MODERN TALKING

We’re all dumb nowadays. We play deaf and use our hands for speaking. We speak in signs, in keyboard ciphers, multiplying witnesses and intermediaries on the way. Our conversations have become more meaningful, less ephemeral. They are more than just the fodder for thought and memory. They’re dangerous, like everything that never disappears. Once you write something down, it starts living its own life – a butterfly-effect one, full of repercussions and interpretations. You can’t deny anything anymore, not in the safe, old-fashioned, “I-never-said-that” kind of way. Yes, you did! Look, idiot! LOOK what you SAID!

As ridiculous as it sounds (or reads), YES! We have lived to the day when conversations can be seen, but not heard. And therefore they can be misunderstood to one’s heart’s desire.. After all, they are only valid in real time and never after. And only at that very time can they be understood. And only by those involved. And sometimes they simply can’t be and that’s that. 

Lots of limitations, wouldn’t you say? This modern sign language is most people’s second, not first, remember? And therefore, no one’s ever as good at using their hands for speaking as those less fortunate ones, not given any other choice.

So maybe it’s not worth saving your breath and involving hands in conversations, hiring expensive intermediaries who charge you extra every time you're mis-taken. Maybe writing down the IT you MEAN should be banned. It’s no use. Recall the limitations. Recall the many times you’ve failed.

But you still LIKE it. Can’t argue with that.

Save your breath (if you like) and feel free to use your hands to communicate. But do it properly and directly. Face to face, hand in hand, skin on skin. That’s what your hands are really for. And maybe, but just maybe, you'll find an application for your mouth, too. And a slip of the tongue will earn you a small fortune rather than cost one.

THE DAY BEFORE

Her mind grows sharp. She’s not edgy though. She’s calm. And she’s not cold. She’s cool. She’s all water.

Water in an ocean. A deep, blue ocean. Calm and cool.

But when the time comes, she’ll be a flood.

KEEP THE STREETS EMPTY FOR ME

Driving after dusk and seeing merely five cars in forty minutes (!) must activate the brain-baby maker.

Only a few on their way someplace they have to be or someplace they want to be. Did that mean that everybody else was already there? I am about to make quite an unfortunate division into those happy and unhappy ones on that basis. He who is where they have to be is unhappy; he who is where they want to be is happy. 

But those empty streets beg for explanation. Happiness keeps some people home as they need not to look for it anymore. And the other lot, stricken by lack of happiness, are stranded in the lesser evil of having a place to stay rather than a home. They may have stopped looking. Empty streets, as a result.

Having said this, shouldn’t the happy go out and brag about what they have found? Shouldn’t the unhappy go out and seek their happiness? Perhaps… they are all stranded in some way? And maybe those on their way are running away, in fact? Maybe, those heading someplace they don't want to be should go elsewhere?

I don’t know about them all. I was one of those on the move but I wasn’t running away. I wasn’t in the least bit unhappy though I had not reached my destination by then.

In my case having to go and wanting to go meant exactly the same. I was getting closer to where I was heading. At that time it defined happiness for me. Just drawing nearer.

A MATTER OF TIME

Driving unleashes thoughts. I was driving the other day, driving and thinking. Thoughts would jump at the opportunity to flow freely, as usual when unguarded.

Best moments get disturbed by time. Time that is up makes you down. It never stops but stops you. Remember grown-ups coming in when you were having the best time ever? When you were engaged in something spectacular with or without those other kids? You needed to stop and get back to the boredom you had been successfully relieving by your doings.

The other day, I was engaged in what I can only call a perfect conversation, an ultimate adult game. Sedative voice, leisurely pace. And the dearest eyes close enough to sink in them beyond rescue. Suddenly, it was the time to go. Go back. But was it “back”? Only if where I was is “forth”. And it sure is.

Time was up… getting me down again. I remember my childhood thoughts when I was disturbed and made to stop playing. These have remained the same, as core things do: “One day it will all change. One day I won’t have to go.”

It will. I won’t. You’ll see.

UNDER THE WEATHER

If I were to point at one force ruling the world, it’d be the weather. Recent days have once again proved that she’s alive and kicking. I myself have been kicked hard several times already. Some would probably say: "poked", but to my mind, that’s not enough said.

