This year's mind
Comatose
The self-delusive heart
Dying on a page
From overdose
Of love,
Hands washed
In others' wounds
Fingerpaints, red
To blacken the shiny night
Dripping on our flesh
Share the nature's bed
This year's mind
oblivious
The dirt under the nails
Mainly shedded skin
Sleep, says Morpheus
Dream now
Eyes sewn shut
Eyeballs choking on tears,
Figures of the subliminal
In your dusty vortex and
Twisted imagination
Create life that's unconditional
Dienstag, 28. Dezember 2010
Montag, 13. Dezember 2010
The act of dissonance
I have been thinking a lot about Aesop’s fox and the grapes lately. Isn’t it fascinating that this simple story, explains the most complicated type of psychology? My current cognitive dissonance has been robbing my sleep, stealing my appetite and is gradually pulling me towards negligence. The apple surely tastes good, but what is it that I’ve done to deserve this tasty apple, that it even wants to be eaten by me?
On the other hand, isn’t it this dissonance which ultimately makes us feel alive and encourages us to find solutions and create new ideas? Is it a way to teach us that, no matter what, we won’t ever get what we want that easily?
Four question marks within 110 words. Tell me if this is good or bad.
I can smell burn.
Dissonance comes with spikes which cause dizziness and head ache. Dissonance always comes with a declaration of war. In my case, it’s a war between courage and cowardice.
Today is truce. The battle is nowhere close to a resolution. The combination of all those different musical notes in my head still sounds terrible together. I’m not sure if I’m in the mood to fix this tonight. Cowardice goes to war! How ironic...
It’s always easy to blame others who have added a dissonant tone to your life. Ever thought that it might be your fault for letting them?
I know, sometimes a dissonant tone is irresistible.
On the other hand, isn’t it this dissonance which ultimately makes us feel alive and encourages us to find solutions and create new ideas? Is it a way to teach us that, no matter what, we won’t ever get what we want that easily?
Four question marks within 110 words. Tell me if this is good or bad.
I can smell burn.
Dissonance comes with spikes which cause dizziness and head ache. Dissonance always comes with a declaration of war. In my case, it’s a war between courage and cowardice.
Today is truce. The battle is nowhere close to a resolution. The combination of all those different musical notes in my head still sounds terrible together. I’m not sure if I’m in the mood to fix this tonight. Cowardice goes to war! How ironic...
It’s always easy to blame others who have added a dissonant tone to your life. Ever thought that it might be your fault for letting them?
I know, sometimes a dissonant tone is irresistible.
Donnerstag, 9. Dezember 2010
Lynch caressing my crimson velvet
So many cars are coming from wrong directions. Is my inattentiveness, when crossing roads, being accompanied by luck? No. - Instinct. Instinct and thoughtlessness. My weak ears, but strong inner eye. Still, what a thoughtless thing to do.
I felt exceptionally cold in bed last night although the temperatures have risen again the last couple do days. Even though I know the cause of this coldness, I’m glad that it has taken away my appetite. Eating is so barbaric when you are besotted, confused and full of shit. Though, singing to myself ‘Why bother, it’s gonna hurt me!’ is so wrong. Wrong and ten times more – wrong. Only just now I have gained more optimism. Good thing about how I’m feeling at the moment is that I don’t dig the sight of sweets. I haven’t felt like that since that selfish Danish two years ago.
How to stop a chemical reaction? How to stop myself from getting attached to auras and the mystery that effervesces from their words and hand gestures? I think I know what I fear. I also think that I overestimated myself with my confidence and self determination.
Maybe people don’t change, but the older you get, the more scared and more critical you become, and you are still the same person. Your perception changes, your confidence plays nasty games with you.
It’s time to share the opening of my novel again with the next tutor. I prefer it this way, having your work checked by one person first and then you move on to the next. What happened yesterday was too much for my head. I didn’t manage to take anything in due to the speed of spoken words or let’s put it this way: I took way too much in that I sort of had to dump it all straight after. This is not how my head works. I am open minded, but not thaaat open-minded, especially when not being given time to take things in smoothly.
Overall it’s people’s tendency to overanalyze. All these left-brainers… all looking for logic and reason. Sometimes you are not supposed to control a story, especially when it’s breathing.
Thanks to music and the inner P. dancing sexily, I have managed to re-gain my indifference and optimism. This is how fast I get over things nowadays? Well, all I need is a Pall Mall cigarette – menthol, please. It’s been a while.
If I was somewhere in the gutters I would abandon this nervousness and then make him dance with me to Lou Reed underneath the disco ball.
And let it happen…’forever till the end of time’…
I felt exceptionally cold in bed last night although the temperatures have risen again the last couple do days. Even though I know the cause of this coldness, I’m glad that it has taken away my appetite. Eating is so barbaric when you are besotted, confused and full of shit. Though, singing to myself ‘Why bother, it’s gonna hurt me!’ is so wrong. Wrong and ten times more – wrong. Only just now I have gained more optimism. Good thing about how I’m feeling at the moment is that I don’t dig the sight of sweets. I haven’t felt like that since that selfish Danish two years ago.
How to stop a chemical reaction? How to stop myself from getting attached to auras and the mystery that effervesces from their words and hand gestures? I think I know what I fear. I also think that I overestimated myself with my confidence and self determination.
Maybe people don’t change, but the older you get, the more scared and more critical you become, and you are still the same person. Your perception changes, your confidence plays nasty games with you.
It’s time to share the opening of my novel again with the next tutor. I prefer it this way, having your work checked by one person first and then you move on to the next. What happened yesterday was too much for my head. I didn’t manage to take anything in due to the speed of spoken words or let’s put it this way: I took way too much in that I sort of had to dump it all straight after. This is not how my head works. I am open minded, but not thaaat open-minded, especially when not being given time to take things in smoothly.
Overall it’s people’s tendency to overanalyze. All these left-brainers… all looking for logic and reason. Sometimes you are not supposed to control a story, especially when it’s breathing.
Thanks to music and the inner P. dancing sexily, I have managed to re-gain my indifference and optimism. This is how fast I get over things nowadays? Well, all I need is a Pall Mall cigarette – menthol, please. It’s been a while.
If I was somewhere in the gutters I would abandon this nervousness and then make him dance with me to Lou Reed underneath the disco ball.
And let it happen…’forever till the end of time’…
Sonntag, 5. Dezember 2010
Losing weight, losing great
I thought this was a good place. There are so many people; so many busy people. All I wanted was to get lost among them, as I thought that would be a good way to rediscover myself, except that it doesn’t work like that. Or maybe I have rediscovered myself but I hate the way it works!
I don’t understand people who continually say that they are bored, especially those who have no damn clue what boredom really is.
I never have sugar in my tea and recently I don’t have sugar in my coffee either. I can’t help wondering that this is the reason why, in my dreams, people start to shoot each other down. Everyone owns a rifle and you’re just not safe anymore. I guess this is more a reflection of what I think of this place.
I’m getting more and more and more blackouts recently when feeling nervous and uncomfortable. I open my mouth and no single syllable comes out; no breath even. That’s when I usually feel like running away before anyone notices me turning red. It’s not embarrassment or shame, it’s more me being angry and wanting to turn over a table.
Does anyone remember what I said about myself two or three months ago? How I felt, how I wished things were, etc.? I don’t quite recall anything. Slap me in the face, and I will need several seconds to realize you did it and I’ll need a minute before I ask you why you did it; if I care enough. Even in a state like this I wonder what promises I made, whom I still own a favour or who I have a crush on and how high my chances are, although I’d rather just let myself fall.
This numbness is a step away from apathy. I don’t know what to do. Shake me once, I will not respond. Shake me twice, I will open my eyes. Shake me thrice and you will see.
I read ‘Ham on rye’ again; how he was holding his shit for so many hours till it had turned hard inside and he didn’t have to release it anymore. It’s similar to the way many people deal with their emotions. Maybe this is why I feel I’m heavy and need to lose weight.
I don’t understand people who continually say that they are bored, especially those who have no damn clue what boredom really is.
I never have sugar in my tea and recently I don’t have sugar in my coffee either. I can’t help wondering that this is the reason why, in my dreams, people start to shoot each other down. Everyone owns a rifle and you’re just not safe anymore. I guess this is more a reflection of what I think of this place.
I’m getting more and more and more blackouts recently when feeling nervous and uncomfortable. I open my mouth and no single syllable comes out; no breath even. That’s when I usually feel like running away before anyone notices me turning red. It’s not embarrassment or shame, it’s more me being angry and wanting to turn over a table.
Does anyone remember what I said about myself two or three months ago? How I felt, how I wished things were, etc.? I don’t quite recall anything. Slap me in the face, and I will need several seconds to realize you did it and I’ll need a minute before I ask you why you did it; if I care enough. Even in a state like this I wonder what promises I made, whom I still own a favour or who I have a crush on and how high my chances are, although I’d rather just let myself fall.
This numbness is a step away from apathy. I don’t know what to do. Shake me once, I will not respond. Shake me twice, I will open my eyes. Shake me thrice and you will see.
I read ‘Ham on rye’ again; how he was holding his shit for so many hours till it had turned hard inside and he didn’t have to release it anymore. It’s similar to the way many people deal with their emotions. Maybe this is why I feel I’m heavy and need to lose weight.
Sonntag, 28. November 2010
Inserting suppositories
I noticed that it is really good for your skin if you do afternoon naps. I do it every now and then – usually when reading a boring book. Though, the moment I close my eyes I know I’m risking having a nightmare again. Strange things happen when I have naps during the day. That’s when my subconscious seems to be most active and does terrible things when I’m not looking. I don’t even want to go into detail here, but winter has just put me into this empty glass which I am about to break from the inside with the loudest scream my lungs can endure. If it doesn’t work, I shall use my head and elbows until I notice blood is flowing.
I’ve come to this point where I just don’t care about what they think of me anymore. Having settled in finally, after two months, means I have had my time to assess everyone and I feel no threat. And if I do, what the heck, what do I care. What’s the worst that can happen? People disliking me for the wrong reasons? Probably, but it won’t matter. All I am interested in is he. I’m just not sure if I can have him or if he wants me. It’s always the same painful process. Not once will this work. Every time I build an automaton that looks like me I end up embarrassing myself. I shall just be myself. See how that works.
I’m really excited about handing out my short story. I noticed that all the boys tend to write from a boy’s perspective and the girls tend to write from the “I” perspective – the female “I” of course. They are all so autobiographical as well – in a very conspicuous way, too. I would never present a piece of life writing in class and let people judge it as a “piece of writing”. There is so much to criticize about which I am sure makes the person feel uncomfortable. Life Writing is mere blog material for me – nothing to share with in class. If I was to present a piece of Life Writing, I think there will be more stories about my paediatrician inserting suppositories into my anus and how SHE, that damn bitch of a whore, first told my dad that I might have mental health issues. I’m glad my tutor didn’t point out my misogynistic views when I read out my short piece; I don’t think that would have been a pleasant discussion. If you want more life stories about suppositories and masturbation, wait another 10 years and I will tell you everything – if I haven’t mentioned anything in my previous blog entries, yet. I’m sure I have though.
Well, coming back to my story: I spent 4 days and 5 nights writing it and an entire month to redraft and rewrite it. There are 3 drafts and I’m sure after the workshop, I will have to get ready to redraft it for a 4th time. It’s going to be a pain in the arse. It’s strange how I came up with the story in first place. Originally I wanted to write a story about a psycho titled “The observer”. Graham was supposed to be a passive guy watching bad things happen around him (like Clay) and towards the end; he’ll lose it and start a massacre! Only the moment Shannon entered his life, I realized that he was no such person. So Shannon kind of ruined the idea of my story, but I didn’t want t kill her off, either, because I realized Graham liked her.
I don’t talk funny. I talk reality, my way.
I’ve come to this point where I just don’t care about what they think of me anymore. Having settled in finally, after two months, means I have had my time to assess everyone and I feel no threat. And if I do, what the heck, what do I care. What’s the worst that can happen? People disliking me for the wrong reasons? Probably, but it won’t matter. All I am interested in is he. I’m just not sure if I can have him or if he wants me. It’s always the same painful process. Not once will this work. Every time I build an automaton that looks like me I end up embarrassing myself. I shall just be myself. See how that works.
I’m really excited about handing out my short story. I noticed that all the boys tend to write from a boy’s perspective and the girls tend to write from the “I” perspective – the female “I” of course. They are all so autobiographical as well – in a very conspicuous way, too. I would never present a piece of life writing in class and let people judge it as a “piece of writing”. There is so much to criticize about which I am sure makes the person feel uncomfortable. Life Writing is mere blog material for me – nothing to share with in class. If I was to present a piece of Life Writing, I think there will be more stories about my paediatrician inserting suppositories into my anus and how SHE, that damn bitch of a whore, first told my dad that I might have mental health issues. I’m glad my tutor didn’t point out my misogynistic views when I read out my short piece; I don’t think that would have been a pleasant discussion. If you want more life stories about suppositories and masturbation, wait another 10 years and I will tell you everything – if I haven’t mentioned anything in my previous blog entries, yet. I’m sure I have though.
Well, coming back to my story: I spent 4 days and 5 nights writing it and an entire month to redraft and rewrite it. There are 3 drafts and I’m sure after the workshop, I will have to get ready to redraft it for a 4th time. It’s going to be a pain in the arse. It’s strange how I came up with the story in first place. Originally I wanted to write a story about a psycho titled “The observer”. Graham was supposed to be a passive guy watching bad things happen around him (like Clay) and towards the end; he’ll lose it and start a massacre! Only the moment Shannon entered his life, I realized that he was no such person. So Shannon kind of ruined the idea of my story, but I didn’t want t kill her off, either, because I realized Graham liked her.
I don’t talk funny. I talk reality, my way.
Donnerstag, 18. November 2010
Devil's Throat
I spend a lot of time loathing. Too rarely do I ever feel proud of myself – no matter what I do and no matter what others say. And still I love them – it’s like a hug I needed. And I am grateful.
Today I just don’t care and don’t want to talk. Exhaustion, head ache and Cheerios. Where am I really and where do I want to be? All I know is what I’m doing and what needs to be done: buy more Cheerios and dry my socks.
The terrible noises of fire alarms and the sirens of ambulance cars are slicing my brain in two; the engine of proud motorcyclists and girl-like cries outside almost every evening.
Mahler and Gade are playing in the background – this is for some peace of mind and to dry the tears in the corner of my mind. Lacey’s singing voice when I’m in bed, but actually thinking about someone else. I keep falling for those I can’t easily assess. I don’t even know if that’s the right word in English.
Courage and confidence can only come together – but I didn’t feel that both were evident last night. When one is confident, the courage is ultimately there.
It’s the first time I prepared myself some ginger tea since I’m here, to disinfect my body cos of all the crap (as in snacks) that I’ve been eating. Nonetheless, my breakfast, lunch and dinner are still pretty much based on healthy diets; it’s just all the inbetweeners. The night before the reading, I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed at about half twelve in the morning and started eating Cheerios, which was a huge mistake. I remained awake till about half two in the morning and got up at around six. Ok, sometimes I do not know what I’m doing – or I just cannot control myself, which happens a lot. Do I need a paracetamol? I thought I was stronger than that. I shall just go to bed now.
Insecure about where I am, but actually I do know where I want to be right now. No, not in Toronto.
Today I just don’t care and don’t want to talk. Exhaustion, head ache and Cheerios. Where am I really and where do I want to be? All I know is what I’m doing and what needs to be done: buy more Cheerios and dry my socks.
