type 3 Homo sapiens: old-school buckeroo

type 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

Roust him outta bed, chuck him his boots and something to chomp on, get him goin’ but don’t let the sonofagun speak up, not ‘til he’s all sweated over and caked with grime, you hear. You let a gunner like that open his pie-hole befor he’s well and tired, you let him expose partions of his mind too early in the day, mark my words, soon all manner of pretense and frill ‘ll come apparent. Soon he’ll think himself a goddamn gentleman and no more lift a finger for his pops than wipe his hind-end with his own sleeve.

I says there aint no need to go about inneractin' and innerchangin’ ideas and esperiences all the goddamn time. That only stir up complications and relativizations and so forth, and no good ever come of that.

Likewise the ladies, nowadays so generally accustomated to courtesy and such hogwash that every conversation soon become a goddamn spectacle a’ feelin’ and sentimentality. A man want to recline quiet and listen to the crickets. A man want to enjoy a jug a’ ale on his lonesome. No sir. The missus have some injury must be redressed right this goddamn minute, and all heavens stop gyratin’ before she git back quiet to business as usual.

Aint nothin’ to be done about it neither. What with the innernets now and those goddamn pocket telephones they be fingerin' day long, everybody's a know-it-all but nobody look you straight in the eye no more. The world just aint what it used to be and if you think it's all goddamn magic and wonder, I got a chopped finger and a whistlin’ lung says otherwise.

day of pardon

Criminal vermin, gangster overlord - thug of every stripe - whatever your position in the constellation of assholes, today I extend my hand to you in salutation. Take it. It will not happen again. Ordinarily I would arrange for you only a firing squad, but today, in a gesture of magnanimity, I salute you human to human. I say to you: how do you do? How is business? How was it beating the crap out of that teenager you sold on to become the plaything of a sheik or drug-lord?

On a regular day I would devise ways to set your ass on a spike, like in Spartacus (the-movie), and I would think how best to rally a rabble of townsmen to bombard you with rocks and leftovers. And in the evening, because I am studious, I would consult reference books at the public library to draw inspiration from the Middle Ages and the great “practitioners” of the Inquisition. But on this exceptional day of pardon, I find it in myself to commend you as an entrepreneur and a risk-taker in times of economic hardship.

Likewise, to the crack-dealing mutherfucker, I extend a kind hand of brotherhood and I say to him: How fare you gentleman? How is business in this underprivileged neighborhood? And I ask the toothless junky slobbering on himself behind me if he would please wait his turn so that I may take my time to bid this crack-dealing mutherfucker farewell.

Perhaps I will not sustain this magnanimity an entire day. Perhaps even as I take leave of this crack-dealing entrepreneur, I might already be devising ingenious ways to give him a taste of his own medicine: a slow-release, salami-sized butt-plug filled with his own product, so that this gentleman may feel in a single “sitting” the combined experience of a thousand of his loyal customers.

But no, you see, today I salute this mutherfucker, as I salute the politician and his slut, the backroom-banker (one to wage war under false pretenses so the other may kill for profit). To such kleptomaniac gangster assholes I extend a salutatory hand, knowing full well I am looking at a diseased soul with a God-complex; knowing full well that I will be scrubbing this hand with soap and hard bristles at home. You see, pressing the flesh with such a man is like clutching a hand-shaped volume of vomit. But this he will never know, nor will he know that the smile on my face is not real, just a great feat of dissimulation and self-control.

I will do my utmost, you understand. Even the most dastardly mutherfucker in the great constellation of assholes will be greeted cordially. Today.

I, dog

I enjoyed this day among you, ambling down your lanes, and I take some pride in telling you that while every impulse prompted me so, I did not piss on your flower beds and pick-nick zones. I also hope you noted how quickly I refocused away from those flying objects, and how I abstained from nuzzling that Terrier's hind-end, even while it was presented to me – so to speak – on a silver platter.

Of course, I will not pretend it was easy. The smells were strong, they were alluring, and they were everywhere. Some were rancid, others were the very stench of copulation, and thus practically irresistible. But even so, I held steady and merely observed while my peers pissed on just about everything that protruded from the ground. I watched as they yelped and barked and rolled over each other to catch various objects in motion. And I watched their members swell and their tongues drip with saliva as they mounted bitches they had never laid eyes on before. I watched it all, but did not move.

On one occasion, I'll admit, I was overwhelmed and I found myself suddenly – my hind leg hiked up – releasing a few drops of urine on a telephone pole that was plastered with the stench of others. But I became aware as soon as I did it and ceased forthwith.

You see, that’s what it's all about: awareness! You have to become aware, otherwise you’re just a creature out there, chasing everything that moves and pissing on everything that doesn't.

type 2 Homo sapiens: the fashion-conscious being

type 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

I would never powder my face as they did in courtly circles, but I exfoliate and moisturize, and here and there I dab a special rejuvenating ointment that costs several hundred dollars a deciliter. I would not say that I am ready to use all available modern techniques, but I do what must be done.

I am no longer what you would call “young”. This is a disadvantage in every regard except one: my wardrobe has matured with me. It spans the shoulder-padded jackets of the early eighties, to the skinny jeans and décolleté t-shirts of today. Whatever is suddenly “retro” or “vintage” I generally already own. There I have an advantage over the young man who must go out and find that item of clothing that is no longer being produced, but that everyone is looking for.

In the days of Cocktail my hair was combed back with mouse and a touch of brilliantine. Today it is longish and finger-brushed across my eyes in a style I have dubbed: windswept. It is fashionable, but difficult to maintain. I am told I am often touching it – my hair – probably for this reason, but this is not something I am ever fully aware of.