In winter no driver can feel safe, especially one like me: a false beginner in her first year and first wheels. That's no discovery. I do have winter tyres, a few defrosters and some experience. But what I also have is no sense of space around the car, a moody gearbox and no idea what to do in times of crisis. And this, you must admit, counts as a worthy discovery. Yet, since I refuse to feel guilty of my misfortune or admit the limitations, I see no other way but blame it all on the weather. This unruly fool seems to take pleasure in doing mischief. And she doesn’t just go for random, occasional victims, but aims at doom and disaster of all mankind. 

This will teach you, she seems to be saying, but have ever asked yourselves the question: “teach us what”? Well, it's a reminder that we should take her seriously rather than ignore the powers she obviously has or even try to dethrone her by dispersing clouds with planes and the like. No amount of sand or salt can  magic away her majesty the ice queen. No wood or coal can give out enough warmth to melt the heart beating under her snow-white coat. No spell or prayer will do. None of the weather's doings can even be predicted with a comforting degree of accuracy. Well done, wouldn’t you say? I’m impressed. And respectful. Regardless of some of the foregoing, which might easily serve as evidence to the contrary.

Winter seasons are no power plays, they're corrective periods. The weather demands respect and disciplines both the reckless and the rebellious. All that without a fair trial and the benefit of the doubt? Yeah well. With a little bit of twisted reason, one might even say it’s a kind of natural selection. A right only mother nature has a monopoly on. And she sure is exercising this right.

What can be done, then, apart from just being obedient? Well, it seems to me that certain creatures have found one good way after all. It seems worth trying to go to sleep and wait until raging mother nature quenches her hunger with a satisfactory number of brats. The moment she finally does... has a name. Spring it is. There will be much rejoicing on my part when it arrives this time. More than usual. Well, if I'm lucky enough to actually see it coming.

GROUND ZERO

Odd.

I’m not there even. Not even there. Am I not? Oh I am. Zero tolerance.

I’ll come, always. Always in (a) second.

What floats on water? The current cipher. The love.

That’s how you lose your voice. That’s how you lose.

2 x 1006

Do 2 much, go 2 far. Dare 2 try. You won’t get far. Consequences in 2 faces spit, but not 2 long. Cos it’s the very last of years. 2 times thousand and six.

Run 2 your life, it's never 2 late (Can’t have your cake and eat it, 2). It won’t last long.. 2 short now 2 regret. Cos it’s the very last of years. 2 times thousand and six.

HIDING WHERE YOU'LL FIND ME

You can do one thing only. Ready or not. Like it or not. You just can’t do anything else. And you’re going crazy cos it’s never finished. You are. In a state, ununited. Put the thing away, drop it, smash it. It’ll be back soon.

The highlights of their days are trivial. Every talk is small. You can't be bothered. And when you are, you’re with them in the flesh; spirit fixating on the one and only something. In circles. Over and over again. Again, again, again and again. It’s never gone. You are.

It's like love, this strive for perfection. So you can only be alone. It's like love, a scary thing. So you crave company. Someone like you, only simpler. An embrace in which you could hide and never get out. The let’s-call-it understanding, the warmth of seeming to be-long. But you won't be-long. Soon it will be back.

I never asked for it. Crap. Artist. Artisan. You name it. Congratulations, yeah right. Like it's something to CongRatulAte uPon.

ARTERIES

I didn't dare cycle in the forest yesterday. I was too scared. I trusted that fear in the way you only trust the irrational – totally.

It was the heart that made me so afraid of going the usual way, the way down. Irrational. So I listened. ”Don’t make waves, don’t make yourself(,) a clot," I heard. ”You trusting me is you trusting you.” Irrational. I listened again. And so I stuck to the main arteries that time.. No going against the flow, no risk of anything jumping out from behind the arch of the aorta.

I let the heart pump me out and about in the same direction as the rest of the school. Upstream, but not against the stream. A rush of blood to the head? No, a levelled, balanced flow.. That's how I reached the brain cells. But they are so hopelessly useless in explaining fears and trusts. All they can make you do is stand up to something by playing it down or follow it by rationalizing.