The terrible noises of fire alarms and the sirens of ambulance cars are slicing my brain in two; the engine of proud motorcyclists and girl-like cries outside almost every evening.
Mahler and Gade are playing in the background – this is for some peace of mind and to dry the tears in the corner of my mind. Lacey’s singing voice when I’m in bed, but actually thinking about someone else. I keep falling for those I can’t easily assess. I don’t even know if that’s the right word in English.
Courage and confidence can only come together – but I didn’t feel that both were evident last night. When one is confident, the courage is ultimately there.
It’s the first time I prepared myself some ginger tea since I’m here, to disinfect my body cos of all the crap (as in snacks) that I’ve been eating. Nonetheless, my breakfast, lunch and dinner are still pretty much based on healthy diets; it’s just all the inbetweeners. The night before the reading, I couldn’t sleep. I got out of bed at about half twelve in the morning and started eating Cheerios, which was a huge mistake. I remained awake till about half two in the morning and got up at around six. Ok, sometimes I do not know what I’m doing – or I just cannot control myself, which happens a lot. Do I need a paracetamol? I thought I was stronger than that. I shall just go to bed now.
Insecure about where I am, but actually I do know where I want to be right now. No, not in Toronto.
Sonntag, 14. November 2010
Humbert, Take 2
I love that book. Nabokov knew. I didn’t know kids have sex, not until I first arrived in England in 2002. The twelve or thirteen year old school kids would have sex in the restrooms. The girls would use tons of make-up before they even turn 14. I was shocked, but not in a conservative way. It was just because, in Germany, the kids don’t usually get their first kiss until they’re 15 or 16. Usually that is. That was the moment I started to hate the British youth. Could have been envy in a way, I don’t exactly know. But also jealousy because back then my ex felt attracted to those kids, he must’ve had the same mentality as they did, I don’t know. Or it was a way for him to escape his actual mentality. And I still can’t believe I used to feel bad about myself, I felt like an old outsider, so I started dressing like a young mosher myself. For a while I even identified myself with moshers, but I never really fitted in there. My indifference came a lot later.
The German youth didn’t become like that, not until about 2005 or 2006, I guess, that was when first noticed twelve year olds starting to look like 15 year olds. I don’t know. Maybe the kids have always been that way and it used to be an underground movement and only now they’ve become brave enough to present themselves on the surface. And maybe I do sound conservative. Did I just call it a movement?
I think I’d been a child up till I was about 15. My teenage years began when I was 16 and ended when I was about 22. Spätentwickler is the German term. Still I wonder where my youth has gone. Burn, you youth from today, burn. I am just jealous that you’re young and in love. Took me a while to realize I couldn’t be the same as you. Masturbation mit 11, erster Kuss mit 16, Sex im Alter von 18 ½ und Marihuana mit 23. And you still call me impatient. But ok, Buk used to say that life is about waiting – nothing but waiting. At the age of 11, 12, 13, 14 I had only spent my precious time writing – fucking writing over twenty attempted novels! That was a period in my life. Oh, at least Johnny Rotten came along.
Nabokov knew. How much I hate what Humbert does, he actually defends himself appropriately. He is the victim nonetheless, so you have to feel sorry for him (a good way to avoid feeling sorry for yourself). I don’t know what to say about Lo. And before I start writing biased stuff, I’d rather not comment at all. (But shit, she reminds me of Ellen, except that Ellen has more heart.) Humbert didn’t do anything! Why would a pedophile even CARE about being a parent (even in a possessive way)?
The youth is evil.
I hope this is the last time I ever speak about the rotten youth.
The German youth didn’t become like that, not until about 2005 or 2006, I guess, that was when first noticed twelve year olds starting to look like 15 year olds. I don’t know. Maybe the kids have always been that way and it used to be an underground movement and only now they’ve become brave enough to present themselves on the surface. And maybe I do sound conservative. Did I just call it a movement?
I think I’d been a child up till I was about 15. My teenage years began when I was 16 and ended when I was about 22. Spätentwickler is the German term. Still I wonder where my youth has gone. Burn, you youth from today, burn. I am just jealous that you’re young and in love. Took me a while to realize I couldn’t be the same as you. Masturbation mit 11, erster Kuss mit 16, Sex im Alter von 18 ½ und Marihuana mit 23. And you still call me impatient. But ok, Buk used to say that life is about waiting – nothing but waiting. At the age of 11, 12, 13, 14 I had only spent my precious time writing – fucking writing over twenty attempted novels! That was a period in my life. Oh, at least Johnny Rotten came along.
Nabokov knew. How much I hate what Humbert does, he actually defends himself appropriately. He is the victim nonetheless, so you have to feel sorry for him (a good way to avoid feeling sorry for yourself). I don’t know what to say about Lo. And before I start writing biased stuff, I’d rather not comment at all. (But shit, she reminds me of Ellen, except that Ellen has more heart.) Humbert didn’t do anything! Why would a pedophile even CARE about being a parent (even in a possessive way)?
The youth is evil.
I hope this is the last time I ever speak about the rotten youth.
Samstag, 13. November 2010
Anxieties and Humbert
People just cannot see the indifference. Is this a job well done or is this just my nasty way of keeping things from people? I am, by all means, not under pressure regarding university work. I have been doing so much in advance – writing that is, that I have actually nothing to worry about. I, indeed, need more time to catch up with my readings, though. So, whenever I talk about pressure, it is the pressure I get from…people. I feel like an arsehole for saying that. The reason why I torment myself with that is unclear – I do not want to elaborate either, I simply want to blame my anxieties, even though coldness would fit best, but let’s call it anxieties for now. I’m too scared to go out meet people (false, but never mind).
I like to think that I do not care what others think about me, but in various cases, when I know they are good people and actually care about me, I treat them the way they deserve to be treated (you’ve heard that before, haven’t you?), but even though I don’t find myself caring enough, I’d still torment myself to go through it. Shit, I just exposed myself (true but who cares)!
Back to anxieties: It’s the fact of having to go outside where everyone in the streets appear to be a ruthless arse, trapped in his or her own world and when s/he speaks in public, it’s nothing but complaining, whining or doing other unpleasant rubbish, or talking loudly on the mobile phone about their useless private lives.
When traveling by train, everything is beyond loud; you can’t even listen to your music properly, let alone talk with your friend, because they’d just nod friendly, pretending they’ve heard what you’ve just said. This noise is sick and causes nothing but apathy and What-the-fuck-ever.
I don’t know who I can really make good friends with. Always close before people think I’m nice I would blurt out something very unpleasant which shocks them. For instance when I walked with someone and we encountered a mother telling her daughter off. My soon-to-be-friend said “I hate people talking to their children like that…” and I said “I would’ve beaten them up already.” I just can’t lie about things like that. Or when someone, who thinks I’m shy and delicate, asks me “Do you drink?” and I go “No, I’d rather do drugs, I just don’t get the chance to.” Is this too much truth? Do you still want to know me?
So I have 18 books which I would like to finish by end of December. I don’t know how I am going to manage that. And it’s doing me head in.
I’m reading Lolita, which I’ve always wanted to read, but never got around to. Then I found out Humbert is Ellis’ hero and I got even more interested. It’s a fascinating read – it is. And I feel so bad for having felt relief the moment Charlotte got run over by a car and I couldn’t help feeling happy for Humbert, either. What do I care about Lolita? It’s Humbert and the fact that I can comprehend with his evil ulterior motive. I know it’s perverse on my side. But as I said, I don’t care about this Lolita kid – it’s Humbert.
I like to think that I do not care what others think about me, but in various cases, when I know they are good people and actually care about me, I treat them the way they deserve to be treated (you’ve heard that before, haven’t you?), but even though I don’t find myself caring enough, I’d still torment myself to go through it. Shit, I just exposed myself (true but who cares)!
Back to anxieties: It’s the fact of having to go outside where everyone in the streets appear to be a ruthless arse, trapped in his or her own world and when s/he speaks in public, it’s nothing but complaining, whining or doing other unpleasant rubbish, or talking loudly on the mobile phone about their useless private lives.
When traveling by train, everything is beyond loud; you can’t even listen to your music properly, let alone talk with your friend, because they’d just nod friendly, pretending they’ve heard what you’ve just said. This noise is sick and causes nothing but apathy and What-the-fuck-ever.
I don’t know who I can really make good friends with. Always close before people think I’m nice I would blurt out something very unpleasant which shocks them. For instance when I walked with someone and we encountered a mother telling her daughter off. My soon-to-be-friend said “I hate people talking to their children like that…” and I said “I would’ve beaten them up already.” I just can’t lie about things like that. Or when someone, who thinks I’m shy and delicate, asks me “Do you drink?” and I go “No, I’d rather do drugs, I just don’t get the chance to.” Is this too much truth? Do you still want to know me?
So I have 18 books which I would like to finish by end of December. I don’t know how I am going to manage that. And it’s doing me head in.
I’m reading Lolita, which I’ve always wanted to read, but never got around to. Then I found out Humbert is Ellis’ hero and I got even more interested. It’s a fascinating read – it is. And I feel so bad for having felt relief the moment Charlotte got run over by a car and I couldn’t help feeling happy for Humbert, either. What do I care about Lolita? It’s Humbert and the fact that I can comprehend with his evil ulterior motive. I know it’s perverse on my side. But as I said, I don’t care about this Lolita kid – it’s Humbert.
Sonntag, 7. November 2010
She is close
So winter has officially begun. I’m glad that I’ve managed to spend a few wonderful autumn days in the parks – lonely, but refreshing. Soul and heart are back from the laundry. I guess I am ready, but I doubt I will have fun waiting. I went to see the fireworks with my flat mates last night. Who the hell came up with the idea of inventing fireworks with 3D effects? It was terrifying, but that’s because I’ve never watched a movie in 3D at the cinema. Not sure if I am interested either. I guess I should at least try it out. However, I wouldn’t go watch a movie in 3D on a date, because I’m almost certain that I will puke on his lap. Overall I have no idea what the purpose of 3D is; they are just as bad as nightmares – I already have enough of those.
Reading the rat’s horoscope is gradually beginning to infuriate me. A few days ago I was warned about allergies and I thought it was ridiculous this time of the year, but today I just have no idea where the rashes came from. Today’s horoscope primarily focuses on positive aspects of my love life. Excuse me, what love life? Crushing and despairing – that’s my love life.
Why do I hate small talk with people? When I tell them some good news I see fake smiles indicating “Nice but whatever!” When I tell them something bad has occurred (here comes the worst) they would say “Ah I’m so sorry to hear that.” Shit you are. And people wonder why I’m quiet. I’d rather be laughed at. There is at least something more sincere in mischievousness than when people thoughtlessly use the word SORRY. Dammit, why do I keep finding things to get annoyed about? It can’t be that difficult to just accept little things the way they are. But on the other hand, I have been doing this all my life and I just can’t take it anymore. Regarding my lack of social skills, I guess I won’t ever be able to genuinely laugh with everyone at the same time about the same thing.
I still find laughter and conversations in crowds dreadful. It always feels like those voices, especially the high pitched laughter, are taking your brain apart. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes under your nostrils and on your clothes isn’t even the worst about socializing in the pub. It’s the disorientation. That’s what I get for not drinking. I wish I loved the taste of alcohol and I wish alcohol wouldn’t be that bad for my body. Unfortunately it’s not easy to get hold of drugs, because I wouldn’t mind drugs instead.
God, I sound like Bill Hicks.
I’m almost through with “Master and Margarita”. It is funny, no doubt, but that book changed my mind about using Satan’s appearance in my latest short story. If I have to elaborate, then I’d rather eradicate Satan completely. The last thing I want is to give people the impression that I am into fantasy and horror writing, which I am definitely not. Nonetheless I like version 1 of my story better without the answers. Now that I’ve mentioned Graham’s weak points, he has entirely lost the evil part of him. But that’s what the readers want apparently. For some reason, to me, it feels like a creative writer is not supposed to write like Pynchon or Kafka. We learn nothing about Tristero and we learn absolutely nothing about what crime K. has committed.
Something very cold inside my body always spreads out whenever I write. It’s this sense of detachment that I’ve been familiar with since I was a little girl. When I was young, I always felt like I had a lot of love to give away. And I expressed all my love in handwritten novels. Love, love, love. Up to this day no one had ever really sincerely accepted it or respected it, so it doesn’t feel that special anymore to me. Love, love, love. Alternatively, there have been people asking for it, good people who surely deserved it, but I don’t know how to deal with people with natural sincerity. There’s something so virginal about natural sincerity and I don’t want to taint it. Nonetheless I think I’m very much in need of someone to carefully watch over me so I won’t lose my mind, but I also want to watch over him and witness how he deals with conflicts. Too much to ask – as usual.
Why wouldn’t I want to write 30 novels a year like Philip? I was too shy to point that out last week. What is left for someone who lacks of social skills? It takes something like 2 years to get to know me; I don’t know if anyone’s even interested or have the patience…
I can’t even keep up with time nowadays. Five weeks have passed and I still haven’t taken the chance to talk properly to those people. Where is your charisma? Damn! Attract me! Attract me! Shit. Fuck my brains out. Yell at me! Yell at me for patronizing each of you. I think you have no idea what boredom really is. Why would I talk to a robin voluntarily? Why would I pretend that Thoreau was a secret rebel? Just why…
Lately I noticed that I tend to write stories in third person. I’m sick of all the “I”s in my blog entries. I guess that’s self-explanatory. But even as third person, I seem to be on a huge ego trip, sharing parts and bits, especially my interest in unusual, secretive blokes. I attempt to penetrate their heads in order to find out what they want or what bothers them. I’m not sure how well I did with beautiful protagonist Graham. I mean how many men would trust a girl right at their first conversation together? After all Graham is desperate. Good thing my mind is as dirty as a man’s.
I’m surprised my guest tutor likes the opening of my novel. Ironically she likes my style the best, even though I suck style. Maybe it’s a good thing that she is a woman, because I’m writing about a woman. Another thing that surprised me was that she didn’t pick up on the misogynistic views which my novel reflects. Well, probably because Ellen, my protagonist, is a woman herself. There are so much contradictions going on. My guest tutor says I need to highlight Ellen’s desires and goals and in order to focus on them, I need to become Ellen. Wait a second I’m not a mentally deranged doctor who take blood samples of people before I sleep with them! Oh God, it’s all too heavy.
How will I get this all done in a year? Someone hold me tonight and say no word, just keep my back warm.
Reading the rat’s horoscope is gradually beginning to infuriate me. A few days ago I was warned about allergies and I thought it was ridiculous this time of the year, but today I just have no idea where the rashes came from. Today’s horoscope primarily focuses on positive aspects of my love life. Excuse me, what love life? Crushing and despairing – that’s my love life.
Why do I hate small talk with people? When I tell them some good news I see fake smiles indicating “Nice but whatever!” When I tell them something bad has occurred (here comes the worst) they would say “Ah I’m so sorry to hear that.” Shit you are. And people wonder why I’m quiet. I’d rather be laughed at. There is at least something more sincere in mischievousness than when people thoughtlessly use the word SORRY. Dammit, why do I keep finding things to get annoyed about? It can’t be that difficult to just accept little things the way they are. But on the other hand, I have been doing this all my life and I just can’t take it anymore. Regarding my lack of social skills, I guess I won’t ever be able to genuinely laugh with everyone at the same time about the same thing.
I still find laughter and conversations in crowds dreadful. It always feels like those voices, especially the high pitched laughter, are taking your brain apart. The smell of alcohol and cigarettes under your nostrils and on your clothes isn’t even the worst about socializing in the pub. It’s the disorientation. That’s what I get for not drinking. I wish I loved the taste of alcohol and I wish alcohol wouldn’t be that bad for my body. Unfortunately it’s not easy to get hold of drugs, because I wouldn’t mind drugs instead.
