Lucky You

Here are some sayings I’d like to see when opening a fortune cookie:
– You will die a lucky death on another planet.
– You do not believe in things that are written in fortune cookies.
– Why is the spirit of resistance like an untrained dog?
– You have eaten well, so leave the damned cookie aside.
– What would I tell you, if I could tell you all I can?
– Be happy that you are not a fortune cookie.
– Keep your head up, little wombat.
– Fuck you! You die! (Cookie explodes)
– If I were to break you open, what would I read on the little slip of paper within?


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.
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.

What is Love?

Is it the opposite of hatred? Hardly. I can love someone and hate them at the same time, I know that, I’ve experienced it. Are there different kinds, or do we only believe there are? Are there different “levels” of love? Different intensities, different “volumes”? Is love just an illusion? Is it chemical? Is it like a bolt of cloth dumped on the floor, long, twisted, but coming, at some point yet unseen, to an end? Or is it like the universe, ever expanding, until one loses sight of all relation to humanity and self? Or is it just stupid, blind, unconscious, blundering, dependent on luck; a luck so incredible and unlikely as to be utterly doomed were it not for stochastic probability? The stochastic which forces every impossibility to be probable to some extent? Is that what forces me to love what I hate? A victim of chance, and therefor of fate? For chance allows itself to be influenced just as little as fate, chance and fate are words for the same thing, the only difference being the perspective. We look forward and see chance, behind us we see fate. Unless we are disinclined to do so and allege that we wanted to do that. Is it this that makes people so fucking insensible and stupid? Because there is no continuity… there is always the present and all that will come. The past is often too painful. I’d rather not think about it, says the bleeding fearful fucked up human brain, wounded, reeling… pff, forget it, I’m just ranting.