This is where it all starts, ends, emancipates, dissipates, causes nausea and creates the second big bang theory. For this is me and my life and times in a little-understood lovely world where only dreamers and screaming lunatics can contain the sorrow which is daily forced upon them. But, alas, I am not one of them, for I am sane. I am the last man left alive, totally alive in the world, in Europe, in Messopatania. I am he as he is me and we are him and I am altogether 'right' in the head, something which I deeply regret. Some of us find it easy to turn our heads off to every-day events which produce the evil element known as headfuck. But I do not, and this is the root of all my evil. That is exactly why the desperation stakes are doubled and tripled, divided by two and then sold for the price of an expensive ice-cream. It is the only reason to go on living, chanting the mantra: one two three the bugs are coming to visit. As I said, this is the beginning and this is the end. Beginn, Finis, left, right, pussy, prick, black, white and whilst we are going on about it do not say I did not warn you.
I have in my possession a magic kaleidoscope which was given to me by the kind Mr Magellen. He was a friend of the wizard of Oz and a great weather-prophet in his own right. During my endless hours of boredom I look into the kaleidoscope and see visions both marvellous and terrible. Looking in yesterday I saw a deep pond, filled with evil things armed with Neptune's trident. They attempted to spear out my eyes, but one swift turn brought a new scene which showed me that the devil resides in the cracks in the pavement which annoy old ladies who are dependant on blueberry wine for the provision of cold comfort. These sorry old sluts write endless letters to the council, to pointless radio programmes, to the prime minister, all begging for salvation, all pleading that the end of the world can be postponed via the filling in of cracks. When told that the end of the world is neither neigh nor unwanted, the old spinsters are filled with the nausea which is produced at the source of the rejection of life, a source they have nurtured all their lives in hateful little subconscious caves inside their minds. When they get going they never stop and it is sickening to witness the endless letter writing and bickering and rejection of all they come into contact with. For this is where it happens, all the negativity, the backward path of the rejection of everything which only old women who have never been screwed properly and therefore never been taught about life are capable of feeling.
What can this all be about, because I know too well what the score is, like scores of people reading meaningless little cricket score-cards on the floor of a waste-paper factory whilst indulging in a mass fantasy featuring weather girls in damned expensive underwear. nein, bitte nein, das könnt ihr unterlassen, bitte Finger weg da, wage nicht, daran zu denken, for the thought of such a WEATHER girl is damaging. Gott im Himmel, nein. Auch nicht die Nachrichten Moderatorinnen. There is something about the intellectualism of these girls which sets my mind thinking and thinking and thinking but I know too well it is all a front set up to deceive each and every viewer who is stupid enough to tune in. no, nein, nein, nein, nicht das, nicht die Fernbedienung, nicht ausschalten, das kann ich auf keinen Fall aushalten, too much television is bad for you but not enough does your head in. fernsehen als arzeneimittel: Zu Risiken und Nebenwirkungen lesen Sie die Packungsbeilage und fragen Sie Ihren Arzt oder Apoteker. Ask away, placing pointless questions which have been magiced up from underneath a teacup saucer in the foolish doctors phoney surgery. We do not need television, for Christ's sake. Aber Asperin ist gut und Apserin ist lebensnotwendig, auch wenn Asperin scheißteuer ist, Asperin is one of us and always will be. Herr Asperin der Ja-Sager. Wait for the day that asperin is no longer available, wait for world revolution, wait to die one of one million deaths, wait and wait and wait and watch the weathergirls, these beautiful creatures who pretend to be intelligent. Und es ist genau dieser Schwindel, der mich am meisten ankotzt. Wie der Tag, an dem ich meinen Sessel-Sarg kaufte. So ein herrliches Ding, das sage ich laut und stolz - ich habe einen Sessel, ich habe einen Sarg, ich habe alles, was ich jemals brauchen werde - except for asperin, lovely little packets of asperin.