God, I sound like Bill Hicks.
I’m almost through with “Master and Margarita”. It is funny, no doubt, but that book changed my mind about using Satan’s appearance in my latest short story. If I have to elaborate, then I’d rather eradicate Satan completely. The last thing I want is to give people the impression that I am into fantasy and horror writing, which I am definitely not. Nonetheless I like version 1 of my story better without the answers. Now that I’ve mentioned Graham’s weak points, he has entirely lost the evil part of him. But that’s what the readers want apparently. For some reason, to me, it feels like a creative writer is not supposed to write like Pynchon or Kafka. We learn nothing about Tristero and we learn absolutely nothing about what crime K. has committed.
Something very cold inside my body always spreads out whenever I write. It’s this sense of detachment that I’ve been familiar with since I was a little girl. When I was young, I always felt like I had a lot of love to give away. And I expressed all my love in handwritten novels. Love, love, love. Up to this day no one had ever really sincerely accepted it or respected it, so it doesn’t feel that special anymore to me. Love, love, love. Alternatively, there have been people asking for it, good people who surely deserved it, but I don’t know how to deal with people with natural sincerity. There’s something so virginal about natural sincerity and I don’t want to taint it. Nonetheless I think I’m very much in need of someone to carefully watch over me so I won’t lose my mind, but I also want to watch over him and witness how he deals with conflicts. Too much to ask – as usual.
Why wouldn’t I want to write 30 novels a year like Philip? I was too shy to point that out last week. What is left for someone who lacks of social skills? It takes something like 2 years to get to know me; I don’t know if anyone’s even interested or have the patience…
I can’t even keep up with time nowadays. Five weeks have passed and I still haven’t taken the chance to talk properly to those people. Where is your charisma? Damn! Attract me! Attract me! Shit. Fuck my brains out. Yell at me! Yell at me for patronizing each of you. I think you have no idea what boredom really is. Why would I talk to a robin voluntarily? Why would I pretend that Thoreau was a secret rebel? Just why…
Lately I noticed that I tend to write stories in third person. I’m sick of all the “I”s in my blog entries. I guess that’s self-explanatory. But even as third person, I seem to be on a huge ego trip, sharing parts and bits, especially my interest in unusual, secretive blokes. I attempt to penetrate their heads in order to find out what they want or what bothers them. I’m not sure how well I did with beautiful protagonist Graham. I mean how many men would trust a girl right at their first conversation together? After all Graham is desperate. Good thing my mind is as dirty as a man’s.
I’m surprised my guest tutor likes the opening of my novel. Ironically she likes my style the best, even though I suck style. Maybe it’s a good thing that she is a woman, because I’m writing about a woman. Another thing that surprised me was that she didn’t pick up on the misogynistic views which my novel reflects. Well, probably because Ellen, my protagonist, is a woman herself. There are so much contradictions going on. My guest tutor says I need to highlight Ellen’s desires and goals and in order to focus on them, I need to become Ellen. Wait a second I’m not a mentally deranged doctor who take blood samples of people before I sleep with them! Oh God, it’s all too heavy.
How will I get this all done in a year? Someone hold me tonight and say no word, just keep my back warm.
Freitag, 5. November 2010
The archer's crisis
“Why are you reading this?“ asked Jim, pointing at Graham’s William Tell by Friedrich Schiller. “Have you gone all German?”
Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. He was at the café inside Student Union with Jim and Neil.
“It’s not even on the reading list!” Jim shook his head hopelessly.
Neil and Jim started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a strict non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys drew from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home afterwards.
“Anyway”, Jim began, “I did try my luck on Shan last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred the other week…”
Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless, he was one of the best cricket players on the whole Bristol campus. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident athletes. Graham licked his finger to turn the page.
“The odd thing about her is that even when she’s drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.
Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”
“Well, as soon as I tried it on with her, she knew what I was up to and threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”
“Well, obviously not over The Fur”, Neil presumed.
“Bernard would have nailed her straight away…”
Graham twitched after that comment.
“Well,” Jim continued, “after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess.”
Graham closed the book and slammed it down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a student.
“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.
“Rubbish, I guess?” Jim grinned at Graham “How far did you get?”
“He’s about to hit the apple” Graham answered.
“That’s the only exciting part!”
“I’m saving the best part for later.”
On his way home, Graham stopped at Tesco Express to pick up some coffee, mints and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better; on his right a little girl crying uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.
“Hi.” A voice came out of nowhere.
On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test.
“Hello.”
She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale with exhaustion.
“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.
“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”
The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.
“Come on” she said “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”
“I like disfigured faces.”
She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust. “You’re weird” she said.
“Oh, and you’re not? They are your posters after all…”
Graham was next at the till and Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even more than before. Graham felt nauseated. The man at the till scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back.
“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.
“Your thumb.”
Graham quickly turned to leave just to spare himself witnessing the agony. But already before he reached the magazine stand, he heard the closing of the till, the crunching of bone and a shriek.
Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.
“What the hell got into you?”
He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again.
“Nothing, just some precog…, oh never mind!”
The startling noise of the sirens on the main road almost sliced his brains in two like a butcher knife. He thought of his unfinished coursework on Kafka and started to walk away from Shannon.
“Precognition? I get that when a forgotten dream comes true.”
He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few people who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.
“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.
“I…I don’t know. I haven’t had breakfast, yet…”
“I have bowls and spoons…”
“I actually have something important to do…”
“I have a toilet as well.”
She looked slightly irritated and probably felt uncomfortable with his persistence but finally gave in.
He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat. The air held a fragrance that recalled the liveliest notes of a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering a student apartment had suddenly vanished. Down the corridor were two bedrooms, one on each side. One of the doors was open.
“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the open door.
“Find out”, he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The midsummer smell had fused with Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She must have seen Jim’s party pictures on his pin wall; one showing him and Bernard dancing naked at the union, or she had simply smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume. “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”
Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry – all twisted works painted with dark acrylic colours in shades of metal. To Shannon, they probably looked like ominous eel-like creatures with heads resembling either men’s glans or women’s buttocks, and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.
“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.
It sounded like “eel”. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum. Graham licked up the tasteless skimmed milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.
“You lost weight since last term” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face indicating perplexity and curiosity. She quickly looked to her left where the bed was; as if she had missed something and then she looked to her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel. She had had a shower after all.
“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.
“I guess. Why?”
She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I which portrays Satan using Jesus as a bow. The background shows a vast wasteland of piled up, decayed human remains. Jesus’ pose is exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there is no cross, just a string threaded through the wounds of his hands to form a bow. Satan’s hand is tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. His gaze and the gaze of his demons are fixed firmly at the viewer, but the most unnerving facet of that picture arises from the arrow, which is a nail, also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…
“How do you sleep at night?”
“What?”
“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing William Tell with you! In fact, it doesn’t even matter where you are in the room.”
He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”
Awkward silence hung in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty TV screen. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.
“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”
She almost choked on the milk and he saw that milk was coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.
“That was beyond impertinence!”
“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”
She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. His leg started shaking.
“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”
“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”
His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”
He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache.
“I didn’t put it up there. My mother did”, he said finally.
“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.
“I do”, he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”
As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I did.”
It was almost 5 o’ clock. Whilst walking around in the living room, he could hear her in the bathroom. She had told him that if the test was positive, she would not drop out of university and leave Bristol but would make Fred marry her after the final term.
They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.
“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Graham.”
He remained quiet.
She continued “That’s what you get when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”
“You made the first move today.”
“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me”, she smiled. “Other than that I always thought you were a weirdo.”
“And that says a girl who likes Francis Bacon.” He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence.
“You’re weirder.”
A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible.
“I told you, I never used to be like that”, he said. “It’s my new perception on life. I feel no guilt towards what I did. It’s only my mother who says I should. And yet, I pray to her God to go away.”
“Don’t make yourself paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but ultimately it was not your…”
Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but no band showed on the test region. She had completely lost her flow of mind and looked fairly mystified. Maybe she was double-checking that there was truly no band appearing on the test region. None appeared.
-
When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a dull tone of voice, where people failed to listen carefully:
“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”
Graham noticed some people getting impatient. One of the guys started fidgeting with his arrow.
“Stop it or you’ll poke yourself in the eye”, Graham said to him with a serious stare. The guy stopped fidgeting and simply stared back.
“Quiet!” the instructor said “Now, an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”
Graham shuddered. There was no wind.
“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”
The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there were clouds approaching.
“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your cheeks!”
Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensely. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognised a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on his body. It looked like Bernard. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it slantwise up into the sky. The arrow faded to a dot that became lost amongst the sea of white gathering overhead.
“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted.
Everyone was staring at the sky. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.
“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted, but everyone was already running. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn. It was getting windy.
“I won’t tolerate this! You are in trouble. What were you thinking?”
“William Tell”, Graham answered, still laughing.
As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”
“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”
“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go of Graham, who was still grinning from ear to ear. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.
“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.
“What are you mumbling?” As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, and Graham was out through the door. His grin had faded into indifference and he felt how a dark shadow was casting upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and it was still slightly windy. Further down the field was a small millpond where Bernard’s accident took place. Nobody had dared going near the old oak tree ever since. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch.
The arrow had landed near the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a pile of deer dropping.
He fell on his behind. “Joe-fucking-Strummer…”
He watched the snake move back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake slithered back out and disappeared quietly into the water.
He remained sitting and simply stared at the still water. Ever since Shannon left the city, he had been feeling more detached from the world than before. Every now and then she would text him, but he hardly ever replied. She asked whether he had known that her heart would be in pain and she would also text him when she encountered people going through pain, because they reminded her of him. She wrote that if he had been there with her to foretell others’ painful moments, they’d both have lots of fun together. He looked at his phone and there was a new message: “You should come visit me in Devon! I kinda miss our conversations…”
He was trying to remember the last time he was at the millpond and it was indeed two summers ago.
-
Graham was taking care of the campfire whilst Jim, Neil and Bernard were drunk and stoned, laughing on the grass. If the fire went out, it would be utterly dark, since it was new moon.
“If I had a bow and an arrow now, I would shoot right up into the sky” Bernard muttered and the rest carried on laughing, except Graham. Then Bernard continued “William Tell never misses anything. He could even shoot God down.”
Graham smoked the rest of the joint without feeling anything, yet. Nonetheless he could still taste the remaining bitterness of the absinthe on his tongue. Bernard had brought some real Czech absinthe from Prague to test out the hallucinations myth. Graham was not a good drinker and was still sipping at his first glass whereas the others were already preparing their second.
“Come on, Gray, drink up!” Bernard shouted, and he did.
The flickering noise of the fire sounded like cracks in a brick wall and their laughter was just behind it. His head was spinning, his heart racing. He felt nauseated, every part of him started to work slowly as if he had just awoken from anaesthesia. Then his vision blurred and all he could hear was under-water-talk. Suddenly an uncanny feeling surrounded him when he noticed Bernard’s figure rising. Bernard was mumbling something to him, but all Graham heard now was the flicker of the fire or were those cracking noises? All he saw was a blurred, disfigured outline of Bernard’s body.
“Hey” Graham mumbled as Bernard walked away, “Wait…”
Through his blurry vision he could see that he stopped for a while to listen, but then he carried on walking towards the oak tree. He heard the cracking noises repeatedly in his head and tried intensively to concentrate on Bernard. Now he could also hear fractions of Neil’s and Jim’s laughter.
“Bern…!” He wasn’t sure whether he had said it or only imagined it. Through his hazy vision he saw Bernard’s leg disappear underneath the dark branches of the oak tree. That was when Graham began to vomit feverishly into the fire. Now the only clear cracking noises he heard were bones and neck – followed by a splash in the millpond. The laughter had died and the fire had gone out.
-
The water was still peaceful; the grass snake hadn’t come back, yet.
Graham remembered the day his mother started praying for him desperately, saying that he should never interfere with God’s will. Bernard’s death was God’s will. The guilt will go if you have trust in God, she had told him. Ever since then his mentality, not to mention his cognition, had been under surveillance by something he didn’t even believe in, and yet his mother thought her son was a prophet of pain and was destined to suffer torture twice – except she was wrong. He looked at his mobile phone, uncertain about whether to write to Shannon or not.
The area did not change much except that the oak tree was looking more fragile than it did two years ago. For some reason he felt he and the tree had something major in common.
“Hey, sorry I’m late” someone said behind his back.
He got up, turned around and saw Bernard who was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it. The bull’s eye was not red, but black. As they were walking along the field, the colour of the sky had changed to magenta, but neither of them were interested in the peculiarity of the sky.
“It’s been a while, huh? How have you been?” Bernard asked.
“Crap, what else?”
“So as usual then…what’s new?”
Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.
“Nothing.”
“Any girls?”
“There is someone, but...” Graham stuttered.
“What? Are you being a coward again?” Bernard asked, sounding disappointed.
They walked past a beautiful female ballet dancer practicing in an alley of white spruces. Her curly hair dangled like tinsel. Then the disappointment on Bernard’s face had vanished and changed into something familiar and honest.
“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to accept the past.”
They were now walking past a tree feller felling an oak tree with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder.
“Bernard, I tried…” Graham said, unable to finish.
“I know”, he interrupted.
“I could’ve prevented it.”
The magenta sky was darkening to burgundy and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves. It was autumn.
“It’s ok”, he repeated and continued “It wasn’t your fault.”
That was the ultimate key phrase which had almost brought Graham to tears.
“But I still…”
“No” Bernard interrupted again and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held Graham in his arms with the blood still flowing. Graham could feel his friend’s broken ribs pressing against his body.
“I’m sorry” Graham’s voice trembled.
“No, don’t be. Don’t carry around a burden that was never yours.”
As Graham woke up in the middle of the night, he saw the bright moonlight stalking his room like a madman. He grabbed for his mobile to write a text message to Shannon, saying
“How about next weekend?”
Then he sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. He saw that the hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. William Tell never misses anything.
--
Paula Cheung, October/November 2010
Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. He was at the café inside Student Union with Jim and Neil.
“It’s not even on the reading list!” Jim shook his head hopelessly.
Neil and Jim started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a strict non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys drew from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home afterwards.
“Anyway”, Jim began, “I did try my luck on Shan last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred the other week…”
Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless, he was one of the best cricket players on the whole Bristol campus. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident athletes. Graham licked his finger to turn the page.
“The odd thing about her is that even when she’s drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.
Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”
“Well, as soon as I tried it on with her, she knew what I was up to and threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”
“Well, obviously not over The Fur”, Neil presumed.
“Bernard would have nailed her straight away…”
Graham twitched after that comment.
“Well,” Jim continued, “after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess.”
Graham closed the book and slammed it down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a student.
“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.
“Rubbish, I guess?” Jim grinned at Graham “How far did you get?”
“He’s about to hit the apple” Graham answered.
“That’s the only exciting part!”
“I’m saving the best part for later.”
On his way home, Graham stopped at Tesco Express to pick up some coffee, mints and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better; on his right a little girl crying uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.
“Hi.” A voice came out of nowhere.
On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test.
“Hello.”
She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale with exhaustion.
“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.
“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”
The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.
“Come on” she said “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”
“I like disfigured faces.”
She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust. “You’re weird” she said.
“Oh, and you’re not? They are your posters after all…”
Graham was next at the till and Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even more than before. Graham felt nauseated. The man at the till scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back.
