Tuesday, September 26, 2006

Everything ends

People die.

It's true. Of course we die. Nothing is for ever. Even the mountains were once born, spawned from the magma of creation. And the mountains must also bend their white head to the sand and become the sand like their father-mountains before them did.

Of course we die. There are wars. There are conflicts. There are viruses and bacteria and AIDS and guns. And there are freak-accidenst like getting a golf-ball in your head whilst reading Atlas Shrugged. Of course we die.

And yet, when death comes to us, in a vicinity we can comprehend, not war-struck Africa or plagued Southern America, but just a few miles east of us, we are totally and utterly shocked.


Not because we ever thought we would last forever. We know we won't. We are shocked because we now see, fully, without any room for doubt, that death is a sporadic bitch. Death wears a pink bolero and she has nice boobs. She keeps men uneasy because she has no plan, no agenda, no set of motion they can ever fathom, and she scares the shit out of women because they know the danger of someone on a tune that no one else can relate to.

Death comes. Planless. Not on a schedule. Not with a calender or a watch.

She takes the life of a young man falling of a balchony, suddenly, devistatingly.

Did this young man help her? Did he give her a hand to ensure his own end?

He might have.

We will never know. As well as we will never know him.

Probably, weighing the simpleness of mere statistics, he would have been a very uninteresting sort of person. Boring or childish. But that changes nothing.

The frailty of our lives, that we are simple goose eggs with legs, cracked and ripped to pieces as easily as the touch of death's pink nails is an important lesson.

So if you ever see a woman with a pink bolero, looking up, looking down...


Wednesday, September 20, 2006

The alchemist and his castle

and there he was, under the broadness of his own profession, sloped in his castle with his gloves and his glasses and the light and the instruments and their sounds and smells and things.

Drowning in his shelves of items and flasks and impliments, of crystall-dusts and shining objects and the glass and the metall that gleams dully and perfectly at the flame of magnesium, the parchment with his own ink in the letters and figures and diagrams in the cellar beneath the sky that he tries to understand with its stars that he journies and memorates within its own perfect rubber instances of powedery substance that boils fitfully into homogenous nothingness as he peers out of his window and notices, astounded, that it rains.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

My beanbag is a Beauty Queen

Boys for Pele is incredibly beautiful. Like serious shit.

I could go on and on.

But for once, I won't.

Monday, September 11, 2006

Thermodynamics, the art of saving documents in Word

Going to the University is the source of many perks and joyous occations, as the really spitzy parties the faculty holds on some small, dank room on the third floor where only the German exchange students come to because they are too fucked-up to talk to other people under normal settings, or, which is the funderfullest of them all, getting up at 6:30, taking a horribly stuffed bus like some macabre Thanksgiving turkey, falling into an ugly auditorium, so proud of yourself you could cry because you actually managed to get up on a Monday to go to thermodynamics only to have the professor use two fucking hours to show you the three groundbreaking, amazing ways you can save documents in Word and where the laboratory is, on some sketch on the blackboard that a three year old with Downs could have done better.

How wonderful the University is! Now awaits the reading-hall, which looks and feels and smells pretty much like the concentration "showers" that Hitler so aptly used.

Sunday, September 03, 2006

Judgement of the moon and stars and hamburgers

I think I drink simply so I can eat hamburgers. It's really kind of really sad, really, kind of. I ate two hamburgers yesterday night, right after each other, and the sour-cream/ketchup lettuce-thing fell down on my thigh and left an ugly stain.

How decadent. Like really gross hedonism just under the surface, unleashed by the simple cataclysm of alcohol. I like thinking that the traits people present when drunk are just exaggerations of who they are, like when people get violent when drinking, or, like me, really gay and hugging everyone, and, also like me, eat a lot of crap.

I have to seriously go on a diet or something. All that beer, all that crap.

Oh well...