I was a fool to join this venture. I never thought it would end like this, with me writing to you. We went in with a clear mission. Booty, slaves. Nobody knows better than I that no plan survives the first battle, but this… this is different.
We tore them apart. But then they got into our minds, and they turned us in to a thousand pieces. They ripped the puzzle apart and set it together anew, again and again. They fucked our minds. But I am getting ahead of myself.
We landed, we whipped them. That is to say, we slayed. We hacked them apart. Our weapons were superior, not to mention our tactics. Though they were not unused to war, as they had casual strife with neighboring tribes, they were compariaively disorganized. It was the usual bloody mess. We killed the men and children, we enslaved the women and what men survived. We used them as we pleased.
The women were the problem, that’s what I think. It may sound stupid, but they had a way about them. The music they played, that weird foreign beat, the way they walked. There is dissent. Our men fight one another for the women, though they be but slaves. The women are like a baking sheet full of cake, each one of them a piece.
The Captain has lost control. Rolf and Fjorad have disappeared. Murdered in their sleep? Eaten? The priest is gone too, not that I care.
It is insane. That beat . . . that foreign beat . . . I can’t sleep. The drums, these foreign drums! How can they dance to such a strange beat? They take our minds apart.
I would go away, but the men have disassembled our ship to build huts. I do not know how it will end. Forgive me for this disjointed report. I write this letter in knowledge that it will probably never reach you, my love.
There is no way to describe her. I’ve met her, now and again. I want her.
Inner worth. It has little to do with beauty in the general sense. I won’t say it has nothing to do with it, because that would be foolish. We all know the inherent attraction we find for certain people because of the way they look, but that is not what I am talking about. Yeah, she may have style, she may have looks, but that ain’t enough. She may even have an operative brain. That helps. A lot.
Maybe that’s the most important thing: an operative brain. A nice ass helps, though. Ahh… what shall I say? Both, please?
There are so many attractive women on this world, but there is something, something which makes some women not only attractive but beautiful. What is that? What makes a woman beautiful, and not just attractive? It’s love, straight and simple. Without love all women are the same. Why do I fall in love with certain women, and others not? I honestly can’t say.
You’d think I could, wouldn’t you, after all the years? But I still can’t. They still surprise me, these women, with their craziness and beauty. Often the craziness is part of the beauty. I sit next to it. I think: Jesus! She is so…! So! There is nothing that can replace those moments. Those are, for me, the moments where I’d give up everything. All she has to do is ask. Anything, I’d do it.
I know: I am a fool. At that moment, I am an utter fool. But what would life be without that foolishness? A worthless piece of shit. If I am not capable of loving her so much that I would do anything for her… then what is my life worth? If you can’t do it for love, for what then? For money, for fame, for power? Don’t make me laugh. For an ideal? But that is my ideal: love.
Of course, she has to smell good too.
Undying love. Unless of course you get hit by a taxi on the morrow. Or maybe cancer will get you. That’d be romantic, wouldn’t it now? Or perhaps the woman you love just stops. That’d be romantic too, because then you could live on, pining away at what’s been taken from you.
Fulfilled romantics are boring. Fulfilled… no romantics are ever fulfilled, are they? They just can’t get enough. It’s the heightening of feelings they want, and it seems as if that can only be gained through suffering. If they didn’t have to suffer for it, it wouldn’t be worth half as much. Its the suffering, the trials and tribulations crowned by ultimate victory, that makes it interesting. But the ultimate victory must always remain somehow unattainable, except of course in novels.
Suffering. Romantics are, for that very reason, insufferable. They just don’t get it. They live in a world all their own, a world separate from reality. They are victims of their own need for suffering. They never live. They need people who live in reality, but they can never quite do it themselves, poor bastards. They’ve read too many books. They truly believe there is more than the day to day, more than food, sex, and sleep. They talk, they walk, they sit, just like anyone else, but they are not of this world.