“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.
“Your thumb.”
Graham quickly turned to leave just to spare himself witnessing the agony. But already before he reached the magazine stand, he heard the closing of the till, the crunching of bone and a shriek.
Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.
“What the hell got into you?”
He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again.
“Nothing, just some precog…, oh never mind!”
The startling noise of the sirens on the main road almost sliced his brains in two like a butcher knife. He thought of his unfinished coursework on Kafka and started to walk away from Shannon.
“Precognition? I get that when a forgotten dream comes true.”
He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few people who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.
“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.
“I…I don’t know. I haven’t had breakfast, yet…”
“I have bowls and spoons…”
“I actually have something important to do…”
“I have a toilet as well.”
She looked slightly irritated and probably felt uncomfortable with his persistence but finally gave in.
He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat. The air held a fragrance that recalled the liveliest notes of a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering a student apartment had suddenly vanished. Down the corridor were two bedrooms, one on each side. One of the doors was open.
“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the open door.
“Find out”, he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The midsummer smell had fused with Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She must have seen Jim’s party pictures on his pin wall; one showing him and Bernard dancing naked at the union, or she had simply smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume. “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”
Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry – all twisted works painted with dark acrylic colours in shades of metal. To Shannon, they probably looked like ominous eel-like creatures with heads resembling either men’s glans or women’s buttocks, and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.
“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.
It sounded like “eel”. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum. Graham licked up the tasteless skimmed milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.
“You lost weight since last term” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face indicating perplexity and curiosity. She quickly looked to her left where the bed was; as if she had missed something and then she looked to her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel. She had had a shower after all.
“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.
“I guess. Why?”
She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I which portrays Satan using Jesus as a bow. The background shows a vast wasteland of piled up, decayed human remains. Jesus’ pose is exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there is no cross, just a string threaded through the wounds of his hands to form a bow. Satan’s hand is tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. His gaze and the gaze of his demons are fixed firmly at the viewer, but the most unnerving facet of that picture arises from the arrow, which is a nail, also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…
“How do you sleep at night?”
“What?”
“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing William Tell with you! In fact, it doesn’t even matter where you are in the room.”
He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”
Awkward silence hung in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty TV screen. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.
“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”
She almost choked on the milk and he saw that milk was coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.
“That was beyond impertinence!”
“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”
She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. His leg started shaking.
“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”
“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”
His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”
He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache.
“I didn’t put it up there. My mother did”, he said finally.
“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.
“I do”, he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”
As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I did.”
It was almost 5 o’ clock. Whilst walking around in the living room, he could hear her in the bathroom. She had told him that if the test was positive, she would not drop out of university and leave Bristol but would make Fred marry her after the final term.
They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.
“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Graham.”
He remained quiet.
She continued “That’s what you get when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”
“You made the first move today.”
“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me”, she smiled. “Other than that I always thought you were a weirdo.”
“And that says a girl who likes Francis Bacon.” He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence.
“You’re weirder.”
A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible.
“I told you, I never used to be like that”, he said. “It’s my new perception on life. I feel no guilt towards what I did. It’s only my mother who says I should. And yet, I pray to her God to go away.”
“Don’t make yourself paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but ultimately it was not your…”
Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but no band showed on the test region. She had completely lost her flow of mind and looked fairly mystified. Maybe she was double-checking that there was truly no band appearing on the test region. None appeared.
-
When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a dull tone of voice, where people failed to listen carefully:
“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”
Graham noticed some people getting impatient. One of the guys started fidgeting with his arrow.
“Stop it or you’ll poke yourself in the eye”, Graham said to him with a serious stare. The guy stopped fidgeting and simply stared back.
“Quiet!” the instructor said “Now, an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”
Graham shuddered. There was no wind.
“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”
The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there were clouds approaching.
“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your cheeks!”
Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensely. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognised a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on his body. It looked like Bernard. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it slantwise up into the sky. The arrow faded to a dot that became lost amongst the sea of white gathering overhead.
“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted.
Everyone was staring at the sky. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.
“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted, but everyone was already running. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn. It was getting windy.
“I won’t tolerate this! You are in trouble. What were you thinking?”
“William Tell”, Graham answered, still laughing.
As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”
“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”
“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go of Graham, who was still grinning from ear to ear. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.
“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.
“What are you mumbling?” As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, and Graham was out through the door. His grin had faded into indifference and he felt how a dark shadow was casting upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and it was still slightly windy. Further down the field was a small millpond where Bernard’s accident took place. Nobody had dared going near the old oak tree ever since. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch.
The arrow had landed near the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a pile of deer dropping.
He fell on his behind. “Joe-fucking-Strummer…”
He watched the snake move back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake slithered back out and disappeared quietly into the water.
He remained sitting and simply stared at the still water. Ever since Shannon left the city, he had been feeling more detached from the world than before. Every now and then she would text him, but he hardly ever replied. She asked whether he had known that her heart would be in pain and she would also text him when she encountered people going through pain, because they reminded her of him. She wrote that if he had been there with her to foretell others’ painful moments, they’d both have lots of fun together. He looked at his phone and there was a new message: “You should come visit me in Devon! I kinda miss our conversations…”
He was trying to remember the last time he was at the millpond and it was indeed two summers ago.
-
Graham was taking care of the campfire whilst Jim, Neil and Bernard were drunk and stoned, laughing on the grass. If the fire went out, it would be utterly dark, since it was new moon.
“If I had a bow and an arrow now, I would shoot right up into the sky” Bernard muttered and the rest carried on laughing, except Graham. Then Bernard continued “William Tell never misses anything. He could even shoot God down.”
Graham smoked the rest of the joint without feeling anything, yet. Nonetheless he could still taste the remaining bitterness of the absinthe on his tongue. Bernard had brought some real Czech absinthe from Prague to test out the hallucinations myth. Graham was not a good drinker and was still sipping at his first glass whereas the others were already preparing their second.
“Come on, Gray, drink up!” Bernard shouted, and he did.
The flickering noise of the fire sounded like cracks in a brick wall and their laughter was just behind it. His head was spinning, his heart racing. He felt nauseated, every part of him started to work slowly as if he had just awoken from anaesthesia. Then his vision blurred and all he could hear was under-water-talk. Suddenly an uncanny feeling surrounded him when he noticed Bernard’s figure rising. Bernard was mumbling something to him, but all Graham heard now was the flicker of the fire or were those cracking noises? All he saw was a blurred, disfigured outline of Bernard’s body.
“Hey” Graham mumbled as Bernard walked away, “Wait…”
Through his blurry vision he could see that he stopped for a while to listen, but then he carried on walking towards the oak tree. He heard the cracking noises repeatedly in his head and tried intensively to concentrate on Bernard. Now he could also hear fractions of Neil’s and Jim’s laughter.
“Bern…!” He wasn’t sure whether he had said it or only imagined it. Through his hazy vision he saw Bernard’s leg disappear underneath the dark branches of the oak tree. That was when Graham began to vomit feverishly into the fire. Now the only clear cracking noises he heard were bones and neck – followed by a splash in the millpond. The laughter had died and the fire had gone out.
-
The water was still peaceful; the grass snake hadn’t come back, yet.
Graham remembered the day his mother started praying for him desperately, saying that he should never interfere with God’s will. Bernard’s death was God’s will. The guilt will go if you have trust in God, she had told him. Ever since then his mentality, not to mention his cognition, had been under surveillance by something he didn’t even believe in, and yet his mother thought her son was a prophet of pain and was destined to suffer torture twice – except she was wrong. He looked at his mobile phone, uncertain about whether to write to Shannon or not.
The area did not change much except that the oak tree was looking more fragile than it did two years ago. For some reason he felt he and the tree had something major in common.
“Hey, sorry I’m late” someone said behind his back.
He got up, turned around and saw Bernard who was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it. The bull’s eye was not red, but black. As they were walking along the field, the colour of the sky had changed to magenta, but neither of them were interested in the peculiarity of the sky.
“It’s been a while, huh? How have you been?” Bernard asked.
“Crap, what else?”
“So as usual then…what’s new?”
Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.
“Nothing.”
“Any girls?”
“There is someone, but...” Graham stuttered.
“What? Are you being a coward again?” Bernard asked, sounding disappointed.
They walked past a beautiful female ballet dancer practicing in an alley of white spruces. Her curly hair dangled like tinsel. Then the disappointment on Bernard’s face had vanished and changed into something familiar and honest.
“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to accept the past.”
They were now walking past a tree feller felling an oak tree with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder.
“Bernard, I tried…” Graham said, unable to finish.
“I know”, he interrupted.
“I could’ve prevented it.”
The magenta sky was darkening to burgundy and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves. It was autumn.
“It’s ok”, he repeated and continued “It wasn’t your fault.”
That was the ultimate key phrase which had almost brought Graham to tears.
“But I still…”
“No” Bernard interrupted again and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held Graham in his arms with the blood still flowing. Graham could feel his friend’s broken ribs pressing against his body.
“I’m sorry” Graham’s voice trembled.
“No, don’t be. Don’t carry around a burden that was never yours.”
As Graham woke up in the middle of the night, he saw the bright moonlight stalking his room like a madman. He grabbed for his mobile to write a text message to Shannon, saying
“How about next weekend?”
Then he sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. He saw that the hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. William Tell never misses anything.
--
Paula Cheung, October/November 2010
Sonntag, 31. Oktober 2010
Songs of the universe
So the sleep hyperhidrosis comes from the 3 large cups of Tetley’s tea I have a day (5 years ago it used to be 7). Therefore all I had today was just Kräutertee and simply hot water. We’ll see whether I’ll go through another sweating session tonight. During midday I got overwhelmed by tiredness and now a light head ache seems to come and go. I usually deal well with caffeine withdrawal, but I’ve always wondered what I’ be like with drugs. I don’t miss the antidepressants, but on each Wednesday I seem to miss my valerian. I haven’t been taking those since I quit my last job in retail. Even though they do nothing except numbing my distress with an invisible shield for a few hours, I find it easier to breathe with them.
I don’t understand why my facebook doesn’t have a “random play” box for me to tick, which is not fair. Don’t you get lonely when listening to Amanda’s ‘First orgasm’? It’s always the same scenario: Crushing on someone, automatically have hopes and eventually not knowing whether they are taken or not. I’m good at it. There are many moments where I would simply risk everything and let my feelings go to the extreme and I still not let them know. I’m good at it.
Then I would listen to ‘Bug eyes’ and remember the nights where I used to dance till 5 in the morning, then wake up in the late afternoon with a sore neck. I hate all you bastards who are going out. But that’s just mere envy. And I still say ‘no’ when you ask me whether I want to join you. That’s just simply because I don’t want to watch you drink anymore. I’m so jealous of your happiness which I can’t be part of as I can’t relate to what you feel when being drunk.
What do you think of this girl? – A hateful, spiteful little beast swimming in cold pessimism; her muscles are solidifying, but she’s still learning to love again, but only hasn’t had the chance, yet. If only Arthur and Atman would leave her alone, instead of laughing at her all the time when the original version of ‘Hurt’ is on.
Bored of all these people telling you what’s good or bad for you and then being unable to explain to you why it is so. Why can’t I wear a ring that I just found? Why shouldn’t I eat a banana before bed? Why shouldn’t I stare at stars? Do I look like I want to google all that? The worst are the phenomena about healthy eating. After Harvey and Marilyn Diamond, I have decided to go my own way.
I feel very disenchanted with this place and I’m surprised because it seems that I have misjudged my own theories. The song ‘Wrong’ makes me aware of this unhealthy silence on the outside and this heinous YAWP for satisfaction on the inside. And then ‘Home’, on the other hand, puts me back on a linear string. But I’m waiting for my fairy godfather to hold my hand so I can walk confidently.
I don’t understand why my facebook doesn’t have a “random play” box for me to tick, which is not fair. Don’t you get lonely when listening to Amanda’s ‘First orgasm’? It’s always the same scenario: Crushing on someone, automatically have hopes and eventually not knowing whether they are taken or not. I’m good at it. There are many moments where I would simply risk everything and let my feelings go to the extreme and I still not let them know. I’m good at it.
Then I would listen to ‘Bug eyes’ and remember the nights where I used to dance till 5 in the morning, then wake up in the late afternoon with a sore neck. I hate all you bastards who are going out. But that’s just mere envy. And I still say ‘no’ when you ask me whether I want to join you. That’s just simply because I don’t want to watch you drink anymore. I’m so jealous of your happiness which I can’t be part of as I can’t relate to what you feel when being drunk.
What do you think of this girl? – A hateful, spiteful little beast swimming in cold pessimism; her muscles are solidifying, but she’s still learning to love again, but only hasn’t had the chance, yet. If only Arthur and Atman would leave her alone, instead of laughing at her all the time when the original version of ‘Hurt’ is on.
Bored of all these people telling you what’s good or bad for you and then being unable to explain to you why it is so. Why can’t I wear a ring that I just found? Why shouldn’t I eat a banana before bed? Why shouldn’t I stare at stars? Do I look like I want to google all that? The worst are the phenomena about healthy eating. After Harvey and Marilyn Diamond, I have decided to go my own way.
I feel very disenchanted with this place and I’m surprised because it seems that I have misjudged my own theories. The song ‘Wrong’ makes me aware of this unhealthy silence on the outside and this heinous YAWP for satisfaction on the inside. And then ‘Home’, on the other hand, puts me back on a linear string. But I’m waiting for my fairy godfather to hold my hand so I can walk confidently.
Mittwoch, 27. Oktober 2010
I hate you hate me
I hear tiresome laughter. I feel my body dehydrate and my right kidney pushing. I see an attractive guy throw one single random glance at me when saying “tschüß”. And I taste blood between my teeth. You can never be careful with dental floss, not when you have impatient, nervous and angry hands like I do. They have no sense for precision, care or elegance neither does my personality. I had known from the start that it was going to be hard, but not ‘that’ hard. The people are still the same, therefore it didn’t take me long to realize that it was me. I don’t know exactly what effects the last three years in Germany had on me: My comatose state, my uselessness to the family and working in retail being surrounded by peculiar customers. If that doesn’t sum certain things up, then I don’t know.
I seem to be the only one who writes because she has no choice. Writing – being described as fun and simply liking it or having something interesting to tell the world – is no explanation for why someone writes. Not in my book anyway. I’m so glad I’m a full timer, so I’ll have it done with sooner than previously planned. I like the workshops. The seminars are terrible; I hate them, I don’t see the point. I would never ask a writer where they get their ideas from, whether they write to atone, what effects their writings have on them or what the fuck ever. Find the hell out yourselves, for fuck’s sake. Why not ask the writer “How shall I change my personality, so I can write like you?” God, I hate this. Those questions are beyond impertinence as well and there are seriously writers who pretend to be nice and try to explain these things. When talking about writing, there’s nothing to talk about – just write about. God, I hate the seminars, but I’ve already said that. Another week of poetry – damn – not sure if my stupidity is up for that.
Why did I choose that course? – So that I don’t have to speak. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand here. You can talk with me for the whole day alone, but not in groups, I can’t swim in so many different pools at once. It’s not something I expect anyone to understand. I am not quiet.
Call me a cynic, an egoist or an intolerable little monster with self-centered intentions, but I didn’t come to the university to share my viewpoints, feelings and thoughts, but – to fucking get ’rid’ of them. I cannot hide the bruises any longer. I’ve had enough pills; it’s time to face the nightmare either with my fuck finger or a metaphorical axe.
