I Wish I Was Russian

For God’s sake, why? you are asking yourself. Because every Russian I ever met knew how to suffer. A delightful capability for suffering, for being despondent. They raise the art of melancholy to the highest possible level. They have a knack for sorrow. They are so skillfully world weary that it boggles even my mind. Not to mention their truly enviable capacity for vodka.
bar-257852_640

Luxury Before Necessity

I’ve moved again, moved out of your brain. I hate moving. Nevertheless, there are advantages. I’ve got money at the moment –won’t say how– and I can afford to make the new place the way I want it. God damn, it’s a bloody wonder what you can do with money. I got a ton of furniture given to me, I had to turn down half a dozen couches; I, beggar that I am, got to pick and choose. And then, for sundries, I had, for my taste, a lot of fucking money. What did I do? I bought luxuries. I bought a new headset, I bought a cool bluetooth speaker that I control with my cell-phone, I got plisse blinds, custom fit to my damned windows. Nobody seemed to have a bed left over, thank God, so I bought a bed made of oak, a good slatted frame, and a mattress that’ll last until I’m dead. Add to that cambric linen bedding. Motherfucker, you wouldn’t believe what that all cost.
package-151375_1280
Unfortunately, my lighting is limited to reading lamps. Two. Makes me go to bed early (well, unless I simply do without light, excepting the light that comes from my monitor), and the early worm, as everyone knows… I have a television, but no connection (I’ll miss those vignettes from your brain). Well, I have a connection, but I’d have to pay to have it activated. Does that count as a necessity? Not for me. Light? Ahh, I’ll get by. I have to wash my dishes per hand, no dishwasher. If I stopped drinking for a a couple months I could buy a dishwasher, but… necessity? Nah.
Drinking a mudslide, listening to Vorbei ist vorbei from Die Ärzte –it’s blasting out on the new bleutooth loudspeakers in the neighboring room– and thinking: Yeah.
Luxury before necessity. I catch myself thanking God that the level of my „necessity“ is so high. My supposed necessity is another man’s luxury. I could sink to his level, and I would still be satisfied. The fact is that I live at an incredibly high level of civilization, a level which I don’t need. I got music, any time I want, and drugs, and a bed so incredibly comfortable that it boggles the mind. Do I need all these things?
The answer is easy: No. I don’t need all that. I Love it, I enjoy it, but I don’t need it. I’d be just as happy sleeping on a palm-matt. Probably happier. Most humans are happy as long as they don’t have to fight for their lives on a basic level. Sure, they want to improve on things, that’s the way humans are, but basically their doing fine.
As I think these thoughts, further delights are awaiting me. I had today off, and I took the opportunity, being flush at the moment, to buy two expensive bottles of rosé and some smoked salmon. This is what I mean with luxury. That salmon is waiting for me….
And now comes a song that reminds me of my previous (and still) love, and I revel in my regrets, my melancholy. That, too, is a luxury. If I was looking for my next meal, I wouldn’t have time for this mental self-torture crap. And I’d probably be healthier and happier for it. Looking for the next grub, and thankful if I found it.
All this make me fearful for the way humanity is going. All these things surrounding me, the plates, the forks; what good are they? The salmon lies on the plate, enticing, lovely. The bread toasts in the toaster. It’s lovely, these are the fruits of civilization, but…
It’s luxury. And it doesn’t make a damned difference. Yes, I enjoyed buying all these things, but it didn’t make me happy. I will enjoy eating the salmon on fresh toasted white bread, but it won’t make me happy. Give me that woman back, then I will be happy. I’d gladly live with her in the meanest hovel, scraping lichens from the rocks in the winter to get through… then I’d be happy.

