Tenderness

It’s not sex, it’s not your good looks, it’s tenderness that wins a man’s heart, and honesty. You may have looks and style. You may sigh or scream just the way he likes to hear when you come, or something along those lines. That certainly doesn’t hurt, but, by God, it’s tender loving care he wants, just like you. And in keeping with that spirit: loyalty, faithfulness, no matter what goes down. No matter what.
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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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Inner Calm

The girlfriends always say: you’re so calm, you’re my rock in the swirling stormy water.
Christ almighty . . . if only I could sleep. Where’s the inner calm when I need it, when I’m alone? Sometimes I wonder if that calm they speak of is only a façade, but the fact is, it isn’t. I’ve wondered about it often enough to know. I do feel calm when I am with a woman I love. They make me calm, like balsam on a wound.
What wound is that, that needs staunching so bad? Why is it so raw when I am alone? So raw, it makes me want to rip it open, get at the inner pain, rip it out, dammit! Where in hell’d it come from?
But when I am with a woman I love, I am at peace. I feel no need, no need for anything except her presence. That’s enough, I am satisfied. It doesn’t matter if I am lying half asleep with my head on her lap, or massaging her back – doing my best to make her feel good –, or discussing a piece of art we saw that day . . . I am at peace with the world. That is all I need.
I love art, but I almost never go to galleries or expositions without a girlfriend. I love nature, fresh air, but I hardly go out without a girlfriend. I love good food, but I never go to a restaurant without a girlfriend. I love life, but without a woman who I love and who loves me, it seems worthless. All that love inside me . . . worthless. No amount of inner calm can help me over that hump.
If only I could sleep.
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Dance

Holy fuck, I’s a learnin’ to dance, just when I thought I’m an old dog, no new tricks. Never say never, I always said, and now it’s come to dog me down.
All the music I love becomes a new dimension. I mean, I’s a thinkin’, each time I hear those songs I love, what beat is that, how could I dance to that with my partner? Y’know, partner-dance; anybody can dance alone.
Christ, crazy fucking world. The things I do for love . . . and it doesn’t even hurt, haha. Well, in fact, it does. It’s not the dancing that hurts, but rather the music you have to listen to while learning. You can’t learn it alone, not really, even with a partner, so you go to a dance school. You’ll never guess what kinda music they play there . . . well perhaps you can. Not exactly alternative music, if you get my drift. Just thank your stars you’ve never had to dance to German Schlager. I don’t think my partner realizes what sacrifices I make, just for love. It’s like a monk breaking his oath of silence, if not worse. Christ, sometimes I think murdering little children would be less taxing.
Nevertheless, I love it. There’s nothing like dancing with a woman you love. You notice there are dances which suit you, or her, and then there are dances that suit you both. You move together, synchronized, like fucking clockwork, but easy . . . it just fits. It’s no effort anymore, once you’re on a certain level; your feet move of their own accord, and you sway like a fucking reed in the wind, enjoying every beautiful moment of being in phase with another human being, a person you love. It’s like good sex, no joke.
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And the greatest part, when you have a willful woman like I do, is that the man leads. Muahahaa. The man leads, no matter what. Uhm, I still have problems with that, since my partner can already dance, and I am completely unsure of myself and fuck it up all the time. The fact is, I’m not a good lead, though I’ve gotten better. But, oh well, she has to live with that, and it’s some compensation for having to dance to German Schlager. We then step on each other’s toes, and break apart and stop, and grin at each other, because we know exactly what is happening there. Her smiling eyes say, if I am to follow, you’ve got to lead, you son-of-a-bitch, I demand it of you. Show me what you can do. What can I do, but rise to the challenge as best I can? And I enjoy it, leading in spite of myself, in spite of the little voice in me that says she could lead. Gotta admit it turns me on. As I said, like sex. Put that little bitch in her place. Dangerous thought, that, but it’s a thought that only occurs to me when I know she wants it. Sensitive little romantic bastard that I am, I do know, when it gets down to the nitty gritty. Then it’s time to dance.