I trusted the heart, not the brain. I don't believe what people say.. that trust needs to be well-earned, and fear – well-grounded. That there must be experience involved. Real trust is, by nature, sudden and instinctive. And it's given lightly. Otherwise, I make it acquirement, fossilization, lie. Real fear is just as immediate, inexplicable. Otherwise, it's only a phobia.

I can only trust a world in which trusts and fears are irrational. I also feel it's not the only way they are connected. Cos I fear that trust.

"IT'S ALL THE STREETS YOU CROSSED, NOT SO LONG AGO.."

One of the most absorbing dreams I’ve ever dreamt took place in the early 70s. Took time is more like it. What a misfit I was in my twenty-first century out-fit.. But I felt right in (the) place. I took a good look and an even better breath of the forty-years-younger air and headed to visit my eighteen-year-old parents. That’s what I'd travelled in night-time for. And I knew exactly where to find them.. After all, in thirty years' time the very same red-brick high school would become my own.

I had that dream a few good years ago, but only now do I feel that I was born too late. Not because of the dream alone. Not because I enviously wish I had been there to appreciate the then music, the fashion. Not because things were rarely made in China, of plastic. Not even because there was lots of post, not post-. Why(,) then? Visuals – somewhat monochromatic, tastes – macrobiotic. It was okay to be a virgin. Of any kind. Things were rated, harder to get.. It required effort to have. A hobby, a girlfriend, a whatever.

Shouldn’t the “now” go all red to hear that..? Knows no shame, so.. no. But flamboyant as it is.. just look.. it pales. In contrast. In comparison.

HOW TO HAVE FUN AT HOME?

The question mark takes it into consideration. Makes it a serious quest(ion).

Back from work. There’s light, there’s air, there’s company. Artificial, artificial, artificial.

There’s stuff to do. But I won’t do it. It’s either neither or both, which makes the (s)hook of the head turn (out) in the right direction. Not sinister, not this time. There’s intelligence going artificial. Still.

There’s more(s). An awful lot. Can one be less free than within the more and more of free-dom? And shouldn’t there be in(tro)verted commas on that one? Okay, crooked.. enough, I follow. There should be some more.

There’s a 'happy' meal to try to eat, my head chop-chopper reminds me. Not merry, not this time. At l(e)ast.

...

There's thoughts parking. Indicating.. right..? I keep me company. Caution indicated.

NG

Yes, Angie is explosive. And it is not solid. But is this the matter of choice, really? The not-solid Angie cannot be the rolling stone you see.. It only is what it is: a liquid, and a trans-parent one. And so it flows, both assuming and sculpting the shape of the surroundings. If you don’t mishandle, it will never go off. Needs to be hit, dropped or shaken.. forced to send the carefully manufactured, neighbouring molecules into the neverwhere. And Angie prefers to apply itself elsewhere, assist those with hearts under attack, really. Slowly disperse in their mouths, sweet and acrid in taste (they say). Bring them some moss to rest upon. Or to chew and spit out, but nevermind.

Yes, Angie is explosive. And it is not solid. But it's active. And this is the matter of choice.

REAL TIME

I want nothing. No thing can prevail and no(t) one shall. Arm’s length and shortness of sight. Nowhere.. now here.. such a fine, fine line. The now is what matters. And it(s) matters.

Don’t visualize what should only be felt, what can get imagined at the very merry least. The know-how, the can-do. Don’t you all have it? Don't you have it all? So fuck the show. And tell.

WYSIWYG?

What you see is what you get? No. Not always. Not this time. Maybe not ever. I wanted to be made. Please turn a blind eye to this homophonic layer suggesting certain connotations. So I have been made.. into a little (bit of a) scribe, a little (bit of a) project coordinator, interpreter, translator, secretary, junior advisor.. a little (bit of) whatnot. I am an assistant, so I assist in this a-little-bit-of-this(,)a-little-bit-of-that kind of way. And I’ve just concluded that it cannot be more obvious why I’m not a manager.. What a bout of self-awareness, huh? Triple huh. This awareness is no reflection on me though.. Aaah, so I have managed some little thing after all..