I came because I need help to get what I want and go where I want to go. I don’t care about anything else. I owe my parents money which they’d lent to me so I can work on my life, because my whole self was decomposing back home in anger and I could hear the time bomb ticking. But to my surprise my existential crisis didn’t start until I got here. My detachment has spread itself and my blood feels cold. My writing persona is back. So it doesn’t mean I made a wrong step. That was a necessary step, I need my changes. I just hate the beginning. I hate the beginning of everything. First chapters, new home, new faces, new environment. I don’t adapt myself, unless my body does it by itself, but my soul never adapts to anything. I don’t know if that makes sense.
I hate this place, but I couldn’t without it either, because I’m in love with my current freedom. I finally wrote a worthwhile story since 2006. Though, life isn’t going smoothly at all. There is so much to do, so much to take care of and too many people to think about (I wish I could lock all them fuckers away and just concentrate on my family and what I want to do for them and them only). I’ve really spread myself thin. But here my philosophy tends to kick me in the bum, because I treat people the way they deserved to be treated. There are so many of them, so many I can’t count (up to 3 I can’t count). My paranoia won’t leave me alone either; I think I’m still being stalked. I dug a grave for that person, but he hasn’t fallen yet. I guess I’m supposed to fall in there myself, so my hatred will just become irony. That’s what the German idiom says. Dig a hole for someone and you’ll fall in there yourself. If I fall foolishly, then again, please bravely. The hate won’t go away. No, he will fall in there.
I seem to be the only one who writes because she has no choice. Writing – being described as fun and simply liking it or having something interesting to tell the world – is no explanation for why someone writes. Not in my book anyway. I’m so glad I’m a full timer, so I’ll have it done with sooner than previously planned. I like the workshops. The seminars are terrible; I hate them, I don’t see the point. I would never ask a writer where they get their ideas from, whether they write to atone, what effects their writings have on them or what the fuck ever. Find the hell out yourselves, for fuck’s sake. Why not ask the writer “How shall I change my personality, so I can write like you?” God, I hate this. Those questions are beyond impertinence as well and there are seriously writers who pretend to be nice and try to explain these things. When talking about writing, there’s nothing to talk about – just write about. God, I hate the seminars, but I’ve already said that. Another week of poetry – damn – not sure if my stupidity is up for that.
Why did I choose that course? – So that I don’t have to speak. I don’t know what’s so hard to understand here. You can talk with me for the whole day alone, but not in groups, I can’t swim in so many different pools at once. It’s not something I expect anyone to understand. I am not quiet.
Call me a cynic, an egoist or an intolerable little monster with self-centered intentions, but I didn’t come to the university to share my viewpoints, feelings and thoughts, but – to fucking get ’rid’ of them. I cannot hide the bruises any longer. I’ve had enough pills; it’s time to face the nightmare either with my fuck finger or a metaphorical axe.
I came because I need help to get what I want and go where I want to go. I don’t care about anything else. I owe my parents money which they’d lent to me so I can work on my life, because my whole self was decomposing back home in anger and I could hear the time bomb ticking. But to my surprise my existential crisis didn’t start until I got here. My detachment has spread itself and my blood feels cold. My writing persona is back. So it doesn’t mean I made a wrong step. That was a necessary step, I need my changes. I just hate the beginning. I hate the beginning of everything. First chapters, new home, new faces, new environment. I don’t adapt myself, unless my body does it by itself, but my soul never adapts to anything. I don’t know if that makes sense.
I hate this place, but I couldn’t without it either, because I’m in love with my current freedom. I finally wrote a worthwhile story since 2006. Though, life isn’t going smoothly at all. There is so much to do, so much to take care of and too many people to think about (I wish I could lock all them fuckers away and just concentrate on my family and what I want to do for them and them only). I’ve really spread myself thin. But here my philosophy tends to kick me in the bum, because I treat people the way they deserved to be treated. There are so many of them, so many I can’t count (up to 3 I can’t count). My paranoia won’t leave me alone either; I think I’m still being stalked. I dug a grave for that person, but he hasn’t fallen yet. I guess I’m supposed to fall in there myself, so my hatred will just become irony. That’s what the German idiom says. Dig a hole for someone and you’ll fall in there yourself. If I fall foolishly, then again, please bravely. The hate won’t go away. No, he will fall in there.
Sonntag, 24. Oktober 2010
The truth of existential crisis (Version 1)
or: The archer's crisis
„Why are you reading this?“ asked Jim and pointed at Graham’s book by Dostoyevsky. “Have you committed moral suicide or what?”
Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. Jim and Neil started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys had from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home safely afterwards.
“Anyway” Jim said “I did try my luck on her last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred last week…”
Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless he was one of the best Cricket players on the whole campus in Bristol. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident ‘athletes’. Graham licked his middle finger to turn the page.
“The odd thing about her is that despite of being drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.
Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”
“Well, as soon as I approached her, she seemed to know what I was up to and immediately threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”
“Well, obviously she’s not over Mr Fur.”
“Well after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess!”
Graham closed the book and slammed it loudly down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a customer.
“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.
“Rubbish, isn’t?” Jim grinned at Graham “Whereabouts are you?”
“He’s about to pull the axe” Graham answered.
“That’s the best part!”
“I’m saving the best part for later.”
On his way home, Graham stopped at the off-license to pick up some coffee, mints and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better, on his right was a little girl crying and sobbing uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.
“Hi.” That voice sounded like an arrow through his heart.
On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “You are Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test, which she attempted to hide.
“Hello.”
She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale and enwrapped in exhaustion.
“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.
“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”
The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.
“Come on” she said “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”
“I like disfigured faces.”
She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust, whereas he began to smile. “You’re weird” she said.
“Oh and you’re not? They are your posters after all…” he stated.
When Graham was next at the till, Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even stronger than before. He felt nauseated. The man at the cashier scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back at him.
“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.
“Your thumb!”
As Graham turned around to leave, he heard the closing of the till and a shriek.
Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.
“What the hell got into you?”
He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again all thanks to him grabbing her arm and overflowing her with confusion and a little bit of his frenzy¬.
“Nothing, just some precog…, oh nevermind!”
The sirens on the main road felt like a butcher knife slicing his brains in two. He started walking away from Shannon, who was terribly insulted and chased after him:
“It’s precognition! Do you think I’m stupid?”
He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few girls who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.
“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.
“I…I don’t know. I need breakfast…”
“I have bowls and spoons…”
“I actually have something important to do…”
“I have a toilet as well.”
She looked slightly irritated but finally gave in.
He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat and smelt as fresh as a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering his apartment had suddenly vanished, as she was overwhelmed by how tidy guys could be. Down the corridor were two bedroom doors on each side, one open, the other one closed.
“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the door open.
“Find out”, he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The fresh midsummer smell had combined with the smell of Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She sounded almost aghast like a little girl who had just realized she wasn’t looking at a ladybird but a firebug. She must have surely seen his party pictures on his pin wall or smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume. “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”
Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry which are all fascinating masterpieces painted with dark acrylic colours resembling the shades of metal. But what Shannon saw were probably ominous eel-like creatures with either a man’s glans or a woman’s buttocks as heads and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.
“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.
It sounded like “eel” to him. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum. Graham immediately licked up the tasteless milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.
“You lost weight since last semester” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face somewhat indicating perplexity and curiosity simultaneously. She quickly looked on her left (where the bed was), as if she had missed something and then she looked on her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel on a Christmas tree. She had had a shower after all.
“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.
“I guess. Why?”
She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I. That poster illustrated Satan using Jesus as a bow. Jesus’ pose was exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there was no cross, but a string attached to both of his hands, which ultimately formed a bow. Satan’s hand was tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. He and his demons were staring right at the viewer. The most unnerving facet of that picture arose from the arrow which was also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…
“How do you sleep at night?”
“What?”
“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing Wilhelm Tell with you!”
He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”
Awkward silence was hanging in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty screen of the television. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.
“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”
She almost choked on the milk and he was certain that milk was coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.
“That was beyond impertinence!”
“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”
She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. He looked at his watch and couldn’t overlook the fact that it was time for lunch and not breakfast. His leg started shaking.
“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”
“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”
His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”
He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache and he was tired. “I didn’t put it up there. My mother did” he finally said.
“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.
“I do” he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”
As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I did.”
He carefully leaned his ear against the bathroom door whilst she was inside, urinating. She had told him that if the test was going to turn out to be positive, she would not drop out and leave Bristol but instead would make Fred marry her after finishing the last semester.
They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.
“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Graham.”
He remained quiet.
She continued “Sometimes things end sadly when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”
“You made the first move today.”
“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me” she smiled “Other than that I thought you were a weirdo.”
He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence. A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible. Suddenly he felt numb and nauseated again.
“I told you, I never used to be like that” he said “It’s my new perception on life. And yet, I feel no guilt towards what I did; it’s only my mother who says I should. After all it’s her God who is either too weak or spiteful to eradicate evil. And yet, I pray to him to go away.”
“There seems to be a lot of paradox going on in your life. Your own introspection is making you paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but…”
Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but there was no apparent band on the test region. She had completely lost thread and looked somewhat confused, as if not knowing whether to be happy or disappointed or as if double-checking that there was really no band appearing on the test region. None.
When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a kind of manner, where people failed to listen carefully:
“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”
Graham noticed some people getting impatient. “As if we were kids with no common sense!”
“Now” the instructor said “an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”
Graham shuddered. There was no wind.
“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”
The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there are clouds approaching.
“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your rosy cheeks!”
Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensively. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognized a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on the lower part of his body. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it up into the sky. The arrow disappeared in the clouds.
“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted “What are you doing?”
Everyone was staring at the sky, as if their feet were glued onto the ground; all looking frightened and uncertain about whether to run or not. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.
“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted after which everyone started running away from the field. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn.
“I won’t tolerate this! You are in such a mess. What were you thinking?”
“About Twilight Zone” Graham answered, still laughing.
As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! I think you’re in for trouble, aren’t you? If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”
“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”
“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go off Graham, who was still grinning with a fierce radiance in his eyes. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.
“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.
“What’re you mumbling?” As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, but Graham was already out through the door. The ghastly grin had faded into indifference which ultimately cast a dark shadow upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and the wind had returned. Further down the field was a small millpond where someone had committed suicide before and therefore it was a spot which everyone avoided. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch at. The arrow had landed nearby the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a hissing grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a piece of deer dropping.
He fell on his behind. “Joe fucking Strummer!” He watched the snake crawl back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake crawled back out and disappeared quietly in the water.
***
The area did not change much even though he was certain that at that particular spot was no tree. It was impossible that a tree had grown that high after only two and half years. And who would even care planting a tree there?
“Hey, you’re late” someone said behind his back.
He turned around and saw his old friend Bernard. They’d been friends since the early years of High School. Bernard was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it where the bull’s eye was not red, but black. They were walking through the colourful park; though the colour of the sky was not clear, as it was changing from pink to magenta, but none of them was interested in the peculiarity of the sky.
“It’s been a while, huh? I didn’t expect that you were still talking to me” Bernard said.
“Why wouldn’t I? Well, I’ve been busy.”
“So what’s new?”
Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that rather uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.
“Nothing.”
“Any girls?”
“Found the one, but I can’t have.”
“Your life seems miserable…” Bernard said, sounding disappointed. He looked like he was trying to come up with a resolution. There was a beautiful female ballet dancer in the park practicing the Swan Lake. Suddenly the disappointment on his face faded like ice on fire and then changed into a familiar sinister look.
“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to be who you were.” Bernard’s facial expression had become stern and threatening as he was saying that.
They were now walking past a tree feller, who was killing a tree in the old fashioned way – with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder. The sky had now turned burgundy.
“It’s not easy to believe that there is anything good…”
“Not even the good will?” Bernard interrupted.
“That’s mere illusion. We are still spiteful.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Bernard grinned and it turned out he was only joking. The burgundy sky was darkening and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves.
“What is free will if He knew from the beginning how I was going to decide anyway?”
“That’s all I needed to hear, my friend” said Bernard and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held his friend in his arms with the blood still flowing:
“Now that we’ve come to an agreement, let me tell you something: I want you. I promise you can be you again.”
***
As Graham woke up, it was in the middle of the night. The bright moonlight was stalking his room like an obsessive madman. He sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. The hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. “Do it”, he whispered with a smile evolving on both sides of his mouth.
--
by Paula Cheung, 2010
„Why are you reading this?“ asked Jim and pointed at Graham’s book by Dostoyevsky. “Have you committed moral suicide or what?”
Graham stared at him for a second, but ignored the question and carried on reading. Jim and Neil started talking about Shannon’s leaving do which was the night before. Graham was a non-drinker and therefore it was no surprise that he was a complete outsider at parties or any kind of social gatherings. The only advantage the guys had from Graham’s presence at parties was him driving them home safely afterwards.
“Anyway” Jim said “I did try my luck on her last night, since she broke up with Furry Fred last week…”
Neil chuckled. It was a common thing to laugh at Fred’s nickname. Nonetheless he was one of the best Cricket players on the whole campus in Bristol. Girls like Shannon obviously liked confident ‘athletes’. Graham licked his middle finger to turn the page.
“The odd thing about her is that despite of being drunk, she’s still sober” Jim said.
Neil raised an eyebrow “What do you mean?”
“Well, as soon as I approached her, she seemed to know what I was up to and immediately threw me off the chair. Do you know any girl like that after five shots of tequila? And hell knows how much she’d already drunk before we came!”
“Well, obviously she’s not over Mr Fur.”
“Well after all she finished the relationship! And I just wanted a memorable goodbye-shag! Well, her loss, I guess!”
Graham closed the book and slammed it loudly down on the table. The noise made the waitress spill the coffee whilst serving a customer.
“Gee…” Neil muttered, recovering from the shock.
“Rubbish, isn’t?” Jim grinned at Graham “Whereabouts are you?”
“He’s about to pull the axe” Graham answered.
“That’s the best part!”
“I’m saving the best part for later.”
On his way home, Graham stopped at the off-license to pick up some coffee, mints and paracetamol. In the queue was a couple arguing about whether crinkle fries or curly fries tasted better, on his right was a little girl crying and sobbing uncontrollably because her mother wouldn’t buy her any Hello Kitty chocolate biscuits. Crowded places hold nothing but nasty human scents, he thought, such as the sharp smelling breath of the person behind him and the awful rustling noises coming from crisp bags and shopping bags.
“Hi.” That voice sounded like an arrow through his heart.
On his left he saw Shannon, smiling. “You are Graham, right? You were at my party yesterday.” She was holding a bottle of skimmed milk, a pack of cereal and a pregnancy test, which she attempted to hide.
“Hello.”
She looked hung over; her dark curly hair was worn out and unwashed, the blue of her eyes pale and enwrapped in exhaustion.
“You didn’t have fun last night, did you?” she asked.
“Of course I did. What makes you think I didn’t?”
The queue was moving forward. Graham noticed that the person behind him looked disapproving of Shannon’s presence, as if she was about to jump the queue.
“Come on” she said “you were staring at my Francis Bacon posters for hours!”
“I like disfigured faces.”
She narrowed her eyes in slight disgust, whereas he began to smile. “You’re weird” she said.
“Oh and you’re not? They are your posters after all…” he stated.
When Graham was next at the till, Shannon immediately handed him her shopping. “I’ll pay you back in a minute.” As she disappeared behind the magazine stand, he could smell the sharp breath of the person behind him even stronger than before. He felt nauseated. The man at the cashier scrutinized him before scanning the pregnancy test. Graham stared back at him.
“What are you staring at, young man?” the man asked.
“Your thumb!”