God, my dear little Gott, am I glad that you are listening to me, your devoted servant. You know that I love you, I say my prayers every knight whilst I clean my teeth with ascorbic acid. Cleaning, eating, watching, waiting, and going to night-school are the only things I live for, except for this little matter of praying. My dear God has a name and he is called Colgate. There is not one single person on this planet who appreciates Colgate to the extent I do, I adore him, my white and green toothpaste which I replace once a week on Fridays. Du, mein Freund, Du hast nicht die leiseste Ahnung, wie gross der Gott des Zähneputzens ist. Was wärest Du ohne Zähne? Du wärest ein Hund, eine Katze, eine verarmte Romanistin, ein Nirgendwer. Toothpaste and Being, that is the masterpiece which I am currently working on. My friends, dear little fools they are, claim that it is nothing but words words words, but I am writing the definitive guide to worshipping God via the gift of the tooth-brush. They may mock me, they may even be dentists, but the might of justice, of Lebensphilosophie der mündlichen Hygene, is on my side and I will never give in to the jugglers, the court scare mongers, the jester, the nasty little cheap prostitute who spreads syphilis amongst afro-Caribbean communities. All of them are out to get me and none of them have clean teeth.
My toothpaste tastes of parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. By cleaning my teeth I worship mother earth, she who gives us all that is good and bountiful. She who gives us the weathergirls who I adore, she who gives us syphilis, she who gives us the TV licence and fruit orchards and rivers stocked full with pink salmon, sanitary-towels and half-used condoms. She who gives with her right hand and takes with her left, she who lost her virginity behind the bike sheds at the local school to a man twice her age, she who loves and hates and stinks and cleans herself with her long soft tongue. It is the spices and the herbs which add the unforgettable taste to the lentil curry of life which is the soil we need to make the apple trees grow, to get the cars to start on frosty winter mornings, to get the water to flush the shit down the toilet which soon meets all sorts of unpleasant rubbish in our clear green rivers. Aber, bitte, ganz ohne mich ! Mich interessieren die politischen Aspekte um keinen Deut. Ich will nur die kleine Mutter der Erde, diese kleine Schlampe, die ich hasse und zugleich liebe, sie muss mich vor mir selbst retten. Soll dies ihr nicht gelingen, ist bei mir alles, aber absolut alles, verloren. Bis auf die Scheisse, die sich im Fluß befindet.
So we continue, as we have been ordered to do so, into the wilderness. This wilderness knows no bounds, knows no territorial claimants, is cactus free and consists of a pile of sand so pure and white that even wild pigs feel ashamed when they take a shit there. But you look at me now, dear deluded reader, you view me with your pitiful mind's eye, and you know quite well that I am no wild pig just waiting for some hunter to shoot in the arse, take home and roast. I have no manners and no sense of grace and I would never eat wild pig, for I respect superior beings. Unless, of course, I was starving. My God, how I long for the following scenario: on a desert island I have nothing except for a rather good spear which I fashioned with a pen-knife on day one. One day thirty-nine I am on the point of starvation. Suddenly, a wild pig appears before me and I spear the bastard right up the arse and kill it. How I would feast on the flesh of the beast, how I would celebrate my final rescue through his flesh more than the arrival of the search parties which locate me and take me home to dark, miserable Europe. I kick up a fuss that I have been found and demand alcohol, which I drink and drink until I am comatosed and taken to hospital. On waking up, I trash the entire hospital, for it is a private hospital paid for by some stupid newspaper which is attempting to sweeten me and therefore gain the rights to my story. With a drip in my arm I tell the doctors, nurses and allsorted media-men around me to fuck right off and then proceed to find my way to the nearest pub where I drink as much beer as the landlord will dispense for the nasty little alcoholic drunken local hero who is in the wrong place at the right time and who then attempts to convince all and sundry that he is nothing but a total and utter nihilist who does not give a shit about money or fame. A nihilist who just wants to drink and to tell the media bastards to fuck right off. This is my dream, may it one day come true.
Dreaming and dreaming away as is my want, God stands up and says "to hell with all this shit, you are not going to be the only one who has good ideas around here". So I tell Him to get off my back whilst I go on frying my fish. I love fish, smelly little creatures that they are. Slippery bastards too, until they are fried in fat. The fat which boils their pathetic souls until they are dry is symbolic for the sea of struggle which life was for them. Crabs, lobsters and shrimps are inferior because they are only boiled in water. Fish are fried in fat, in their last sea, a stinking, abysmal viscous sea. The fishes are then served in a basket made out of the metal trawler net which was used to catch them, thus adding to the high symbolism of the moment. I serve the fish to rich pseudo-intellectuals who pay me handsomely for the little fish experience, and I make them wash up afterwards after pouring out peach schnapps by the gallon. All in all, a good evenings work for lots of money which my friend Boris invests in Russian marzipan mines for me.