No Filter

Y’know, when I smoke a cigarette, I roll it myself. Just the tobacco. No filter. And I roll that little mofo fat, as fat as the packaged cigs everyone smokes. Yeah, you guessed it (well, probably you didn’t, because you aren’t quite sure where this blog-post is going yet, and you don’t know a damned thing anyway), the ones with a filter. I know a few people who roll their own, but they roll ’em thin, and with a fucking filter. Each time I see how they roll the little filters in, that they bought extra, I have to laugh.
cigarette-end-488402_640
Dammit, if I’s gonna do drugs, I’s gonna do ’em without a God damned filter. Fat. And, believe you me, tobacco is a drug, baby, one of the most addictive there is. I’ve kicked tobacco twice, the second time for 14 years, and what am I doing now? Smoking a damned cigarette. Enjoying it, too. Tobacco tastes good. Especially with coffee in the morning. Or with wine in the evening, or… you get the picture. Of course, when I get drunk and smoke one after another, my mouth feels like an ashtray the next day.
What does an ashtray feel like, actually? Hmmm. In any case, not good. It’s then, drinking my coffee on the morn’, and (what irony) smoking a cigarette, a nice fat one without a filter, coughing, that I think: why are you doing this? Well, my inner voice says, because it tastes so damned good, in spite of everything.
So, what is the point? It’s this: I want to enjoy life, even if it is not healthy. Life itself is not healthy. After all, it ends in death, and what could be less healthy than that? Nevertheless, I want to enjoy it, and that means I want it unfiltered. Pure. Let it roll over me, knock me down, infuse me, fuck me over, pick me up, toss me on the mountainside in the snow, pick me up again and let me fly. I want it. I want it bad. I love it. It’s beautiful, even when my mouth feels like an ashtray.
No damned filter, please. So many people I’ve met filter their lives. They steer clear of anything that might hurt them, and thus they limit their lives to necessities and banal shit. And when, in spite of all their efforts to the contrary, they encounter heavy duty stuff, they simply tune it out. They do everything they can in order not to feel the pain. They don’t love, because love is dangerous; they might get hurt. If in doubt, take some antidepressives, is it not so?
Now my inner voice says, you do that too, don’t pretend you don’t. You don’t like pain, c’mon now, admit it, you superior little fuck. When you are unhappy, you drink. Well, I answer, it’s true, I don’t like pain. I don’t like to suffer. But I do love, and if it doesn’t work in the end I always face it, because I feel I have no choice, because I still possess at least a trace of self-honesty… don’t I? The inner voice grumbles, and says well, a trace, a trace, mind you. Well, better than nothing, I say, and besides, you know as well as I that I often revel in pain. That’s what melancholy is all about, and I think it’s really too bad melancholy is hardly accepted in todays society. Why can’t people just feel like shit, when they feel like it? Because it hurts, you fool, as if you didn’t know… my inner voice mutters on, but I can tell it’s resigned.
It knows me too well to argue any further. Fuck you, I say, giving it the last stab. Even when I drug myself to stop the pain, I do it conscientiously, without a filter, to get the full effect. I don’t go to a psychiatrist to ask for drugs to stop the pain, I prescribe for myself, and when it doesn’t work, surprise surprise, I face the shit I’ve staved off long enough to allow me to deal with it somehow.
You’re just buying time, it says, in a last effort to bring me to my senses. Just like everyone else, it says, just like everyone else… I take another slug of ouzo, light a cigarette, and tell my inner voice to go fuck itself.
I already am, it says. Fucking myself, that is.

Watcha Want?

Listening to the “Meister”, as he is called by his fans in Germany. Million Miles. Elegant misery… is that all we can aspire to? Revel in depression… as a friend once said to another (we were still young and foolish, not yet old and foolish) “You don’t understand; it’s about feeling like shit, and that’s really cool.” The other fellow was sort of, well, how shall I say it, uh, set back. He felt himself put down. He really didn’t understand, simply because he had had an easy life. He just didn’t understand how you can revel in the shit because you have no choice. Take what you can get, and that has to be enough. Better like it. And you know, that’s where melancholy comes in, because melancholy allows you to revel in the bad moments. It allows you to enjoy them; in German: “auskosten”. Google it, you lazy ignorant fuckers. That is the very important function of melancholy. So, watcha want? Listening to Moonlight Mile from the Rolling Stones and enjoying the melancholy. Oh, and jfyfi, I would look up how to say “auskosten” in English on the fucking ever-present-helpful-makes-me-helpless-and-I-can’t-remember-a-damned-thing-because-I-can-always-look-it-up-in-the-fucking… net, but I can’t connect at the moment of writing this, thank God, because the bloody walls here are too damned thick. Nice to know that the physical world is still good for something. I’ll just have to post this blog later.
Watcha want? You want everything to go your way, just like me. Good luck; no chance. It’s up to you to revel in life just the same.
brick-wall-259946_640