The Animal in Me (Letter from the Editor)

Many authors choose an animal to represent their persona. It might be a kangaroo, or a swamp rabbit, or whatever. Aesop used animals to illustrate his ideas, in order to make them more accessible. It’s easier to read things about animals, things that might actually apply to yourself, than to believe that a human being might think so.
I’ve chosen a human: Mr. Hellstrøm. He’s an animal too, of course; we humans are all animals. And that’s the point, in a way.
Did you know that animals smell sweet? Have you ever smelled the forehead of a young dog? It’s the sweetest smell imaginable, apart from the smell of your own baby. Of course, animals also sometimes smell like shit. Babies too.
In any case, when you present ideas, no matter how nonsensical or enlightening, as if they came from an animal, people are more ready to accept them. That is exactly what I want to avoid.
I don’t want you to accept what I present here, I want you to think about it. Maybe those thoughts will lead to nowhere, but at least you will have thought them. I don’t want to make it easy for you. Unlike Aesop, I am not trying to propagate. I may seem opinionated, and arrogant . . . and I am. But that’s just part of believing in what you believe in, and presenting it with verve; it’s not propagating. Now, don’t get me wrong here, I am not dissing Aesop. Definitely a cool dude, and I personally love his fables. But I want to go to a level beyond that. I am assuming you are able to deal with it. If you are still reading, then read on.
If you’ve read around here, then you know that Hellstrøm is a cynical animal. He is a sophisticated animal, otherwise he could not possibly be cynical. Cynicism presupposes a certain level of sophistication, a certain level  of self-detachment that is not, as far as we know, present in animals. Who knows, maybe the animals laugh about us for being so arrogant as to suppose that . . . but I doubt it. So, let us assume that attributing these feelings to an animal is unrealistic, though it may make said feelings more edible for the reader.
Uhh, where was I? So much for the editor being in control.
I’ll tell you one thing: in every blog entry is a sliver of truth, a tiny sliver of me. It’s like I am a loaf of bread, and I take a microscopically thin slice of me and turn in to an entire loaf. That is what makes it interesting for me, and, I hope, for the readers. Slivers of truth contained in wild stories and insanity and musings and ravings and fuck it all. But do not believe that you will come to know my soul, just because I let the little animal in me speak here. It’s just a slice of bread, dammit, it’s not the whole truth. It’s not my life, and you should not take it literally. Each blog entry is just a tiny piece of me, extrapolated upon ad infinitum by Mr. Hellstrøm.
So it would seem that Mr. Hellstrøm is my animal after all, no matter how he or I may buck up against the fact. He might as we’ll be a fucking kangaroo. He boxes when threatened, doesn’t that count? A drunken foolish kangaroo who just can’t stop writing crazy things. Well, if it’s easier for you to think of him like that, so be it.

True Lies

Everything I tell you is a lie. That’s the truth.
In every good lie lies the truth. The truth in a lie is like the pollen in a flower. It hopes you will gather it up and spread it around. Lies are bad, but they aren’t evil… their just hopeful. They want to be spread all over. Like any species, they want to survive. Fortunately, they have humans to pollenate them. Ever growing fields of lies, mutating and multiplying, covering the earth until there is nothing else left. You can try to root them out, but their roots are so deep in the human psyche that you can never get rid of them entirely. And in every single one of them lies a kernel of truth. That is what makes them so attractive, you wouldn’t believe them otherwise. Lies are possibilities. It could be that way. Or not. You’ll never know, because you’re a gardner who can’t distinguish between weeds and flowers. You’ll believe what you want to believe, because truth is also subjective, or, as Bob Dylan once put it, truth is on many levels.
iris-558503_640The survival of the human race is based on lies. The first ape who stood up on his hind legs and yelled at a predator to scare him away told a lie. He said, I am bigger than you and you better scoot off, you son-of-a-bitch, or you’ll remember the day. The predator believed the lie, and that was the beginning of it all. That ape was probably pretty damned surprised that it worked, that spontaneous lie, and, of course, he never forgot that experience. Belief can make a lie true. What a lesson that was!
And, since that day, apes being the repetitive animals that they are, lies have ruled the world. True lies.


„Dearer to me than a host of base truths is the illusion that exalts.“ You are allowed to research who said that originally. Damn the truth. Truth is hard, cold… a right bastard, an unfeeling cove, at best. Not only that, it’s on many levels, it’s not fucking reliable, and if nothing else, it is unforgiving. With illusions, you know what you’re gonna get. Namely, what you want. Truth hurts, more often than not. Truth ain’t nice. Truth is your responsible part telling you no, don’t do it, man!
To hell with it, pumpkin. Happy New Year.
Oh, by the way, listening to Ska Fort Rock from the Skatalites.