To hell with the junk, the fish-bones, the fried fat and the pathetic street-corner teenage prostitutes! To hell with the whole scenario which I am faced with. I want to sleep in my antique four-poster bed which is a family heirloom I inherited after a long-protracted conflict with my Jewish half-brother. Nothing is more beautiful than this bed, nothing as sublime as the sound of the springs squeaking and squeaking away as I enjoy mastebatory fantasies featuring the teenage prostitutes. Of course, I could easily afford one, I think to myself, and I could bring her back to my beautiful bed. But she would scream with anguish when faced with the state of my light royal-blue bed clothes! She would demand double and threaten to get the police, her pimp or her father. For I never wash my sheets, I love the smell too much, it comforts me whilst I sleep and scares off the evil spirits who would otherwise surely enter my corrupted soul. For three years and seven months I have not washed these stunningly stinky bedclothes. Why should I? Just because society dictates that clean sleep is only attainable in a clean place? No, I have got news for society. It is society itself which is as stinking and rotten as Satan's shit. I am clean because I have inverted perceptions of how I smell the world. I have had three woman in this bed, none of them appreciated the smell, although it was not too apparent for the first one as the bed clothes were only six months old. She complained about the stains, but I told her that she had left her lovely feminine musk on the sheets and it was a crime to wash them as this would entail swapping the good, truthful, loyal and honest stinky smell of my hormones with a deceitful and empty nothingness which a stint in a washing-machine, that most tortured, insincere and sanctimonious beast, would have resulted in. Unfortunately, she did not accept this and left me after delivering an unacceptable ultimatum featuring a laundrette.
And so I fall back into my dream-state in the bed and I dream a million dreams in one second. I am on a train which is only for wine-lovers, as it runs through all the most astoundingly picturesque vineyards in the entire world. The ticket man comes and I do not have a ticket, so I spit at him and he runs away. The train is all of a sudden a submarine in the river Rhine in deepest Germany. Through the port-hole windows I see the souls of the fish which I have previous served to those piss-poor intellectuals go floating past. The souls are bright orange and are laughing amongst themselves. How nice, I think to myself, how nice that I created this scene of fish afterlife. But the submarine has suddenly developed a hole and I board one of the escape-torpedoes, whereupon I am catapulted out of the vessel into the sky. A parachute opens. I land in Moscow and I am so happy to be there that I seek the President in order to tell him so personally. The guards let me into the Kremlin and I find myself in a lousy brothel. This I find shockingly disturbing as I was looking forward to seeing the President of Russia and perhaps enjoying some quality vodka with him, but my dreamscape has deteriorated into sheer, unadulterated sex-drive-ism. So I violently wake myself up in order to escape the contaminated dream and make myself a cup of earl grey tea. It is five in the morning, says the ugly speaking clock, and I decide to go for a walk. There are no teenage prostitutes on the corner, they have all been booked out. I curse my luck, I would dearly like to have seen the arse of at least one of the young little sluts in order to compare her to the fleeting glimpses of the Kremlin whores who appeared in my dream. But I know too well that my life can certainly not be just focused on creating good dreams for me to enjoy in my smelly bed. I have the desire to work, to do charitable deeds, to create good in the world. I need to be somebody, but, deep down underneath the murky facade of my false personality, I know I am a loser, I know I will never win and that the only things which I have to any extent under my control are my vivid dreams, although they got one better on me during the night in question. I go home and swig down a whole tea-cup of bitter vodka and fall asleep once again, determined not to dream any more about the nasty little teenage prostitutes whose pimps all come from Turkey.