As Graham turned around to leave, he heard the closing of the till and a shriek.
Graham was dragging Shannon out of the shop with such force that she had to push him away to release herself.
“What the hell got into you?”
He noticed that the blue in her iris had come back to life again all thanks to him grabbing her arm and overflowing her with confusion and a little bit of his frenzy¬.
“Nothing, just some precog…, oh nevermind!”
The sirens on the main road felt like a butcher knife slicing his brains in two. He started walking away from Shannon, who was terribly insulted and chased after him:
“It’s precognition! Do you think I’m stupid?”
He stopped and turned back around. She was one of the few girls who wouldn’t confuse precognition with déjà vu, he thought. The sound of the sirens was now far away.
“Do you want to come around my house?” he asked.
“I…I don’t know. I need breakfast…”
“I have bowls and spoons…”
“I actually have something important to do…”
“I have a toilet as well.”
She looked slightly irritated but finally gave in.
He was watching her walk around in his apartment, which looked extraordinarily neat and smelt as fresh as a midsummer morning. Her previous insecurity about entering his apartment had suddenly vanished, as she was overwhelmed by how tidy guys could be. Down the corridor were two bedroom doors on each side, one open, the other one closed.
“Is that your room?” she pointed at the one with the door open.
“Find out”, he said whilst preparing her breakfast. The fresh midsummer smell had combined with the smell of Shannon’s sweetly-scented water lily deodorant.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe you live with Jim.” She sounded almost aghast like a little girl who had just realized she wasn’t looking at a ladybird but a firebug. She must have surely seen his party pictures on his pin wall or smelt his terrible Jean Paul perfume. “You could have warned me that you live with this dirty guy!”
Suddenly he heard her opening the door to his room and spilled the milk. “Hey!” The moment he stormed into his room, he saw her standing there stiffly; staring at his myriad H. R. Giger posters showing biomechanoids, aliens, necronoms and Debbie Harry which are all fascinating masterpieces painted with dark acrylic colours resembling the shades of metal. But what Shannon saw were probably ominous eel-like creatures with either a man’s glans or a woman’s buttocks as heads and numerous naked female reptilian humanoids intertwined and penetrating each other. His room still smelt of the black coffee he had in the morning.
“Speaking of dirty…iew” she said.
It sounded like “eel” to him. He was still standing behind her stiff back, and then he watched her carefully tilt her head as though examining the Anima Mia poster in greater depth. The rigidity in her posture loosened up. She put both of her hands on her hips and they slowly moved towards her bum. Graham immediately licked up the tasteless milk from his hand before it dripped onto the carpet.
“You lost weight since last semester” he muttered after guessing that she was comparing her bum with the eel’s head. She turned around with a questioning face somewhat indicating perplexity and curiosity simultaneously. She quickly looked on her left (where the bed was), as if she had missed something and then she looked on her right. Her curls seemed revitalized; they were dangling like tinsel on a Christmas tree. She had had a shower after all.
“Are you religious?” She pointed at the cross above his bed.
“I guess. Why?”
She looked on her right again, scrutinizing his favourite piece of art by Giger Satan I. That poster illustrated Satan using Jesus as a bow. Jesus’ pose was exactly like on the cross, except that on the picture there was no cross, but a string attached to both of his hands, which ultimately formed a bow. Satan’s hand was tightly clasped around Jesus’ lower body. He and his demons were staring right at the viewer. The most unnerving facet of that picture arose from the arrow which was also aimed at the viewer. Every time Graham looked at it, he saw Satan in his comfortable stance, drawing the arrow back to the anchor point and…
“How do you sleep at night?”
“What?”
“How the hell do you sleep at night?” she repeated “Every time you sit up in bed, you have the devil playing Wilhelm Tell with you!”
He could feel a grin developing at the corner of his mouth and hoped it was an innocent one. “Your breakfast is in the kitchen.”
“You’re weird.”
“I’m not having breakfast at 1pm!”
Awkward silence was hanging in the air while both were sitting on the sofa, staring at the empty screen of the television. There was an ashtray on the table with a No Smoking symbol in the middle of it.
“So uhm, who do you think might have impregnated you?”
She almost choked on the milk and he was certain that milk was coming out of her nose. After a round of coughing and wiping her lower face, she threw a fierce glance at him.
“That was beyond impertinence!”
“As far as I’m concerned, I paid for the pregnancy test…”
She shook her head numerous times and carried on eating her cereal. He looked at his watch and couldn’t overlook the fact that it was time for lunch and not breakfast. His leg started shaking.
“Since you’re so straightforward and direct, let me ask you something.”
“Anything.” His voice sounded nervously high all of a sudden, but she hadn’t noticed.
“I’m not convinced that you believe in God.”
His leg stood still again. She continued “You use Him as the apple on your head…”
He lowered his head and felt how everything around him was turning black. His head had started to ache and he was tired. “I didn’t put it up there. My mother did” he finally said.
“So…you don’t believe in God?” she carefully put the empty bowl on the table.
“I do” he muttered and swallowed a paracetamol. “It’s just – everything was so much easier when I didn’t…”
As she approached him, she said “But nobody’s telling you what to believe in?”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because of what I did.”
He carefully leaned his ear against the bathroom door whilst she was inside, urinating. She had told him that if the test was going to turn out to be positive, she would not drop out and leave Bristol but instead would make Fred marry her after finishing the last semester.
They were both sitting on the sofa again, close to each other like a nervous couple, staring at the strip, which was in Jim’s glass – the one he used for mouth wash each morning.
“I can’t believe it took us two and a half years to become friends, Graham.”
He remained quiet.
She continued “Sometimes things end sadly when no one makes a move. Or it’s simply fate.”
“You made the first move today.”
“Yeah…that was because I had no money on me” she smiled “Other than that I thought you were a weirdo.”
He smiled a genuine smile for the first time in her presence. A minute had passed and there were still no coloured bands visible. Suddenly he felt numb and nauseated again.
“I told you, I never used to be like that” he said “It’s my new perception on life. And yet, I feel no guilt towards what I did; it’s only my mother who says I should. After all it’s her God who is either too weak or spiteful to eradicate evil. And yet, I pray to him to go away.”
“There seems to be a lot of paradox going on in your life. Your own introspection is making you paranoid. I don’t approve of what you did, but…”
Finally one color band appeared on the control region, but there was no apparent band on the test region. She had completely lost thread and looked somewhat confused, as if not knowing whether to be happy or disappointed or as if double-checking that there was really no band appearing on the test region. None.
When Graham’s archery lesson began, he felt alone like never before. Even though he had numerous people around him carrying bows just like him, he couldn’t remember what fellowship felt like or what the significance of it was. Their instructor always spoke with a kind of manner, where people failed to listen carefully:
“Safety and responsibility always come first! Watch your companions and make sure you don’t endanger anyone! And don’t ever shoot bent or broken arrows – self-explanatory…”
Graham noticed some people getting impatient. “As if we were kids with no common sense!”
“Now” the instructor said “an archer, who intends to hit the bull’s eye, must not directly aim at it, but slightly to the side…”
Graham shuddered. There was no wind.
“…Ok, get ready then. First put on your finger and arm protection, then check your bow, the strings and your arrow!”
The blinding sun was decreasing Graham’s attention span. At least there are clouds approaching.
“So. Now get into your comfortable stance and don’t forget you draw the arrow back to the same anchor point on your rosy cheeks!”
Every student had drawn his arrow and was aiming at his target intensively. Graham felt that his target was not 20 yards away, but a lot further. After closing his eyes for two seconds, he opened them again and recognized a man about 25 yards ahead of him with the target painted on the lower part of his body. There was an arrogant smile forming at the corner of the man’s mouth. Graham couldn’t see it, but he knew it. His hands started to shake and sweat was running down his head.
He bent his right knee a little, drew the arrow back tightly and shot it up into the sky. The arrow disappeared in the clouds.
“Oh my God!” the instructor shouted “What are you doing?”
Everyone was staring at the sky, as if their feet were glued onto the ground; all looking frightened and uncertain about whether to run or not. Suddenly Graham felt his cheekbone lifting up to a smile which then evolved into laughter.
“We’ll evacuate this place right now!” the instructor shouted after which everyone started running away from the field. He grabbed Graham tightly by the arm and dragged him off the lawn.
“I won’t tolerate this! You are in such a mess. What were you thinking?”
“About Twilight Zone” Graham answered, still laughing.
As soon as they reached the sports hall, the instructor grabbed Graham by the collar and hissed “Stop fooling around, buddy! I think you’re in for trouble, aren’t you? If anybody gets hurt, you’ll be responsible!”
“Sir, do you think I’d have done that if I had known somebody would get hurt?”
“You’re out of the team!” He finally let go off Graham, who was still grinning with a fierce radiance in his eyes. “And listen to yourself when you speak. You’re absurd!” The instructor turned around and was about to walk into his office.
“Watch your foot…” Graham murmured.
“What’re you mumbling?” As he turned his head back to Graham whilst still walking, he failed to notice the janitor coming along from his right with the cleaning trolley. A heavy groan followed, but Graham was already out through the door. The ghastly grin had faded into indifference which ultimately cast a dark shadow upon his entire face.
He headed back to the empty field even though a voice had just spoken through the loud speakers telling people to steer clear of the field or anywhere near it due to the danger of an arrow. The sun was behind the clouds now and the wind had returned. Further down the field was a small millpond where someone had committed suicide before and therefore it was a spot which everyone avoided. He remembered that it used to be a place where many used to sit and have their lunch at. The arrow had landed nearby the water, head first. As he tried to pull it out of the ground, he got startled by a hissing grass snake which first, before he even noticed, had looked like a piece of deer dropping.
He fell on his behind. “Joe fucking Strummer!” He watched the snake crawl back smoothly into its hole. For a second he had to think of Shannon and biomechanoids. Then the snake crawled back out and disappeared quietly in the water.
***
The area did not change much even though he was certain that at that particular spot was no tree. It was impossible that a tree had grown that high after only two and half years. And who would even care planting a tree there?
“Hey, you’re late” someone said behind his back.
He turned around and saw his old friend Bernard. They’d been friends since the early years of High School. Bernard was wearing a t-shirt with a target on it where the bull’s eye was not red, but black. They were walking through the colourful park; though the colour of the sky was not clear, as it was changing from pink to magenta, but none of them was interested in the peculiarity of the sky.
“It’s been a while, huh? I didn’t expect that you were still talking to me” Bernard said.
“Why wouldn’t I? Well, I’ve been busy.”
“So what’s new?”
Bernard’s enthusiasm and sleaziness revealed something slightly unsettling, especially in association with his entire appearance in that rather uncanny atmosphere. But yet, it all seemed so ordinary at the same time.
“Nothing.”
“Any girls?”
“Found the one, but I can’t have.”
“Your life seems miserable…” Bernard said, sounding disappointed. He looked like he was trying to come up with a resolution. There was a beautiful female ballet dancer in the park practicing the Swan Lake. Suddenly the disappointment on his face faded like ice on fire and then changed into a familiar sinister look.
“You want this madness to stop, don’t you? You just want to be who you were.” Bernard’s facial expression had become stern and threatening as he was saying that.
They were now walking past a tree feller, who was killing a tree in the old fashioned way – with an axe. Each hit on the tree equaled the sound of a thunder. The sky had now turned burgundy.
“It’s not easy to believe that there is anything good…”
“Not even the good will?” Bernard interrupted.
“That’s mere illusion. We are still spiteful.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Bernard grinned and it turned out he was only joking. The burgundy sky was darkening and the trees which they were now approaching were losing more and more leaves.
“What is free will if He knew from the beginning how I was going to decide anyway?”
“That’s all I needed to hear, my friend” said Bernard and there was blood gushing out of the bull’s eye of his t-shirt, but he felt no pain and indicated no kind of alarm. All Bernard did then was smile and held his friend in his arms with the blood still flowing:
“Now that we’ve come to an agreement, let me tell you something: I want you. I promise you can be you again.”
***
As Graham woke up, it was in the middle of the night. The bright moonlight was stalking his room like an obsessive madman. He sat up on his bed and looked straight ahead. The hand was gradually drawing back the arrow. “Do it”, he whispered with a smile evolving on both sides of his mouth.
--
by Paula Cheung, 2010
Dienstag, 19. Oktober 2010
If I fall, I shall fall bravely
I can’t think of anything that’s more difficult than the attempt to connect yourself with other people. It’s even easier talking with faces that emerge from your bedroom wall at night time; except that you feel a little bit scared, as you don’t know what they want. My dreams have been weird lately; I can’t see anything, I only hear people talk even when my eyes are open. I suppose I’ve been at too many crowded places lately where I don’t hear a single word, can’t grasp any coherence or meaning or see the relevance of being there except for getting chewed and swallowed by a mass of chit chatters. And yet…
I haven’t seen the beauty of this year’s autumn, yet. The leaves are still summer green, which makes me think that something is not yet finished, therefore we cannot move on. Whatever it is, bring it to an end: kill it, smother it and let me move on… Unfortunately it looks like I won’t make it to Edinburgh this autumn.
Why would I read my Chinese horoscope every day although hardly anything applies to me and I don’t believe a word? Well, horoscope does inspire me in a way (not in a self fulfilling prophetic way); it helps me in becoming more optimistic sometimes. Ever since the day I made friends and enemies with Schopenhauer, I lack on positive thinking and the bright side of life is nothing but an ephemeral sweet taste on my tongue, which I cannot enjoy, because I know it will go away. This doesn’t, however, mean that I am a pessimist or a cynic and I know darn well how to defend myself. I see many beautiful things, but it doesn’t mean I want to share them with you or anyone (, although I will at some point). I will show what it’s like being in love and not knowing it, not realizing it, not wanting to realize it. I am no realist, either; I approach everything without expectations. So whoever wants me to speculate, will end up hearing some paradox. If there’s no evidence, there’s no truth in whatever you are looking for. This is why I don’t trust biographers, especially those who have never known the person they’re ‘biographing’ about. If anyone ever dared writing about me and my life after my death, I will haunt him/her until he/she loses his/her mind and becomes me. I’m on about possessing their wretched bodies.
I smile a lot behind your back. If I love you, I smile at you through Plexiglas. If I think I care about you, I text you this “:)”. Again, does this make me a bad person?
Hate is usually spite-driven and when your dear friends tell you to let go, you say it’s not possible, because it’s not you holding on to the hate. (This is a lie, now that I admitted, there’s no need to elaborate is there?)
The only good thing about going out is watching beautiful, charismatic men and imagining waking up beside them.
I am very close to knocking on my new neighbour’s door and tell him that I need to fix his goddamn squeaking bathroom door with Johnson Johnson’s baby oil. But my dilemma is: I don’t want to introduce myself tonight. It’s a boy apparently and I don’t feel l look good enough tonight to knock on any boy’s door to say “hello” or “I need to fix something in your room!” Confidence, you bitch.
I’m on the verge on fighting this evolving obsessive compulsive disorder which is in my head. It is a very inappropriate family heritage (from my mother’s side). This is why I won’t ever let anyone call me a mother, except in my short stories, where a so-called Laurie is the actual me as a mother.
Is it paranoia or low confidence? Why does it matter? And who cares? What’s so fun about knowing my fears, if I can’t know yours? I’m sick of elaborating and my constant attempt to motivate you and push you seems to lead me towards a dead end. I don’t even know where the hell you have brought me. Where is my fairy tutor of life when I need him?