Don’t You Get Your Hopes Up High

Dash ‘em down, those hopes, for fear they will be disappointed. Keep your head down, baby, flak will fly. Don’t dare rely on anyone else, even if they have tried never to disappoint you, because, no matter how often they may have proven they love you, they just might throw you in the ditch after all. When it comes down to it, they won’t be by your side, will they? You are alone. Never ever trust.
Why can’t I do this? Because I can’t. I believe it is better to be fucked over by the ones you love than to distrust them. Without that trust, life is meaningless.
Of course, this makes me victim to every single human being who doesn’t adhere to the same ideal. All those damaged women I’ve met, who would actually like to believe that I love them… can’t. They’ve met too many men on the way, men who have used them, or men who simply didn’t give a fuck one way or the other.
You simply can’t imagine the energy I’ve expended in the effort to make a woman believe that I love her. All the crazy things I’ve done, just to prove it… just a waste of time. I can prove it again and again… it’s no use. They will never ever believe it. Damaged.
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And the more damaged people I have to do with, the more damaged I become. I try to love and protect them, I try to convince them, desperately, that it doesn’t have to be that way… and I fail. I begin to wonder if they are not right.
I hate righteous people, but nevertheless I feel a sort of righteous indignation when I am confronted with this lack of trust. It hurts me deep inside to think that someone I love might not trust me. I give them my trust, I lay it on the altar like a sacrificial animal, and say, take it. They take it, but it it is not reciprocated. I put more animals on the altar, and say, see: do you now believe? No. Like jealous little gods, they want bigger animals yet. More. Insatiable, never satisfied.
Well, alright, I’m willing to lay something on the altar, now and again. Keep the flame glowing, that’s only right, for Christ’s sake. But the basic trust must be there. That would be a matter of renewing the trust, not of establishing it. For me, it’s established in the moment I say: I love you. I don’t say those words lightly.
Agh. Fucking blog, I hate you. You seduce me in to saying what should be left unsaid, what should be understood without saying. But it isn’t understood. People don’t understand. I have to say it aloud. Again and again and again.
Listening to Doina-Sirba-Hora, from Das Blaue Einhorn.

Can’t Wipe the…

sardonic smile from my face. What a bastard I am. A superior little fuck. Wipe that smile from my face, please.
That is why I love… love. It is the only thing which can wipe that asshole smile from my face. It is the only thing which can move me to be human. Warmhearted. It is the only thing which can make me believe in something more, something beyond the everyday human foolishness which I encounter.
It’d be nice when I encountered this foolishness only in others, but that ain’t the case. The same foolishness is in me. I try to keep it in check, without much success. Again and again I say to myself: don’t be a fool! If there is any pitfall in life you can avoid, then this one! You’re a smart fellow, you can do it!
Yeah, sure.
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Levels

