Reminiscence

Two strawberries lie on a wood cutting board, one has been bitten in to. The man who has just bitten in to the strawberry wipes at the drops of juice that have fallen on the piece of paper he is writing on. He drinks a bit of wine, thinking that the wine has real character. He stops and wonders if he should think about his life, but decides it isn’t necessary. Another drop of wine. The strawberries are quite delicious. He lights a pipe of hashish, inhaling deeply and holding the smoke in his lungs. Recently he’s been told he may have cancer, but he doesn’t really believe it. Even if he really had it, it wouldn’t  phase him. Cancer is mostly curable, so he thinks. His chances are good. And he always has been lucky with important things. He eats the rest of the strawberry, there’s just one left.
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Wine. Smoke. The fact is, he doesn’t have cancer, but he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t care, even if it turns out he will have to die… because he has children. Beautiful children that make everything whole. He knows, without thinking of it, that he can leave them and they will survive. Even if he dies he has given them power for life, strength to keep on. He is sure of it. He bites in to the last strawberry; it’s amazingly tasty for this time of year. He decides to save half for later and takes a smoke. It’s not like I want to die, he reflects. Fuck no, I want to live, and enjoy it as long as I can. Might be five weeks, might be 50 years. He grabs the bottle and pours another glass. He doesn’t know what to write anymore, so he goes and takes a piss. The children are snug in bed. He flushes the toilet by mistake, but no one wakes up. He goes and drinks some more wine, and smokes some more hashish. Half a strawberry is looking up at him from the cutting board. First more wine. Should he get some bread and cheese? No, somehow, the remaining half a strawberry will have to do. Wonderful. He eats it and takes a mouthful of wine afterwards, letting the taste mingle in his mouth. Heady.

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Half on the Horse

Foot in the stirrup. You’re almost mounted. What do you actually want to do? Those are the moments where you start off half-cocked. You’re almost in the fucking saddle, but… what in hell are you doing? You know you want to go, but… where to?
Beware. Just like a smart horse, life notices when you are not fully in control, and that’s the moment when it will buck and twist under you like a damned corkscrew. It’ll throw you off like nobody’s business, and most likely you’ll mash your balls on the saddle-horn on the way down. God damn that hurts.
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There you lay. The horse is calm now. Maybe it even licks your face. I didn’t mean it like that, it seems to be saying, you can get on me now, if you still want to. Sheesh, watcha doin’ down there anyways? I was just caperin’ a little, didn’t mean to catch you off guard an’ all, hehe.

Dreams of Life

Drinking in the taverns
Talking with the slatterns
Asking what they’d dreamt of being

I wanted to be a dancer, one said
But not in bed
She laughed

I wanted to be an author, said the next
Buried deep in text
Telling the stories that need it… gimme another one, will you Joe?

The third left with a john
A sweaty little Don
Before I could ask

the fourth cried… I wanted to be a housewife
That’s the life
One man, no cares

One said, with an uncertain smile, how the hell am I supposed to know
That’s all so long ago
Le’me be

twenty for a ‘job, fifty for a bang, and if you want my backside it’ll cost you a hunerd
Said the sixth, and I wondered
If she’d even heard what I’d asked

I wanted to be a whore, said the last
No future, no past
And here I am, living my dream

Aiaiaiaiii

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.
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Your Life, Do You Like it Well?

You like the money? You like the holidays? But when they kick down your front door… well, you probably live in a country where they don’t do that sort of thing, don’t you? Like me. Not your front door. Freedom is something you take for granted. You don’t realize it is a privilege that someone once fought for. A privilege that may have to be fought for again at any time, a privilege that can be taken away, just like that. Lay your life on the line, baby. Better yet, make sure it don’t go that far.
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Have Some Fun

It’s later than you think. Soon you will die, oh so soon. It’s just a matter of years. Those little short years, you’ve surely noticed how fast they go? So have some fun, live it full, tell your love that you are hers, or his, as the case may be. Fill your cup to the brim, because it may be your last.
We all have to go some time. A man I know is about to go. He ain’t all that old, but hell, cancer sits in ’im, and he has to go. He’s not the first I’ve seen go. Good people… they go just as fast as the bad, if not faster. Will I be there, at the burial? No, but I’ll honor him in any case, in my way.
So, you get older, and you notice how people die. People you know. Whether it’s the people you look up to, the mentors, or people you got to know in passing… they all go. A few of them are left, and at some point you start to wonder when you are next, when you are the one they knew who went down.
That’s life. That’s normal. Life is death is life is death… and we are all made of stardust. There is no life that wasn’t made of death. The atoms of which you are made are recycled. Nature doesn’t waste a single fucking one of them. You are a mouse, a stone, a star, a bloody fucking porcupine. A part of you is a bird, that flew so far and wide. A part of you is lava, that was thrown so high… perhaps, at one point, you traveled, as a little stone, from deep in the earth, over thousands of years, to the surface of this beautiful planet. Or you were the stratosphere. You were air. Does it matter?
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So there is nothing to complain about. You will die, as you have died before, a thousand times, in one form or another, whether you were inanimate or not. This is not religion, you little fuck, this is nature. The atoms you are made of are (nearly) indestructible. And, even if I could destroy the atoms you are made of, the atoms are made of something else, smaller yet, which can not be destroyed.
So you are a beautiful creation, indestructible. You had to be. But you are a part of the whole. You are indestructible only in the absolute, natural sense. Nature will reorganize you, will use you, will disperse you according to „her“ stochastical „needs“.
Why is nature female? Because she is the source of life. There are animals which do not rely on females to produce offspring, but human beings do. So for us, feeling, living, squirming little animals that we are, life and the creation of life is inevitably a female thing.
As a man, I am in awe of women. Not all of them, I’ll admit. There are some I could dispense with entirely. But then, I can say the same of men. But I digress, as so often. What I wanted to say is: I worship women because they can brew life. They bake babies, and that is insanely wonderful and definitely worth envying. It is amazing. It throws me for a loop, dammit, it shoves me off the stool on to the floor… I sit there on my ass and am amazed. Amazed. It’s insane, this ability, it’s like: KAZAM! Crazy. Impossible. Something out of a nutty science-fiction novel. And women can do it, just like that, like nothing. They don’t even have to try. I know that they couldn’t do it without men to inseminate them, but nevertheless… I’ve seen a woman give birth; I saw my son come out, so I know what the hell I am talking about. The simple fact that women can produce babies sets them on a higher level in my eyes. It makes them worthy of worship.
Too bad I have no female to worship at the moment.