I don’t think there’s anything worth preserving about humanity – except music and fiction. There’s nothing the future species should learn about us, except untrue stories based on truth, perfection, love, passion and hatred. And they won’t know whether what they read is based on real life. They will think Sister Carrie was a hard working woman, Dorian a narcissist and that Arkham Asylum was a real institution for the crazy. But there are so many different Batman stories, many suggesting a ambivalent background and they won’t know which to believe. Don’t we feel the same? I think life has always been like this – nothing but lies, false beliefs and (the only optimistic :) existentialism. Existentialism makes us ask fewer questions about what we don’t know. The important thing is you. It’s all about you and having control over yourself.
I’m trying hard not to slip. Taking triple caution is not life, but paranoia at its finest. If I fall, I shall fall bravely...
I haven’t seen the beauty of this year’s autumn, yet. The leaves are still summer green, which makes me think that something is not yet finished, therefore we cannot move on. Whatever it is, bring it to an end: kill it, smother it and let me move on… Unfortunately it looks like I won’t make it to Edinburgh this autumn.
Why would I read my Chinese horoscope every day although hardly anything applies to me and I don’t believe a word? Well, horoscope does inspire me in a way (not in a self fulfilling prophetic way); it helps me in becoming more optimistic sometimes. Ever since the day I made friends and enemies with Schopenhauer, I lack on positive thinking and the bright side of life is nothing but an ephemeral sweet taste on my tongue, which I cannot enjoy, because I know it will go away. This doesn’t, however, mean that I am a pessimist or a cynic and I know darn well how to defend myself. I see many beautiful things, but it doesn’t mean I want to share them with you or anyone (, although I will at some point). I will show what it’s like being in love and not knowing it, not realizing it, not wanting to realize it. I am no realist, either; I approach everything without expectations. So whoever wants me to speculate, will end up hearing some paradox. If there’s no evidence, there’s no truth in whatever you are looking for. This is why I don’t trust biographers, especially those who have never known the person they’re ‘biographing’ about. If anyone ever dared writing about me and my life after my death, I will haunt him/her until he/she loses his/her mind and becomes me. I’m on about possessing their wretched bodies.
I smile a lot behind your back. If I love you, I smile at you through Plexiglas. If I think I care about you, I text you this “:)”. Again, does this make me a bad person?
Hate is usually spite-driven and when your dear friends tell you to let go, you say it’s not possible, because it’s not you holding on to the hate. (This is a lie, now that I admitted, there’s no need to elaborate is there?)
The only good thing about going out is watching beautiful, charismatic men and imagining waking up beside them.
I am very close to knocking on my new neighbour’s door and tell him that I need to fix his goddamn squeaking bathroom door with Johnson Johnson’s baby oil. But my dilemma is: I don’t want to introduce myself tonight. It’s a boy apparently and I don’t feel l look good enough tonight to knock on any boy’s door to say “hello” or “I need to fix something in your room!” Confidence, you bitch.
I’m on the verge on fighting this evolving obsessive compulsive disorder which is in my head. It is a very inappropriate family heritage (from my mother’s side). This is why I won’t ever let anyone call me a mother, except in my short stories, where a so-called Laurie is the actual me as a mother.
Is it paranoia or low confidence? Why does it matter? And who cares? What’s so fun about knowing my fears, if I can’t know yours? I’m sick of elaborating and my constant attempt to motivate you and push you seems to lead me towards a dead end. I don’t even know where the hell you have brought me. Where is my fairy tutor of life when I need him?
I don’t think there’s anything worth preserving about humanity – except music and fiction. There’s nothing the future species should learn about us, except untrue stories based on truth, perfection, love, passion and hatred. And they won’t know whether what they read is based on real life. They will think Sister Carrie was a hard working woman, Dorian a narcissist and that Arkham Asylum was a real institution for the crazy. But there are so many different Batman stories, many suggesting a ambivalent background and they won’t know which to believe. Don’t we feel the same? I think life has always been like this – nothing but lies, false beliefs and (the only optimistic :) existentialism. Existentialism makes us ask fewer questions about what we don’t know. The important thing is you. It’s all about you and having control over yourself.
I’m trying hard not to slip. Taking triple caution is not life, but paranoia at its finest. If I fall, I shall fall bravely...
Montag, 11. Oktober 2010
A wannabe smooth talker - I want to get you to bed
Disorganization has never been a friend of mine, ever, but only just now I feel that I have become the personification of incompetence – socially inept and scandalously crushing on every third man that walks past. Who am I? Hesse? Observations, after a while, turn you into a paranoid. People have been wondering why I’m good at assessing other people, as in their personalities and so on. All this comes from simply observing. Biased, as I am and others have already accused me of being, I judge the look and the first impression someone gives me. In many occasions the eyes or the firmness of the facial expression tell a hell of a lot about the person. You study the wrinkles (are they disturbed or happy?), the colour of the eyes, the width and form of the mouth, the size of the forehead and the structure of the hair. Others would say the hands or the way they walk, but I don’t find these annotations interesting. The truth is we all judge the book by the cover, but what we don’t do is talk about it; we give it a try and then we dare to say the first word about this person. And again, biased as I am, I tend to write the first word about the person without having spoken to him or her – does it count as speak? I don’t like the term ‘speak’ anyway, because you usually need people around, which then means, you’re talking about that person behind his or her back. So you write it, which is easiest and most convenient, because you have no clue who reads it or whether they are being pointed out at all (as I don’t use names).
As I have implied earlier, regarding to socializing, bonding and small talk starters, I never make the first step. And this ultimately leads to people prejudging me, calling me quiet, shy and inaccessible – because I don’t do small talk. Right, that was a lie. I have been small-talking (by force) the last couple of weeks, otherwise how the hell can I ‘bond’?! Goddammit.
The most terrible thing is that I find myself disagreeing and not tolerating other people’s statements and feigned enthusiasms. I know, how dare I say something like that…
I am sociable. I am sociable only when you are ready to talk with me about your deepest fears and regrets and not about your favourite colour, because I will find out eventually when I see the colour of your mobile phone or Ipod. This is the main reason why people prejudge me and say I’m inaccessible? Truth is: You are inaccessible to me.
My horoscope is right, I am prone to nervousness. And I have been, especially in the last couple of weeks. Therefore I am not surprised that I’ve been overwhelmed by blackouts, as if I’ve completely lost my mind, my memories, as though my soul has just left my body out of dread and unutterable shame.
I have been trying to figure out where my current insomnia comes from. First I thought it was my ‘crushing’ on people, but it can’t really be since I’ve been eating cake. Or am I eating out of exasperation, because I can’t have my love candidates? I suppose so. When I’m hopefully and optimistically in love, I usually lose three to four kilos in two days (the inner fire of love and desire, you know?).
The other scenario would be my Dickens notebook on my night table. The moment before hypnagogia, you often start to hear noises, but what I hear are words – my own words usually. Then I grab for my mobile phone for light and scribble into my Dickens notebook. There are people who think too much which results sleeplessness, it’s because they don’t bother putting those images back in order or down into words. As for me, after 2 or 3 hours of random scribbling (ca. 3:30am), I feel more relieved and less overflowed by words; words that I could never ever speak. When you speak you forget. I already forget while I speak, which explains my catastrophic blackouts. I often get them when someone asks “How are you?” or “Do you smoke?” I hate these questions, because the answers aren’t as simple as you think; it’s not YES or NO, GOOD or BAD – these are definitely not my answers, because they are dishonest and inaccurate! And very often I cannot be bothered explaining anything to you, unless you seem dear to me, which doesn’t always happen! I’ve always envied smooth talkers. They should keep a Dictaphone with them as a notebook substitute. Unfortunately they don’t care enough.
I don’t write because I think it’s fun; it’s because I have no choice.
As I have implied earlier, regarding to socializing, bonding and small talk starters, I never make the first step. And this ultimately leads to people prejudging me, calling me quiet, shy and inaccessible – because I don’t do small talk. Right, that was a lie. I have been small-talking (by force) the last couple of weeks, otherwise how the hell can I ‘bond’?! Goddammit.
The most terrible thing is that I find myself disagreeing and not tolerating other people’s statements and feigned enthusiasms. I know, how dare I say something like that…
I am sociable. I am sociable only when you are ready to talk with me about your deepest fears and regrets and not about your favourite colour, because I will find out eventually when I see the colour of your mobile phone or Ipod. This is the main reason why people prejudge me and say I’m inaccessible? Truth is: You are inaccessible to me.
My horoscope is right, I am prone to nervousness. And I have been, especially in the last couple of weeks. Therefore I am not surprised that I’ve been overwhelmed by blackouts, as if I’ve completely lost my mind, my memories, as though my soul has just left my body out of dread and unutterable shame.
I have been trying to figure out where my current insomnia comes from. First I thought it was my ‘crushing’ on people, but it can’t really be since I’ve been eating cake. Or am I eating out of exasperation, because I can’t have my love candidates? I suppose so. When I’m hopefully and optimistically in love, I usually lose three to four kilos in two days (the inner fire of love and desire, you know?).
The other scenario would be my Dickens notebook on my night table. The moment before hypnagogia, you often start to hear noises, but what I hear are words – my own words usually. Then I grab for my mobile phone for light and scribble into my Dickens notebook. There are people who think too much which results sleeplessness, it’s because they don’t bother putting those images back in order or down into words. As for me, after 2 or 3 hours of random scribbling (ca. 3:30am), I feel more relieved and less overflowed by words; words that I could never ever speak. When you speak you forget. I already forget while I speak, which explains my catastrophic blackouts. I often get them when someone asks “How are you?” or “Do you smoke?” I hate these questions, because the answers aren’t as simple as you think; it’s not YES or NO, GOOD or BAD – these are definitely not my answers, because they are dishonest and inaccurate! And very often I cannot be bothered explaining anything to you, unless you seem dear to me, which doesn’t always happen! I’ve always envied smooth talkers. They should keep a Dictaphone with them as a notebook substitute. Unfortunately they don’t care enough.
I don’t write because I think it’s fun; it’s because I have no choice.
Donnerstag, 7. Oktober 2010
My attempt to sound like Charles Bukowski (letter to Ellen)
“Ellen, oh Ellen,
Now I wonder why on earth am I worthy of drinking beer with the skeletons in your closet. Did I say skeletons? I’m sorry, there is just one - a bad one and he has almost consumed all my beer in the fridge. You can say he is a very demonic fellow, but it’s not me he wants to talk to. So how about, my dear, dear Ellen, to trap him? He knows something about you and he is certain you are dying to find out, but you lack of the courage to let him pursue you. Or you might let him pursue you, but you have no interest in paying attention. Why, dear Ellen, why?
I lied; there are actually two demonic skeletons. And you have to invite both in. I have no idea how much space you have in your apartment. You have serious things to chat about and believe me you are strong enough to win this argument. You women are always stronger and shrewder to whip us men verbally. I do resent you for having passed this demonic device on to me but on the contrary I am grateful for your trust even though you talk to me like I am an academic which I am not. Ellen, oh Ellen, I personally take no advantage of having the eyes open, but sometimes you have to be clear about other people’s intentions. There is one skeleton with horns which is going to destroy you if you don’t open your eyes; and the other skeleton with wings which has its arms wide open for you and you refuse to perceive. You have the most exciting threesome my lady. I felt flattered about your hidden message, but I am no savior, I don’t even want to save me.
Don’t lose your grip, as I have. A woman should never do worse than I. Don’t let your spirit leave your body during sex. The pain is over.
With all my love,
Hank”
Now I wonder why on earth am I worthy of drinking beer with the skeletons in your closet. Did I say skeletons? I’m sorry, there is just one - a bad one and he has almost consumed all my beer in the fridge. You can say he is a very demonic fellow, but it’s not me he wants to talk to. So how about, my dear, dear Ellen, to trap him? He knows something about you and he is certain you are dying to find out, but you lack of the courage to let him pursue you. Or you might let him pursue you, but you have no interest in paying attention. Why, dear Ellen, why?
I lied; there are actually two demonic skeletons. And you have to invite both in. I have no idea how much space you have in your apartment. You have serious things to chat about and believe me you are strong enough to win this argument. You women are always stronger and shrewder to whip us men verbally. I do resent you for having passed this demonic device on to me but on the contrary I am grateful for your trust even though you talk to me like I am an academic which I am not. Ellen, oh Ellen, I personally take no advantage of having the eyes open, but sometimes you have to be clear about other people’s intentions. There is one skeleton with horns which is going to destroy you if you don’t open your eyes; and the other skeleton with wings which has its arms wide open for you and you refuse to perceive. You have the most exciting threesome my lady. I felt flattered about your hidden message, but I am no savior, I don’t even want to save me.
Don’t lose your grip, as I have. A woman should never do worse than I. Don’t let your spirit leave your body during sex. The pain is over.
With all my love,
Hank”
Samstag, 2. Oktober 2010
Knife
Even though I said to myself that I would only sleep 7 hours max, I know it’s not going to work when being ill with a terrible headache caused by fake smiles, simulated enthusiasm and Heaney’s Finders Keepers about old lame poetry before bedtime. So those 11 hours of sleep last night felt indeed good, although I almost did have eleven hours of nightmares. I can’t exactly remember how it began, but according to the Inception movie, no one knows. I only remember being in some kind of a Chinese Street Market with my cousin and my aunt. I got all excited when seeing Jacky Chan working in a soup shop and said to my cousin that I had to get a picture with him! She started to look very grim as if indicating that I really shouldn’t. “I feel something bad coming upon us if we approach him.” “Bullshit”, I said. The moment I got close to him, there was a bunch of armed men with knives, swords and other sharp weapons. We started to run for our lives, but suddenly my cousin had disappeared as if she had only been a guardian angel to warn me. My aunt and I reached an empty park and the moment I knew we weren’t safe, a man jumped out of the bushes and stabbed her. I think I had forced myself to open my eyes several times, but every time I fell back to sleep, I was right there again. There lay my aunt and I could do was running for my own life. I saw a white building which looked pretty much like a hospital. As soon as I entered, I was wearing a white patient’s gown with a knife in my hand. Doctors and nurses were staring at me with dread, gesturing with their hands to indicate I should let go off of the knife. Liev Schreiber appeared, looking like he was my psychiatrist. “What are you doing?” I felt so endangered that I grabbed for some patient’s throat and threatened to kill him. I did cut him slightly and I think I would have actually killed him if it hadn’t been someone jumping me from behind.
There was a little love story behind that, too, but I cannot remember.
So. Evaluate.
There was a little love story behind that, too, but I cannot remember.
So. Evaluate.
Mittwoch, 29. September 2010
The biscuit (First draft - Ellen's ladder )
That biscuit only diverted her for a tiny moment. Other people would just step into their shoes and go outside. She thought a nice taste of something sweet would occupy her brain for a while. Maybe she had been lying to herself all this time without realizing it. Once you’ve got what you want, you are not convinced about your dreams and desires anymore. Though, she was different. Ever since that dream she had come to realize that she was ready for something which she had dreaded for so many years. Sex. Ellen was a type of girl who was aware of her mistakes and thoughtlessness; despite of all the unpleasant consequences she had experienced and caused by herself. If nothing happens in your life, you tend to breed something exciting, something evil no matter what the outcome is. You prepare yourself a strawberry surprise and jump straight in like a thirteen year old. Taking risks after demonstrating years of innocence and loveliness which are by no means genuine or authentic of any kind, but at least good enough to deceive people around you. But she had never jumped into a strawberry kiss; not with thirteen, not with fourteen. She only remembered having almost choked on pure absinthe at the age of 24. That biscuit’s aftertaste reminded her of a pink lady apple she had never bitten into before, but she had always imagined the taste.