I describe myself. The crowning victory has been denied me, as yet. Predictably. There were a couple of moments where I thought I had it in my grasp, but things turned out differently. Life caught up with me. I’ve tried so hard to leave it behind me… slowly but surely I’m starting to wonder if I can ever succeed. It’s the sublime that I am seeking, that which can not be described with any words, no matter how industrious or creative the writer.
So, for the time being, I walk, I talk, and I sit. I piss, and I shit. I bleed when I am cut.
You’re tired, and you want to go home. And you can’t stop thinking about her, though you know it does you no good. Like Sisyphus you are condemned to push the rock –composed of self-reproach, chagrin, and yearning, in equal parts– up the bloody hill, only to have it roll back down. Your thoughts go in circles. The beer, wine and cocktails sloshing around in your stomach don’t exactly help to clear things up.
You decide to hit your head against the sink. You are very drunk, but the pain is nevertheless exquisite. You do it again, and again. She will never come back… again. Is that blood? Yes. Again. Something cracks. Is it the sink, or your head? You aren’t sure, you are extremely drunk, and the blows to your head aren’t helping either. Again. Your vision blurs… at last, you think, some results. Again. The sink cracks. The landlord will simply have to replace it. Again, again, again… again! My God, the pain! Get it done! Again! She will never come back! Again! You pass out and fall on the hard white tiles.
It was one of those cry for help things.
I’m sitting at the poolside, an indoor swimming pool, reading a book. There are many children there, all around me, being loud, jumping in the water, sitting there drying off and eating, dropping french fries on to the wet tiles. None of the children are mine, I don’t know why I am sitting among them and not somewhere quieter.
A woman comes and puts her things in one of the few free areas fairly near me and sits down. She seems somehow sad, and very shy. She is very attractive, in a way hard to define. The little make-up she has on does nothing to detract from her natural beauty. She has short, dark hair, it’s hard to say exactly what color, because her hair is wet. We both appraise each other while trying to seem not to. Or I appraise her and she notices and looks away, blushing ever so slightly, and I do the same.
She seems very familiar, too. I can’t tell where, but I have seen her face somewhere, perhaps in an advertisement or something. Or at the supermarket down the road. I certainly don’t have the feeling I’ve ever met her personally… perhaps I’ve seen her at the poolside before. Is that why I am here among the children, because I have seen her sitting here before?
I have the definite feeling I would like to get to know her, to fathom the sadness which I sense in her. She somehow piques a sort of protective interest in me, I want to help her. In some of the dreams I strike up a conversation with her, sometimes we are simply there together, very much aware of each others’ presence but somehow reluctant to speak to one another, both being shy.
There is never any conclusion to this recurring dream. It always ends with us sitting there, near but apart, exchanging a few words, or ostensibly ignoring each other while actually focusing our complete attention on each other. There is always a tension in this dream, perhaps a trace of sexual tension, but on the whole something else, something almost undefinable, but if I could just…
„Hellstrøm, wake up!“ Christ.
Should I pursue women? God knows I could use one. I mean, just to keep me warm, in bed, for Christ’s sake. For the company. For the feeling of not being alone, for the simple intimacy. Simple intimacy… is it simple? Will any female do? One might think I am experience enough to know, but, bloody hell, I am not, and I don’t.
I love women, and exactly that is the problem. I fall in love. Undying love. But maybe she’s just a little bitch who doesn’t give a flying damn.
Damn you, Margaret, I thought you cared.
Nevertheless, I admit I am afraid of giving up my aspiration to true love. If I give that up, what is left? Solace. Comfort. On the face of it, not bad things… but I want more.
Just as an aside: I may not be pursuing a woman just now, but I am pursuing my third bottle of wine, so you can’t take any single word I write on its face value at this point.
So I am slowly coming on to the trickster level now. I’d accept being coupled, take advantage of the situation, be bloody charming (for those who are wondering, yes, I can be truly charming, when I want to), for Christ’s sake. I’d make the best of me, just to have a woman by my side right now.