about a woman with a miniskirt and no underwear.
that my dick was so big it hit me in the forehead.
that my beard was shiny black.
that my red cat was calico and defied gravity, walking on the wall.
that the beggar woman from the supermarket asked me for alms and i said no.
to the woodpile. The air is sweet and the clay is cold. Let her sleep while you stare at the apple tree and decide which limbs to prune. Plum tree too.
The day is cold but over quick enough.
There’s enough to hear despite the ringing in your ears: a scratching pen, a passing car, the clicking of a working house, a sigh, coffee beans grinding.
The stretching of a cat.
The air is sweet so come outside for a little while and let the young one sleep.
Posted in Das Gehirn, Familie, ferner liefen, Metamorphosism
The driver is on his back in a bed in a hotel on the outskirts of Ljubljana, in a room smelling of cold cigarette smoke, trying to find a comfortable position. He moves very gingerly because his lumbar pain has flared up from driving a Mercedes with diplomatic plates for four hours to deliver two dancers, and then from carrying a bunch of heavy stuff.
Unfortunately, there is no comfortable position.
He does not turn the TV on.
He stares at the ceiling and wonders what the engine light meant, the one that looks like an engine and was on for an hour on the way down.
He is glad he is not Jason Statham, because right about now the shooting would start.
He needs a new prescription for his glasses. They are trifocals, and are off just the right amount that they make him see ghosts when he wears them. He sees ghosts at breakfast a lot before his family gets up.
He sees his father’s ghost in the mirror, grinning at him as if to say, In fact the bad back is my ghost, kiddo.
The next day he drops the shampoo bottle in the shower and leaves it there. He has already washed his hair, and if he bends over to get it he will never straighten back out.
Breakfast is not so fine at this particular hotel. Too many eggs, not enough fruit, and the coffee is not so good.
On the drive back, the engine light does not go on. He is thankful for that. The driver, who is not Jason Statham, is somewhat vexed by the circumstance that the steering wheel is in such a position that it blocks his view of the speedometer. He has to bend his head at a strange angle to see how fast he is driving. Normally the GPS device would tell him roughly how fast he was going, but the battery is low and the cigarette lighter in this particular car does not seem to put out a charge.
He eventually figures out the cruise control and uses that for a while, but gets tired of it because vehicles keep pulling out in front of him and requiring him to change his speed and so on.
At the end of his trip, he is parking the car and the transmission goes *CLUNK* right when he’s angling it into a driveway. He sits there for a minute, at a 45-degree angle, blocking a sidewalk but fortunately not the street, making stirring motions with the gear-shift lever and trying to figure out exactly what just happened and as it dawns on him, thanking the powers that be that this happened here and not on some road in Slovenia or elsewhere.
Some henchmen are sent over and they help him push the car into a proper parking position.
He helps push despite his back. The driver has that much Jason Statham in him.
Then he goes home and looks for useful pills, but he’s out of them.
Four noble truths walk into a bar.
“Everything sucks,” says the first noble truth. “I’m dying for a pint. My job sucks. I am insufficiently kind to those I love.”
“I’m sorry, we don’t serve alcohol,” says the bartender.
“What?” says the first noble truth.
“You are only miserable because you think you should always be happy,” says the second noble truth.
“I’m miserable because I have a splitting headache and you somehow found the only bar in the world that doesn’t serve alcohol,” says the first noble truth.
“You only think you have a headache. But who is the You who has a headache? There is no You. The headache has you, and not the other way around,” says the second noble truth.
“WTF are you talking about,” says the first noble truth and lights a cigarette.
“No smoking,” says the bartender.
“Oh ferfuckssake,” says the first noble truth and puts his cigarettes away.
“What the second noble truth is trying to say is, if you could overcome your craving…” says the third noble truth, but the first noble truth jumps him before he can finish his sentence.
“Bar fight!” someone yells, and everyone else in the bar whips out their smart phones and films the first noble truth fighting the third noble truth while the second noble truth tries to break them up.
The fourth noble truth sits down at the other end of the bar, laughing and laughing.
“What’s so funny?” says a woman on the next stool.
The fourth noble truth shakes his head. “Everything. Nothing. I don’t know. I was so thirsty I drank a liter of ice water and my stomach sloshed for hours. Someone I love needed a compliment and a pat on the back and I didn’t notice until hours later. My dreams have been unusual. The world is mysterious.”
“You from around here?” asks the woman.
“Am I ever,” says the fourth noble truth.
Posted in Das Gehirn, Metamorphosism
Tags: bar joke, four noble truths, gang of four, philosophy
God was all like, I’m outta here and took the true believers with him.
They fit in the palm of his hand.
And that was that.
The world was as quiet as the post Eyjafjallajökull sky over Europe.
For a little while.
Then, ding, someone came into the shop and had to be waited on.
A kid was hungry.
Cats meowed.
All that.
The streets were lined with people who had thought they were true believers, all moping around.
We stepped over them on our way to work.
And this was our work: peeling back the world, little by little, and letting heaven out.
Nightmare this morning: Someone was after me. They wanted to kill me and the earth was soft and crumbly so I dug down and hid under the dirt. I made a hole in the bottom of a soda pop can and breathed through that, ninja-style. But they found me anyway and were digging me out when I woke up.
They were female, I think. Whoever the scary person was. They may have been my wife, or a cat, or something more monstrous, all I remember clearly is the dirt and the aluminum can.
He goes into the cellar and the light is already on. Either someone left it on all night, or he left it on for 24 hours, or there was a burglar who turned on the light and thought, nothing worth stealing here, just a bunch of seeds and papers and a broken accordion, or the light turned itself on, as lights sometimes do, especially around the Day of the Dead.
The moon was full last night. He lights candles. He lights every candle he can find and sits amids the seeds and tries to position the candles so that they don’t set anything on fire. He sits amidst the seeds and writes something. First he finds some pens, he has to look all over the room because he can’t recall what box they were in or where he put the box.
For future reference: the box is under the desk.
Looking for pens, he finds his aunt’s obituary in a drawer full of knives.
Also the box his field recorder came in. Now all he has to find is the field recorder itself. Maybe it’s in the box, he didn’t look inside because he was 1) looking for pens and 2) thinks he looked in the box once already and no field recorder.
The moon was full last night so it should be fairly full tonight, when the spirits are out. He resolves to light extra candles.
It’s foggy, a little foggy. Cold and the world is still. Still and waiting.
He thinks about playing dice.
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