Sex

Sometimes I wonder if my last relationship was simply based on sex. I put a lot of effort in to it (the relationship. Well, I put effort in to the sex too, of course…), I mean, like, love letters, poems, with plenty of pathos and eloquence ladled on. I know that sounds very cynical now, but I meant it, I was dead earnest, and I put a lot of mental energy in to writing my feelings.
In the end, though, I have the feeling it was a chemical thing. Like I was attracted in spite of myself, in spite of my intellect. The woman was something of a bitch, in retrospect, and intellectually not even my lousy equal. She herself complained that I could argue circles around her. But she smelled good. It was something completely new in my experience.
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My music? It wasn’t her music. My taste in Films? It wasn’t hers. The books I read? Well, she hardly read anyway… Okay, there was a certain area where we overlapped, for some reason we liked the same art. So, it seems like it was mostly chemistry… damn she smelled good, and she still does, in my torrid fantasies. And she was wonderful when she was in good spirits. But we couldn’t get along, not even day for day… arguments about stupid little things, arguments about nothing. Arguments about arguing.
Room Full of Mirrors from the Pretenders, lot of help that song is… has nothing to do with it, just happened to be along the way in a random selection… meh.
So, what is love, what is just chemical? I alway thought love is the nonplus ultra. The few relationships I had made this, actually, clear. Though they were not for all time, they were damned long. For me they were for all time, it was just the fucking women who didn’t get it (sorry, you women, I don’t mean it personally, uh, generally… and probably it was all somehow my fault, anyway).
And now, off the whole fucking beat, because today is a random day, I can recommend a song from Adele (God knows I hardly recommend anything truly mainstream, but there are exceptions…), Rumor Has It. Affengeil, as the Germans would say.
And, to make the randomness complete, Saragina Rumba, from 17 Hippies.

That Woman’s Got Me Drinkin’

from Shane MacGowan and the Popes. Christ, this song, well, at least the title, applies to every woman I’ve ever had intimate contact with until now. I love them, and it doesn’t work. In one case it took 20 years and two children to find out that it didn’t work, and it takes quite a bit of liquor to weigh that up, not to mention mental and emotional energy (agony?).
But oh well. That’s life, and you’ve got to deal with it. No one said it would be easy, as my very first woman was wont to say. And if I use drink to get me over one or another emotional hump, who can blame me, except myself?
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I am reminded of Robert Heinlein, who is quoted as saying: „I am free because I know that I alone am morally responsible for everything I do.“ Now that is a really wonderful sentiment. It combines freedom, morality and responsibility in one simple sentence. Morally free to get completely, responsibly drunk. Har har.
Have you ever noticed how quickly one can jump from crazy women to moral responsibility?
Let’s jump back. Now I am listening to Sick of Love from Bob Dylan. Yeah, I hear the clock tick… I’m in the thick of it… and I’m lovesick. I miss my girlfriend, although we never could get along for more than a couple days… but when we did get along it was so wonderful. She was the most cheerful woman I ever knew, when she didn’t happen to be insisting on being a complete bitch. Almost a whole year we went on like that. And now I’m sick of love, and I’m trying to forget her, though I’d give anything to be with her just now.