There was a boy sitting on her bed that she hadn’t noticed before. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“What are you talking about? Have you got a blackout again or something?”
She noticed the song Hole to feed in the background. “I don’t know.”
“Come here.” He reached for her hand. Their legs were touching and she could feel his warm breath on her ear.
“Who are you?”
“Shush…” His kisses on her neck made her twitch upon which he embraced her tightly. If electricity and lust were the same, this is how it would feel, she thought, remembering that feeling again. Then unexpectedly, she pushed him violently down the pillow and sat on top of him.
“Just so you know buddy, you’re here cos I want you and not the other way round. You got it?!”
Before he had the chance to nod, her lips were already pressed hard against his. Something uncontrollable was steering her emotions so that her violent acting was impossible to stop. Her head was burning up and her heart racing; the biscuits’ aftertaste was still there, but reminded her of absinthe. She felt like taking a bite into the pink apple. He screamed.
Maybe it wasn’t sex she was dreading, but something else. That was because in her past, sex used to be easy. For her, it was important to make more effort than the man did. Due to that way of thinking she was convinced to have been a man herself in her previous life. In this lousy life she was punished by karma – there was no doubt. If you don’t notice yourself coming, there is no reason of having them in first place, she thought. There was nothing more embarrassing than having him to remind you that you had come and that you could stop already. Some men don’t care how you feel as long as they feel your come on their hands, mouth or dick. So…best you can do is make them feel good, forget about yourself during sex, girl.
She was close to forgetting what it felt like in general. She even dreaded her vibrator, ice spoons and tampons. What does it mean if a woman fears her own gender, not to mention her genitals? She didn’t understand why all the good men say that women are the stronger gender in the world. She also wondered why exactly those men were her best friends and not her lovers.
On that particular autumn evening she was thinking about her previous two lovers from the past. That was so long ago, it felt like it had never happened, as if she was still a virgin. Both had caused blood parties; makes you wonder how often you can be a virgin in your life?
In Germany they say “alle gute Dinge sind 3” – basically meaning, keep trying and the third time things will work out fine. For her that was a matter of luck, but she was dreading it anyway.
Ellen couldn’t remember what happened to that boy from the night before. He was gone when she woke up. What happened? The bed felt cold. She felt paralyzed. Sounds of the universe was still running in the background on repeat.
The truth is: There has never been a third. The strawberry kiss is only imaginary. I’m just staring at my shoes.
There was a boy sitting on her bed that she hadn’t noticed before. “What are you doing here?” she asked.
“What are you talking about? Have you got a blackout again or something?”
She noticed the song Hole to feed in the background. “I don’t know.”
“Come here.” He reached for her hand. Their legs were touching and she could feel his warm breath on her ear.
“Who are you?”
“Shush…” His kisses on her neck made her twitch upon which he embraced her tightly. If electricity and lust were the same, this is how it would feel, she thought, remembering that feeling again. Then unexpectedly, she pushed him violently down the pillow and sat on top of him.
“Just so you know buddy, you’re here cos I want you and not the other way round. You got it?!”
Before he had the chance to nod, her lips were already pressed hard against his. Something uncontrollable was steering her emotions so that her violent acting was impossible to stop. Her head was burning up and her heart racing; the biscuits’ aftertaste was still there, but reminded her of absinthe. She felt like taking a bite into the pink apple. He screamed.
Maybe it wasn’t sex she was dreading, but something else. That was because in her past, sex used to be easy. For her, it was important to make more effort than the man did. Due to that way of thinking she was convinced to have been a man herself in her previous life. In this lousy life she was punished by karma – there was no doubt. If you don’t notice yourself coming, there is no reason of having them in first place, she thought. There was nothing more embarrassing than having him to remind you that you had come and that you could stop already. Some men don’t care how you feel as long as they feel your come on their hands, mouth or dick. So…best you can do is make them feel good, forget about yourself during sex, girl.
She was close to forgetting what it felt like in general. She even dreaded her vibrator, ice spoons and tampons. What does it mean if a woman fears her own gender, not to mention her genitals? She didn’t understand why all the good men say that women are the stronger gender in the world. She also wondered why exactly those men were her best friends and not her lovers.
On that particular autumn evening she was thinking about her previous two lovers from the past. That was so long ago, it felt like it had never happened, as if she was still a virgin. Both had caused blood parties; makes you wonder how often you can be a virgin in your life?
In Germany they say “alle gute Dinge sind 3” – basically meaning, keep trying and the third time things will work out fine. For her that was a matter of luck, but she was dreading it anyway.
Ellen couldn’t remember what happened to that boy from the night before. He was gone when she woke up. What happened? The bed felt cold. She felt paralyzed. Sounds of the universe was still running in the background on repeat.
The truth is: There has never been a third. The strawberry kiss is only imaginary. I’m just staring at my shoes.
Dienstag, 28. September 2010
Tunnel vision + Part II
September 14th 2010
It’s hard to enable my head to think of any further solutions, conclusions and suggestions. Whenever I look straight at someone they seem to shrink into a tunnel vision, as if I am in the middle of a panic attack. Dyspnea, nausea and sore muscles – thinking about everybody although I’d rather have each single one gone. Sometimes I wonder why hand out so much generosity, effort and loveliness, even though I know exactly what I’d rather spread. I don’t feel good after treating someone nicely and neither do I after mistreating someone. It’s all about my stupid philosophy: Treat each one the way they deserved to be treated. Though, very often I am kind although I shouldn’t be. It’s all out of control now. There is a huge problem I don’t know how to deal with, which is: I always keep my word. It’s not that I ever want to make a promise, but those promises just pop out of my mouth accidentally, because I don’t know what else to say or what else to do, because I hate awkward silence towards the end of a conversation and this is where I would end up saying unwillingly “Let’s have Chinese before I head off” or “Maybe we can have another coffee before I go…” AND I DON’T WANT ANY OF THESE. Why would I make promises if I knew I was going to suffer for them? Panic attack, because I’m on the verge of going crazy and because I can’t hold my breath any longer. It’s not that I’m really crazy; I’m only getting uncontrollably impatient with demonstrating my irrationality, abstractness and monstrosity. Why is it that we never know each other perfectly? There is a very simple answer to this. People think what they are and what they feel is worthless and not worth talking about; if it’s self pity then of course not. They think by keeping everything to themselves, makes them more mysterious, but it doesn’t, if you never open up.
Though I don’t always keep my word, I preview the person’s aura and I would start classing his or her veracity and truthfulness. Some don’t care and pretend they care.
---
September 28 2010, Part II – Emptying bowel
It’s been five days now and that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach has finally gone. As I said I had no expectations. Once you have experienced your ups and downs, it’s difficult to feel excited about changes in your life. Most importantly, you know you need these changes in order to get on with your life. So if you enter a new world with no expectations and no proper excitement, you end up feeling slightly scared and insecure about what is going to crash upon your head. I felt nauseated and there was this tunnel vision again decreasing my eyesight and perception; my entire body strength had gone. All I had to do when checking my circulation was to lift my hands and see whether I was trembling. The nasty iron fist of disillusionment had been trying to knock me unconscious again. Two weeks ago I was wondering where I was and what the hell I was doing. I had no idea who those people around me were or whether I really knew them, not to mention me. Is this really my mind and body? If so why do I constantly see a different girl in the mirror staring back at me? How much I hate to admit, the past three years felt like I’ve been comatose and I’ve only just opened my eyes again. During that coma I was collecting pieces from the past; my own rubbish that had polluted my perception. I recycled them, hoping that they would stink a little less. The only things I couldn’t recycle were my anger and self-loathing. The moment I opened my eyes I knew. Self-awareness, wakefulness and polluted perception. The woman in the mirror is a 26 year old student whose job is to clean up some mess, but she has not a damn clue how.
Now that I have my own room and space, I hope I can finally be the one that I am and always have been ever since the cut of the umbilical cord. Light blue.
It’s hard to enable my head to think of any further solutions, conclusions and suggestions. Whenever I look straight at someone they seem to shrink into a tunnel vision, as if I am in the middle of a panic attack. Dyspnea, nausea and sore muscles – thinking about everybody although I’d rather have each single one gone. Sometimes I wonder why hand out so much generosity, effort and loveliness, even though I know exactly what I’d rather spread. I don’t feel good after treating someone nicely and neither do I after mistreating someone. It’s all about my stupid philosophy: Treat each one the way they deserved to be treated. Though, very often I am kind although I shouldn’t be. It’s all out of control now. There is a huge problem I don’t know how to deal with, which is: I always keep my word. It’s not that I ever want to make a promise, but those promises just pop out of my mouth accidentally, because I don’t know what else to say or what else to do, because I hate awkward silence towards the end of a conversation and this is where I would end up saying unwillingly “Let’s have Chinese before I head off” or “Maybe we can have another coffee before I go…” AND I DON’T WANT ANY OF THESE. Why would I make promises if I knew I was going to suffer for them? Panic attack, because I’m on the verge of going crazy and because I can’t hold my breath any longer. It’s not that I’m really crazy; I’m only getting uncontrollably impatient with demonstrating my irrationality, abstractness and monstrosity. Why is it that we never know each other perfectly? There is a very simple answer to this. People think what they are and what they feel is worthless and not worth talking about; if it’s self pity then of course not. They think by keeping everything to themselves, makes them more mysterious, but it doesn’t, if you never open up.
Though I don’t always keep my word, I preview the person’s aura and I would start classing his or her veracity and truthfulness. Some don’t care and pretend they care.
---
September 28 2010, Part II – Emptying bowel
It’s been five days now and that uncomfortable feeling in my stomach has finally gone. As I said I had no expectations. Once you have experienced your ups and downs, it’s difficult to feel excited about changes in your life. Most importantly, you know you need these changes in order to get on with your life. So if you enter a new world with no expectations and no proper excitement, you end up feeling slightly scared and insecure about what is going to crash upon your head. I felt nauseated and there was this tunnel vision again decreasing my eyesight and perception; my entire body strength had gone. All I had to do when checking my circulation was to lift my hands and see whether I was trembling. The nasty iron fist of disillusionment had been trying to knock me unconscious again. Two weeks ago I was wondering where I was and what the hell I was doing. I had no idea who those people around me were or whether I really knew them, not to mention me. Is this really my mind and body? If so why do I constantly see a different girl in the mirror staring back at me? How much I hate to admit, the past three years felt like I’ve been comatose and I’ve only just opened my eyes again. During that coma I was collecting pieces from the past; my own rubbish that had polluted my perception. I recycled them, hoping that they would stink a little less. The only things I couldn’t recycle were my anger and self-loathing. The moment I opened my eyes I knew. Self-awareness, wakefulness and polluted perception. The woman in the mirror is a 26 year old student whose job is to clean up some mess, but she has not a damn clue how.
Now that I have my own room and space, I hope I can finally be the one that I am and always have been ever since the cut of the umbilical cord. Light blue.
Sonntag, 5. September 2010
Vertigo
It has been a summer of mutant ladybirds – friends who have transformed; a summer of hundreds of snails attempting to cross the pathway – friends needing you to guide. And sometimes instead of guiding, you grab them and just take them from A to B, just to have it done with. Of course it’s wrong, because they still have no clue where they are at. Hardly anyone does. You draw all possible sorts of maps, leave crumbs before you enter the labyrinth yourself and they wouldn’t do a thing. I don’t want to do this anymore.
I hate feet, but there are days where I would sit there, put my feet on my desk and stare at my toes for a while. I wouldn’t talk to them like Uma Thurman, I would just observe them and imagine they are people, like school kids standing outside in the schoolyard. The only interesting things about my feet are my big toes, as both are non-conformists, and this ultimately makes me feel proud. There is a big gap between each of my big toe and the little toes, as if the little toes are a group of soldiers about to shoot that outsider of a big toe. Once I was told that the big gap means you’re a loner, an outsider that not only soldiers would shoot at. And if your toes are all happily close to each other (including the big toe), you are a clingy bastard. This is the only think I notice when looking at other people’s feet. Earlobes are interesting, too, you know.
Lately I’ve noticed how much of my life energy work seems to rob. Every time I leave work, I feel how it has sucked me dry, leaving me a bull’s head ache and the need of throwing up, as if I hadn’t breathed for an entire day. Then I start to feel dizzy at the cinema, dizzy whilst reading on a vehicle and dizzy in a badly aired room. Imagine someone has put you on a boat, the water isn’t still and never will be and you find it hard to stand on both feet, to keep your eyes open, especially for a whole day, but you still need to focus on everything around you. The only thing you look forward to is the day where you can jog, do your sit-ups and pushups. On days like these I’m fine – very fine. And currently days like these occur only once a week.
This state of vertigo… I am only waiting to throw up on your feet, have a good laugh at you whilst you stare at me like I’m crazy. I am not, I’m just sad that I cannot be an astronaut.
I am not scared of heights; it’s motion sickness. My eyes have changed; they seem weaker than ten years ago. Lately whatever my eyes transport to my brain makes me feel nauseated. I do sports. I sleep with window open. I read without any problem. So is it my circulation, my heart of simply exhaustion?
Vertigo, no I’m not scared of heights, at least I think so. I want to climb mountains and stand on the roof top. It’s just motion sickness. Too many pictures, too many movements – or are my eyes low-functioning?
Tired and hating everything about you. I don’t know why I still present gratitude despite of everything I blame you for and accuse you of, as if I really care what you think. Maybe there are too many good people around and I always give you what you deserve, no matter how difficult or arduous it might be.
Fuck you good will.
I hate feet, but there are days where I would sit there, put my feet on my desk and stare at my toes for a while. I wouldn’t talk to them like Uma Thurman, I would just observe them and imagine they are people, like school kids standing outside in the schoolyard. The only interesting things about my feet are my big toes, as both are non-conformists, and this ultimately makes me feel proud. There is a big gap between each of my big toe and the little toes, as if the little toes are a group of soldiers about to shoot that outsider of a big toe. Once I was told that the big gap means you’re a loner, an outsider that not only soldiers would shoot at. And if your toes are all happily close to each other (including the big toe), you are a clingy bastard. This is the only think I notice when looking at other people’s feet. Earlobes are interesting, too, you know.
Lately I’ve noticed how much of my life energy work seems to rob. Every time I leave work, I feel how it has sucked me dry, leaving me a bull’s head ache and the need of throwing up, as if I hadn’t breathed for an entire day. Then I start to feel dizzy at the cinema, dizzy whilst reading on a vehicle and dizzy in a badly aired room. Imagine someone has put you on a boat, the water isn’t still and never will be and you find it hard to stand on both feet, to keep your eyes open, especially for a whole day, but you still need to focus on everything around you. The only thing you look forward to is the day where you can jog, do your sit-ups and pushups. On days like these I’m fine – very fine. And currently days like these occur only once a week.
This state of vertigo… I am only waiting to throw up on your feet, have a good laugh at you whilst you stare at me like I’m crazy. I am not, I’m just sad that I cannot be an astronaut.
I am not scared of heights; it’s motion sickness. My eyes have changed; they seem weaker than ten years ago. Lately whatever my eyes transport to my brain makes me feel nauseated. I do sports. I sleep with window open. I read without any problem. So is it my circulation, my heart of simply exhaustion?
Vertigo, no I’m not scared of heights, at least I think so. I want to climb mountains and stand on the roof top. It’s just motion sickness. Too many pictures, too many movements – or are my eyes low-functioning?
Tired and hating everything about you. I don’t know why I still present gratitude despite of everything I blame you for and accuse you of, as if I really care what you think. Maybe there are too many good people around and I always give you what you deserve, no matter how difficult or arduous it might be.
Fuck you good will.
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