really happening (more the fool you are if you believe what I tell you now. But I am sure you will, because I am riding the wave, motherfucker). I’s the boss now, I’s the Man, the Dude with the Whip. Oh yeah baby, brrrrr, yeehah! You wouldn’t believe how many people love the whip. Lucky for them I’m riding the wave, no need to crack the whip. I love them all, I know them all, and as yet there is no need for the whip.
Hahahaaaa. You poor fuckers. You are now the subjects of a complete fool. He rides the wave, perhaps, but he is also only human. He will treat you as best he can, but God only knows how good that will be, eh? But, of course, you will make the best of it. You will encourage him in his foolishness, you will suck up to him, in the belief that it will be to your advantage. You can’t possibly know what a crazy fuck he is.

It’s unbelievable. People you have worked with for many years suddenly believe you are a god. (Listening to Dancing in you Head from The Mekons). It’s voodoo. People you liked suddenly ascribe special powers to you. You are now a god, whether you like it or not. You are the solution to all problems. People stop thinking, all of a sudden. If nothing occurs to them within five seconds, they ask you.
To hell with them. They will learn soon enough that I am a fool. But, nevertheless, they sense that I am on the wave, riding high. They will obey. They could ride on the wave, but they don’t want to. They think it’s too high for them, the damned idiots. It makes me angry. I’m no damned god, but they demand that I be one. No matter how foolish I am, no matter what I do, they will henceforth put me on a damned pedestal. Up there, alone.
Now I am listening to to Nick Cave, Jubilee Street. A beautiful song. Now Higgs Boson Blues. Yeah, I’ll teach it to you.
So now I’m a captain, alone on a ship of fools, though no single one is more foolish than myself. Ah, to hell with it all, it’s just the usual monkey-business, and it doesn’t matter a wit what we do or not. But I am riding the wave, I hear the bells ringing, jingle-jangle, and I can’t help trying to make the best of it all. If we go down, I’ll go down singing, don’t give a damn what anyone else does, that’s for sure. And, whether the ship sinks or not, I’ll be the last damned man off.
So, now you see how it is. If you are an employee you might start to see how your boss sees him- or herself: completely overwhelmed. You might see how they are clutching straws, being complete assholes, because they are drowning in a see of godhood. Not all are destined for that.
Someone like me, who is riding the Big Kahuna, can master all that shit. I am not omnipotent, and if an unanswerable question comes my way, I’ve got the guts to say: what the fuck, I don’t know! “Behold!” they say, “Such humility! Even the Master does not know!” So, even when I haven’t the slightest idea what is going on, my non-answer will be interpreted as wisdom. Crazy fucking world.
Listening to Anapse To Tsigaro from 3 Mustaphas 3, one of the greatest bands of all time.
That reminds me that I have the most beautiful woman of all time at my side. She’s waiting for me.

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Nuts

Peanuts, Walnuts. Almonds. They taste wonderful with wine. But, okay, what I really wanted was to ruminate on the meaning of the word nuts, and why it has several meanings. I’m going nuts, for example. Or: nuts to you. What in hell does that mean?
Google yields: Confucius say, man who sticks penis in peanut butter jar is fucking nuts. Har har, very ‘fucking’ amusing. Well.
‘Nuts to you’ = fuck off, I suppose, the association being between men’s ‘nuts’ (balls, or testicles, if you want the scientific word for it) and fucking. I associate that with the German du kannst mich mal, which means, more or less, ‘you can do me.’ That is not, however, meant in a positive sense, but rather like saying ‘fuck you’ in English. Fuck me, fuck you, fuck it all . . . egads, slowly but surely I am losing any sense of the big picture here. There is no literal equivalent to ‘nuts to you’ in German, since the Germans call testicles Eier (eggs) in everyday language. There we get phrases like die Eier schaukeln lassen (to let the eggs swing), which means to take it easy or be lazy, or du gehst mir auf die Eier (you’re getting on my eggs), which means you’re a pain in the ass. Languages are hell.
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I’m going nuts. You drive me nuts. You’re off your nut. How in hell do such phrases come in to being? Well, actually, it’s simple, I suppose. Your ‘nut’ is your head, a shell with a kernel: your brain, if you happen to have one. And, if it doesn’t function normally, like mine, people say you’re off your nut.
On the other hand we have the phrase, ‘it was all nuts to me.’ This does not mean that everything seemed crazy, but rather that everything was good, as in perfect, just the thing, yummy . . . like a bowl of nuts. And why, for Christ’s sake, are the nuts in ‘nuts and bolts’ called nuts?
By the by, listening to Raspizdyay, from Leningrad. That has nothing to do with nuts. At least I believe so… for all I know Raspizdyay is Russian for balls, eggs, nuts, what have you.