Have Some Fun

It’s later than you think. Soon you will die, oh so soon. It’s just a matter of years. Those little short years, you’ve surely noticed how fast they go? So have some fun, live it full, tell your love that you are hers, or his, as the case may be. Fill your cup to the brim, because it may be your last.
We all have to go some time. A man I know is about to go. He ain’t all that old, but hell, cancer sits in ’im, and he has to go. He’s not the first I’ve seen go. Good people… they go just as fast as the bad, if not faster. Will I be there, at the burial? No, but I’ll honor him in any case, in my way.
So, you get older, and you notice how people die. People you know. Whether it’s the people you look up to, the mentors, or people you got to know in passing… they all go. A few of them are left, and at some point you start to wonder when you are next, when you are the one they knew who went down.
That’s life. That’s normal. Life is death is life is death… and we are all made of stardust. There is no life that wasn’t made of death. The atoms of which you are made are recycled. Nature doesn’t waste a single fucking one of them. You are a mouse, a stone, a star, a bloody fucking porcupine. A part of you is a bird, that flew so far and wide. A part of you is lava, that was thrown so high… perhaps, at one point, you traveled, as a little stone, from deep in the earth, over thousands of years, to the surface of this beautiful planet. Or you were the stratosphere. You were air. Does it matter?
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So there is nothing to complain about. You will die, as you have died before, a thousand times, in one form or another, whether you were inanimate or not. This is not religion, you little fuck, this is nature. The atoms you are made of are (nearly) indestructible. And, even if I could destroy the atoms you are made of, the atoms are made of something else, smaller yet, which can not be destroyed.
So you are a beautiful creation, indestructible. You had to be. But you are a part of the whole. You are indestructible only in the absolute, natural sense. Nature will reorganize you, will use you, will disperse you according to „her“ stochastical „needs“.
Why is nature female? Because she is the source of life. There are animals which do not rely on females to produce offspring, but human beings do. So for us, feeling, living, squirming little animals that we are, life and the creation of life is inevitably a female thing.
As a man, I am in awe of women. Not all of them, I’ll admit. There are some I could dispense with entirely. But then, I can say the same of men. But I digress, as so often. What I wanted to say is: I worship women because they can brew life. They bake babies, and that is insanely wonderful and definitely worth envying. It is amazing. It throws me for a loop, dammit, it shoves me off the stool on to the floor… I sit there on my ass and am amazed. Amazed. It’s insane, this ability, it’s like: KAZAM! Crazy. Impossible. Something out of a nutty science-fiction novel. And women can do it, just like that, like nothing. They don’t even have to try. I know that they couldn’t do it without men to inseminate them, but nevertheless… I’ve seen a woman give birth; I saw my son come out, so I know what the hell I am talking about. The simple fact that women can produce babies sets them on a higher level in my eyes. It makes them worthy of worship.
Too bad I have no female to worship at the moment.

Lying to Yourself

Nothing is better ingrained in the human psyche than lying to yourself. Who, after all, knows you better? There is no one on this world who can fool you better than you can. You fool.
The question is, who lies to himself better? Have you ever met someone who lies to themselves better than you lie to yourself? I’ll bet you have, and you felt like an idiot after it came out that they’d fooled even you. They sounded convincing, didn’t they? Because they lied so well that they believed in it themselves, totally. But it served their purpose: to convince those around them.
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I am certain that this is an evolutionary phenomenon. Humans have removed themselves from the natural cycle to such an extent that they have an evolution all their own. That means that our crazy, big-brained thoughts and desires have a huge influence on our evolution. Our brains are far too large for our own good. We all lie to ourselves, and the lies influence what we and those around us do. They influence which mate we choose. They influence how we treat our children. They influence everything.
I once read a sci-fi novel where a race was described in which the females had, through natural selection, become stupid. The males of this race believed the lies they told themselves with regard to the superiority of males over females to the point where they preferred females who were not quite as uppity, who didn’t argue all the damned time… and so on. Hell, I can understand that! (Mr. Hellstrøm does the Groucho eyebrow thing). And over the millennia, this led to the stultification (wow, that is a cool word, I didn’t even know I knew that word until just now) of the females, to the point where they were hardly more than helpmates, a means to reproduction. They could hardly even speak anymore, such was the loss of intellectual capability.
So, you see what lies can lead to. The little lies you tell yourself could influence the entire evolution of mankind. Perhaps they have already… Jesus. Look out.

Another Glass of Wine…

to Give Succor to My Ailing Existence from Frank London’s Klezmer Brass Allstars. My song of the day. The day went well, the evening was swell. But then a woman dashed it all to pieces with just a few words. Damn you women. I love you, but you’ll kill me yet. Or, more likely, you’ll just reduce me to a weeping lump in the corner.
To conclude: Princess of the Streets from The Stranglers.
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