I’m tempted to write about how much this means to me. I really am. But then again, should I? I mean, who’s going to read to this? People are going to judge me? I don’t know. I feel terrible about all of this. And I can’t even begin to think about what “this” it. Strange, isn’t it? I know. The perks of being a human being. A man. A woman. A complicated walking thing. Yes, sucks. I know. But to be honest with you that wasn’t the point. Of all this I mean, of this nonsense. And not, the life part. That is a bigger nonsense that I couldn’t even try to put into words. Even images wouldn’t be accurate enough. No, what I mean is, gosh, where am I going with this? Well, okay. Let’s start again. Something happened recently. Something terrible, or something really good, depending on perspectives. And that’s the thing – I am both perspectives. I can’t say whether or not I’m pleased, or sad, or mad. Whatever. I can’t say anything anymore, about me, that is. And this, this impression, this feeling. This means a lot to me. Somewhere somehow, in a way, that’s what real freedom is. How? you’d ask. Well hold on a second. Close your apps and settle your phone down. Look at me and think. Just imagine you react to something without any preconceived moral, knowledge, rule of thumb or whatever the fuck, sorry, crossing that fuck out, or whatever else you could think of. Imagine reacting to something as if it was the first time you ever saw such a thing, as if you were back to being a child, not caring about oil, politics, psychopaths, cold pizza, whatever. Just imagine. Do you see what I mean? Continue reading
Oh boy. You know what? Someone recently came to me and asked, “why in the world are you still doing that?”
Now, I must concur, it is a relatively broad question, and a tough one to answer at that. But it was mostly aiming at the fact that I keep on writing and sending out lines out right into the webspace. Why do I keep doing that? I have absolutely no idea, I just do.
But they also pointed out, and rightfully I think, that having a better (ie more regular) online presence would help. The truth is, I can’t write all day, every day. Even if I wished to, I couldn’t. That’s not the way my brain works. However, it was explained to me that having a social media for people to keep tabs on whatever it is that I’m doing, writing, thinking, could be a good idea. I’m not sure about that, and I’m not sure about how to manage it all. But life’s too short not to have a facebook page, right?
So why don’t you come on out and join me? Let’s be friends, foes, drinking buddies, whatever.
Find me at https://www.facebook.com/jerkwithwifi/
“I’ve had a hard time sleeping these past few nights.”
“Is that why you’re acting so weird?”
“Actually, more than just these past few nights.”
“And actually, more erratic than weird.”
She stood up from her stool, drew it closer to him and sat again. There was an echo, but nothing in sight which could have caused it. Stranger things have been known to happen.
“What’s up?” she asked.
He sighed heavily, probably unsure as to what he should answer. The pause was of those moments you think will never end.
“I … I think I don’t even know. You know?”
“And here I was thinking you couldn’t get any weirder.”
“You don’t seem to know about compassion.”
“I think you ought to talk about empathy here. But nevermind. What do you mean, you don’t know?”
He sighed again, but differently. Can difference be similar? That was the sort of question floating about in his head; things like that had been torturing him his whole life. Until then; until now, he thought. Continue reading
There’s order in doing housework. Whether it is vacuuming, doing the dishes, cleaning up the sofa or folding clothes. There’s something sensible about it. Almost tangible. You put socks up to dry, boxers, wonder if the clothesline will manage to hold. There’s nothing more than that; weight, strength, time. You take another, a pair of jeans. Upside down, and you grab them by the ankles, or where your ankles should be. Even like that, there’s something meaningful. Logical. You wonder if someone should do the same for you; grab you by the ankles and put you up somewhere to dry out. But you’re not wet. You’re not. This is where sense leaves; the clothes need their place up there, they’ve deserved it. You haven’t. Continue reading
There! I said it! I don’t fucking want to be here anymore, and yes, I know, it was my choice to begin with. But that’s beside the point. And it’s like they say, pick your fucking poison. Make you bed and fucking sleep in it. Whatever crappy saying there’s to talk about this works I guess. Continue reading
It was there, at that moment, under the bright lights, that it finally dawned on me. I had a big moment of clarity. Although clarity is not exactly accurate. But you get the idea. I was sitting there, watching them but not watching them, the mic in front of me turned on, and each and every last one of them waiting for me to go on, to say something new, something interesting, something they will add to their notes, bring back home, read and re-read, ponder on, or just throw away. They expected that out of me, it was implicitely stated, agreed, there was no choice. I had to do it. I did. But just out of principle, out of instincts. Nothing more but mechanics. Continue reading