I’m also a language learner, you know, you knooow.. But this myself has made myself into. What you see is what you get? Again, hell no. With this language, you can forget the sense of sight. So I can see, store, recall. So what? It won’t stop the sound in its tracks. And it’s the sound that I'm chasing, at breakneck speed and yet.. Too always too slow I am.. Androids might dream of electric sheep, but dragons won't stop for hitchhikers.

PANTA RHEI

Look. No use crying in the shower. It’s a waste of many good tears someone could otherwise have noticed. Transparent liquid? Must be water. All look, but who tastes what looks like the obvious? Why taste it for salt? No use. It all goes down the same drain anyway.. salt or no salt.. shit or no shit.

Look. Something has been spilt. Passive. I have spilt the something. Active. I'm crying over the something. Active. Present. Continuous.

Look what I've done. I’ve wasted time. I've wasted "water". All down the drain.

"SHE'S A MAN-EATER.."

The other evening. We are lying on the bed, me mourning over the father getting rid of all the charcoal remnants. No barbecue party then. No two’s company. The sister turns on her usual uplifting mode. "- Hey, let’s make a fire instead," says she. And then, "- I’ll cut your fingers off and we'll roast them, what say you?" An uplifter? Yes. And no.. I hear the familiar click as the head projector starts a frantic slide show.. Not again! It's all in front of me. I get desensitizied, have my fingers cut off, sprinkled with spices, grilled and served together with French fries, French salads and a cruelly inviting smile of a French waitress. Now, would that dish look or smell any different from those featuring other kinds of red meat? Not at all. And so I wouldn’t be able to tell that it was actually myself I was having for dinner! Well, unless it was my left hand that lacked fingers and I had nothing to hold the food in.

It goes without saying how uncomfortable the whole idea made me feel. Still, it's not a revelation that what is known as me is just as edible as those creatures portioned and served on my plate every Sunday. How funny.. You might even know you’re made of this.. luscious meat and that it’s consumed in some cultures, but the moment of realization results in a wave of nausea anyway. Well, self-disgust it was in my case.. At that very point, I wanted to call it all off, spare the sausages and become a vegetarian. It suddenly punched me right between the eyes that one should only eat raw, unprocessed food. This leaves.. leaves, fruit and vegetables (for most) and maybe fish and dairy such as milk or eggs (for some).

If you can’t bring yourself to eat your food raw, you shouldn’t have the right to process it, you shouldn’t have the right to eat it. I think that whatever you have to kill and process first is NOT suitable for human consumption. And quite probably, this is the only healthy way of thinking. Fair enough, at least for those not wanting to be treated like somebody (something) else’s prospective meal. Eating meat is eating what you too consist of. It is a yes to cannibalism.

Having said this, I didn’t practice what I've just preached, not that very night. I’m still a man-eater and therefore.. a hypocrite. But I had to drink a lot of wine to be able to swallow the meat we finally roasted. And I didn’t pick the dessert hanging down from the nearby apple tree.. Instead, I knelt down (read: bowed) and looked for some unattached fruit in the evening dew. This deed isn't much, I know, but I have nothing else to say for myself for now.

MAYBE, BABY

Only a few days ago I celebrated my being exactly three months gone. What a happy occasion, a real shower of memories, (to) the best of my recollection. But.. nobody has noticed yet. And so there is this one question knocking about my brain.. Shouldn’t it be beginning to show? Shouldn’t it.. by now? Well, it does, but not the way it should.

Foreign as he is to me, this little monster I am carrying around, we hit it off and have been friends ever since. Or so I thought. Would a friendly creature keep you up at night and round off your stomach? Would he grow on and in you with such velocity and bent? Not being for this world yet, would he cry for your full time and attention? Would he kick so soon, so.. hard?

Looks like this self-indulgence he’s performing on me is far from symbiotic. No fruit will be born, sorry. I have a parasite. An unborn teenager on speed.

Terminate.. then? Hasta la vista, baby? “I’ll be back”, clatters the kicker in Morse code. Well, I’ll wait for the labour then and see if I can bear it. I might even want to keep the thing, should I find resemblance. I probably will. Six months to go and he’s already like the mom-me. A troublemaker.