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 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.

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

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...

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.

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”

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.