Get rid of the fucking levels, please. Often enough I’ve written about levels and how interesting they are, but when it gets down to the nitty gritty, I make things flat. Reduce it all to one level. At the moment I mean this in the technical sense. You know, technical shit, computers and all.
I get data from all over the world, and I feed it to machines that are supposed to make sense of it. And when they get data that is on many levels, they choke on it, more often than not.
I don’t blame them. If someone were to feed me data that included so many levels, I might choke on it, and no one would think the worse of me, though my brain is far more complex than any software yet invented, so complex that it can even master something we call intuition. So why do people expect that to work with a printing machine, a machine that reduces data to a two-dimensional graphic that someone can look at and understand? These are machines that, in the end, bring ink to paper. It doesn’t matter that the ink is actually not ink at all, but rather artificial resin, or wax, or solvent-based tints. It’s a physical process, dammit. It’s hardware. It’s simple. And though it is guided by software, it’s no wonder that it chokes on levels.
All these levels are only present in our minds, and they have no place in the physical, the real world. At least not in the real printing world. So, no matter what you want to have printed, please, just… just please… get rid of the fucking levels before you send it to the printer.
So much for the technical side, now to the philosophical. Gimme the levels, baby. The more the better. Maybe you’ll force my mind on its knees with them, but I’ll have fun trying to figure them out (well, mostly). Life is not as simple as bringing ink to paper, thank stochastic and the crazed human brain. So, gimme the levels! Make me think, please!
I may not like the truth you speak, but I will think about it. Even if it is a lie, I will think about it. I will take it in my mental hands and turn it hither and thither and look at all the levels and wonder. I’ll pick those levels apart and try to understand them. Why did you make those levels? What do they mean to you, to me? Who are you, that you were impelled to build those levels as you did?
It never ceases to fascinate me: the human penchant to take things apart, to categorize them in to many different little levels. But the most fascinating thing of all is that the actual goal of all this minute analysis is to make an understandable whole. In the end, we want to bring things down to one single level after all. We want to understand everything. We want a formula, a simple statement, that will describe everything. The answer.
That is insane. It’s impossible. Crazy apes! Crazy, stupid apes!
Is that all there is? There’s something in me striving, driving for more. There has to be an answer, it says. I doubt I’ll find it, but someone will, if the human race should be lucky, and survive long enough. Yeah, well, the other side of my coin says, each answer poises new questions. It’s like trying to find the smallest particle… there is alway something smaller yet. And the answer gets smaller and smaller… until there is nothing left but nothing.
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I am anything but alone in this, and I know many people find the answer in God. It’s a simple, flat answer. Belief allows them to live their lives in peace, because they don’t have to think about it anymore. It’s as if they’d been printed on a piece of paper, and that’s it, black on white. Well, maybe there are colors, too, but in any case it’s a done deal. Tempting, isn’t it? Someone printed me, with intent, I am a product, made with something in mind, with purpose. Though I may not understand the purpose, just as ink on paper has no knowledge of what it says, I have a purpose.
Well, I am literally laughing out loud, rolling on the fucking floor at that statement… purpose? You’re kidding me, right? You… *gasp* you can’t mean it seriously? Hahahaaaa…..! Oh shit, I’m gonna die, can’t get no air…! *Gag*
Alright, I survived. I didn’t die from that gut-laugh. My body prevented me from dying for lack of air. It’s part of the paper I’m printed on: my physical body will not allow me to give up. Not for comedy, not for philosophy, not for anything. No matter how hard I laugh or cry over it all, I have to go on. The man in me won’t let me give up.
That man in there, what does he want? I don’t dare forget him, because he is the one who drives me, in the end. He may think about all these things I describe, but basically he has another agenda. He wants to see his children grow, he wants to live and love… the basic things of life. He is an ape, and he knows it. He has no problem with that knowledge. He couldn’t care less about the world at large. He’ll kill to defend his own, and he’ll drink a drop on the way to make the killing easier. He doesn’t give a damn about purpose, provided it’s not his own purpose. He’s been indoctrinated with certain ideals, but he’ll bend them to suit his needs and desires. Slightly. He can’t, after all, jump out of his own skin. Even if he could, he wouldn’t want to. Fortunately he has not been brought up to believe in God, for otherwise he would most likely do so.
He has been brought up in doubt. He doesn’t know, therefor he inquires. Sometimes it makes him unhappy, nevertheless he reminds himself that, as Voltaire put it, doubt is not a pleasant state of mind, but certainty is absurd. On the other hand, it is his sense of absurdity, when he thinks about it, that keeps him from going insane. That, and his belief in love. Belief.
Oh, shit, belief? I might just as well believe in God, or? But for me, God is just a concept. I can’t feel God. I can feel love. You can tell me a thousand times over that love is just a mixture of chemicals in my body and brain that make me feel that way, and intellectually I will pay you heed, but you will never ever convince the man in me. So, when it comes down to it, am I just as bad as a fanatic religionist. My glands rule me, crazy little animal that I am. But I am at least aware of it, and I don’t swear it is the only truth for all of mankind. I wouldn’t go out and kill other people because they don’t love.
However, this is the belief that keeps that crazy little ape in me in line. If it weren’t for that, I would run amok. Without that belief, my life would be worthless, and I would show all the other crazy apes what that means: I’d kill, and kill, and kill… because I don’t like people. They are a bunch of fucking assholes, slaves to greed and idiocy and the feeling of power. Love, that is the most meaningful thing for me. It’s the way I am built, nothing I can do about it. Without love, I’d be a loose cannon.
So, you may be wondering, like me, how I came from levels in print-data to love and death. Just goes goes to show how everything hangs together. Or how a creative mind can establish weird connections. A crazy mind, what the fuck. As usual, you can’t take anything I say at face value. Trickery. The rings under my eyes hang down to my balls, and that is an indication of how seriously you should take my statements. Very seriously, or not at all.
More rum, please.