She Shook Her Hips

She’s lying quiet, fallen asleep. The most beautiful woman in the world . . . I get to watching her, sleeping. I watch her closely, the way a lover does. Objectively, looking at every detail. Subjectively: Roundnesses. Not the jutting hip-bones of a young girl. The beautiful full hips and breasts of a woman who has suckled a child in her day. You (reader) have no idea of how beautiful that is (well, maybe you do). Rounded forms.
She lay there, on my couch, and she shook her hips, before she fell asleep, like a belly-dancer. For me. With a little suggestive sigh. She’s wearing a beautiful off-white dress, and I’m crazy for her. She is the most wonderful thing in the world. She sleeps, snoring. I treasure that snore even as I walk in to the other room, to write it down.
My God. She shook her hips for me, for a short time, though she was utterly exhausted. I know she’d do anything for me. She looked at me, smiling, a glance that said everything, and shook her hips.
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The Most Beautiful Woman

There is no way to describe her. I’ve met her, now and again. I want her.
Inner worth. It has little to do with beauty in the general sense. I won’t say it has nothing to do with it, because that would be foolish. We all know the inherent attraction we find for certain people because of the way they look, but that is not what I am talking about. Yeah, she may have style, she may have looks, but that ain’t enough. She may even have an operative brain. That helps. A lot.
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Maybe that’s the most important thing: an operative brain. A nice ass helps, though. Ahh… what shall I say? Both, please?
There are so many attractive women on this world, but there is something, something which makes some women not only attractive but beautiful. What is that? What makes a woman beautiful, and not just attractive? It’s love, straight and simple. Without love all women are the same. Why do I fall in love with certain women, and others not? I honestly can’t say.
You’d think I could, wouldn’t you, after all the years? But I still can’t. They still surprise me, these women, with their craziness and beauty. Often the craziness is part of the beauty. I sit next to it. I think: Jesus! She is so…! So! There is nothing that can replace those moments. Those are, for me, the moments where I’d give up everything. All she has to do is ask. Anything, I’d do it.
I know: I am a fool. At that moment, I am an utter fool. But what would life be without that foolishness? A worthless piece of shit. If I am not capable of loving her so much that I would do anything for her… then what is my life worth? If you can’t do it for love, for what then? For money, for fame, for power? Don’t make me laugh. For an ideal? But that is my ideal: love.
Of course, she has to smell good too.

What the Psychologist Really Thought About

Goddamn, he’s at it again. Ranting on about something or other… every time he gets started I can tune out for at least ten minutes. Though sometimes it’s pretty funny, actually. He has a dark sense of humor that appeals to me on occasion. What’s he on about now? Honest what? Hypocrites? Ahh, Jesus… what was Margaret planning for dinner tonight? Oh, yes, those little pork-medallions on toast with gorgonzola and spring onions and chilies and… yum, that’s something to think about. I must make sure I get the right kind of gorgonzola on the way home. Dear me, how did he get off on that tangent? The sound of silence? Well, I can chalk up another ten minutes of wasted time. I am well paid for that wasted time. Damned if I care, don’t feel the least bit shabby for it, it’s hardly enough for enduring his incessant bitching. Oh, Salad! I dare not forget the salad. What would be a good salad with those pork-medallions? Radicchio? Oh my God, wine… better make a list. Margaret would kill me if I forgot her wine. Oh, he’s asking something…
„Watcha writing down, crazy as a loon?“
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No, no, Mr. Hellstrøm, harmless notes, I assure you. Well, that seems to have satisfied him. He’s a bit awry, I don’t doubt I could convince him that my shopping notes were some sort of shorthand code for notes on his mental health, wouldn’t that be amusing? What would the psychological equivalent of radicchio be? Hehe. It would be a complete violation of the trust implicit in our relationship as patient and psychologist, of course. Ah, well, another time perhaps. The hour is nearing its end, thank God. Amazing how the time flies, when you think of food. What did he just say? A letter to his editor? What? Now he’s going on about lemmings…
Pardon me for interrupting, Mr. Hellstrøm, but you lost me there for just a moment, between editors and lemmings, and unfortunately todays session is also at an end. Perhaps we can delve in to the subject again next week?

Rock ’n’ Roll

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.
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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.

Giving People What They Want

Did you ever, just for the hell of it, give people what they want? Did you, just to see what happens, say, yes! let’s do that! Yes, fuck me, though it’s crazy! for example? Go ahead, strip and jump in to the river in the middle of the night, why not? Yes, touch that wire in order to find out if the voltage is high enough to kill you, haha! Here, have another drink! Are you giving, or are you daring them to take what they want?
Who takes a dare sucks eggs, we used to say. Well, I suck eggs every damned Easter, so…?
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