At five o'clock in the afternoon I awake. The vodka did me a world of good, I can still feel it circulating in my system, lulling my messed-up nerves into submission. I decide that I must get some fresh air before I suffocate. The stench of my unwashed body is oppressive, but a bit of air will soon render me mildly socially acceptable. I dress myself with haste, but I am faced with a disaster of mammoth proportions, for I cannot find my beloved holy shoes. My shoes, my shoes, a kingdom for my shoes! Where are the little bastards, where did I put them, have they had enough and decided to spontaneously combust, forsake me in my hour of need, like the only red pullover I ever owned did all those many years ago? Then I remember that vodka makes me do stupid things and I rush to the fridge, where I whip the poor creatures out and commence to perform resuscitation. Luckily, they have survived. I pack luke-warm pollyfiller into a hot water-bottle and put the little ones to bed. Two days later they have fully recovered and we go out for a walk. Although it was not at all easy, I am over the initial shock. When I think that I nearly lost my shoes for ever I have no choice but to start crying and watch junk on television until I am better. They are my best friends. Mr Left has a delicate little opening in the sole where the right toe is and all my socks have developed a hole in this area. Mr Left brings my foot sublimely into contact with mother earth and I can never thank him enough for this act of unbelievable charity. And the hole reminds me of vaginas. Mr Right, for his part, is a little less benevolent, for he is no dreamer like his leftist counterpart. There is an ancient stone embedded in the heel of Mr Right. This stone makes walking uncomfortable, but the discomfort is just about bearable. When I go for a walk I am therefore forced to contemplate removing the stone, knowing full well that I could never ever do this. But the act of contemplation, sublime and profound contemplation on a matter which is nothing but an utter trifle, is an end in itself. And in the few rare and precious moments when I think that my sublime thoughts are being given to me via the connection with mother earth which Mr Left has provided for me I have no choice but to lay myself on the ground and thank both God and mother earth that I am alive and that I have such gracious friends who complement each other with a perfection which is only reached in a few isolated, unrecorded instances.
Thus two days have passed since I intended to take the walk which I now embark upon. If you can sit down for one minute and bear with me I will explain how these two days, spent locked away in my chambers, formed perhaps the most arduous experience of my life. I was consumed with worry, I was tortured by the thought that I had killed my friends due to alcoholic stupidity. Of course, I like a drink, like everybody, but after the shoe-friends in fridge incident I was absolutely determined to lay off the vodka. This was no easy thing, for vodka is one of the only things which keeps me going. I always think of it as 'soul fuel', or 'fuel for the soul', depending on what your possessive preferences are. Vodka is pure, vodka is transparent, vodka hurts, vodka purifies. What else could my little labarinthical tortured soul yearn for more but this most mystical drink? Nothing in the world could replace vodka, but my beloved friends, wrapped up in bed with their pollyfiller lifesaver were equally irreplaceable. I was faced with the tortuous decision between vodka and my shoes and I was tortured beyond belief by this most cruel twist of fate. My soul would surely die without vodka, but my shoes could never recover from another nocturnal stint in the fridge. I decided to bring twelve bottles of vodka up from the cellar into the television room so that I could contemplate the matter with greater clarity. For thirty hours I sat and stared at the bottles and as I beheld these twelve bottles I realised what the answer was: the twelve bottles of vodka were the twelve apostles of my soul. Each one had a specific message which would further my spiritual well-being. I picked up each bottle, one after the other, and imagined which bottle was which apostle. Suddenly, I shrieked out 'You bastard Judas, you evil little son of a vodka bottle', for I had seen through the awful duplicity which one of the bottles there and then present had shown. It was not difficult to pick Judas out, for I had already drunk out of him two nights previously. As I had drunken this particular soul-fuel the liquid contents kissed my lips via the cracked tea cup and in doing so committed the most horrendous act of betrayal known to man. I picked up the Judas-bottle and had to suddenly restrain myself from smashing him against the cold brick floor. I wanted to torture him, to gain my revenge and after three hours of deliberation, during which I never let him out of my sight for a second, I knew how to punish him: I would execute him by burning him in a tin dish at the bedside of Mr Right and Mr Left. They would see I had repented and I would hold a bedside vigil in their honour, illuminated by the vicious and rotten burning soul of the Judas vodka. I said a little prayer to the God of shoes, thanking him for bestowing this clear perception of the situation upon me, and after drinking half a cup from Paul, Peter and John, went about fulfilling the act of ultimate expiation. And I am now on the road with my most beautiful friends, my soul replenished and the evil Judas eliminated from our ranks. I just cannot explain how happy I am after the endless torment I have been through.
If you like this sort of nonsense visit:
www.come.to/the-tropics-of-my-mind