On a regular day I'll be wearing my black Ray Ban Wayfarers – I do not believe in all these new colors – and a cute little gillet cardigan I’ve owned for fifteen years. For a long time I wore only black Converse All Stars, but recently, from one day to the next, I switched to Vans and I haven’t looked back since.

Overall, I am friendly, well informed and anxious [sic] to learn about new cultures. I am ready to talk about most things, but I will not waste my time speculating on what cannot be proven one way or the other. Extraterrestrials, ESP, the Great Yeti. I will not waste my time and I will not waste yours. And please do not suggest, as others have done, that the ointment I use on my face is such a “speculative” subject.

the Great Picture Show

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, boors and sophisticates, see the falling stars, see the crescent moon, see the coyotes in the desert, see the brute slap his wife, see the bimbo bop her boobs, see the cop chomp on tacos and the statesman pick is nose. See the great orchestrations, scientific, musical, sociological; see the machinations, ladies and gentlemen, political, psychological, military. See them in vivid color. See them with your nose right up against them. See them sitting down, on your feet or crouched strangely, clothed or naked. See them as you wish. And reach in with your hands like in a grab-bag and feel. You may grunt, roar and express all that you experience (Note: in most venues you will be free to do so; in others there are specific prohibitions. Please read the fine print). You will see a thousand men in bullet trains, you will see a thousand elderly sequestered, you will see a million lights blinking, and you will see darkness too. You can become a star-player, a man or woman of repute, performing great feats, physical and mental. But you can also crawl the gutter like a cockroach and taste only the most extreme and gut-wrenching sensations for which you need no qualifications at all except the blood in your veins and skin on your back. All free of charge, ladies and gentlemen. And it makes no difference to me whether you fuck yourself up completely, whether you piss on this great stage, do cartwheels or wax lyrical in the throes of love: it’s The Great Picture Show for this reason, great because it can accommodate you, me, the rat, the ruler, the rake, the great magistrate, the man with four wives, the man with one, the clerk, the laborer, the asshole, the courtesan, the monk, the dancer, the breast- and bottle-fed, the daring and the cowardly. Do as you wish. Do everything you wish, but do something. One thing you cannot do is just watch. You can try, it’s not forbidden, but… you will see.

elements of manhood

First I drop a fist down on that psychotic little gadget that lets you snooze for ten minutes at a time. But the damage is done. I am awake, which means, gentlemen, that as we speak, a trillion plus brain cells are scrambling off their skinny hind-ends to serve their master.

In the meantime, I’ve opened my eyes and I am looking out across the expanse of a king-size bed. And I am dumbfounded! It seems I am ALONE, gentlemen. How the heck can this be? Is she being coy under the duvet? I thrust out my arm to inspect, but right and left is all empty space.

We skip forward.

I'm on my feet now, on a tiled floor, thrusting croutons, bacon, egg, and dairy product into my open mouth. My manhood is pendulous, but this is not unusual when I’m eating early in the morning.

We skip forward.

I’m dressed, on a sidewalk, thrusting quarters into a machine so that I may be permitted to park my three thousand-plus pounds of vehicle in this goddamn fiefdom they call a free country. I drop my fist down on this slotted machine, thinking that if I had a club or a bat I’d knock quarters out a hundred miles wide.

Instead, I draw back to deliver a headbutt that would do honor even to the great Zinedine Zidane, but a breeze hits me in the neck and I sneeze!

Hatchoum!

A completely involuntary reaction leaves me folded in two and not quite in control. I look around to see if anyone has witnessed this spasm, especially – God forbid – a woman.

We skip forward.

Near a cafe I thrust my hand into the pocket nearest my manhood. Out comes a second gadget. I press numbers. A female voice answers the call. We communicate is sparse terms: desires, options, locales. She is not coy. We agree to meet.

We skip forward.

I thrust my…

We skip forward.

Back home I thrust the remote control between the seat pillow and the armrest so that I can operate it without holding it in my hands, which are otherwise occupied. Until I fall asleep.

We skip forward.

I drop a fist down on that psychotic little gadget that lets you snooze…

aspiring tyrant, despot or autocrat

Six thousand baboons on horseback, half-starved and crazy-eyed. The smell of blood and horse manure. Those were the days. I could thunder across the plains in a long beard and these apes would piss their saddles. Not anymore. Tyrannies are a dull electronic affair now, no longer hard-fought, but creeping, established by stealth and subterfuge.

So sheathe you sword, stranger, you will not need it. You will see no blood, no plunder, no rape. You will see the images - lots of them - but that's all. The images are all that matter these days. They can be disseminated to baboons worldwide almost instantaneously, but usually they are touched-up in studio first, enhanced and then narrated by “experts”, political idols and other baboons of repute.

Your tyranny will not by like mine, stranger. It will be more complex. In my day, we adhered to simple, time-honored precepts from wiser men than ourselves. Me, I followed only one: men must be either pampered or crushed because they can get revenge for small injuries, but not grievous ones*.

I feared only the dagger and the phial of arsenic, and to protect myself from both I had a fortress of men that I maintained and – it follows – pampered.

You, stranger, you will fear extradition, infamy, courts of law and complicated jurisdictions. Your enemy will be the emboldened baboon with a keyboard. Your path will be riddled with sycophants, bureaucrats and do-gooders, and behind them will be an army of baboons afflicted with the sickness of this modern age: self-importance.

I pity you, stranger.

You want my advice? Drop it. It isn’t much fun anymore. Buy a yacht. Go sailing.

…mmm, but I see you’re determined.

Well, you have money, yes, but no territory and no man to rule over. You can’t conquer land these days, not successfully, not like we used to. Some territories can be bought, but these are intemperate, depopulated zones; you could rule there in peace, but I trust this does not interest a man such as yourself.

To rule in this day age – to really rule – there is only one territory of any significance. It holds within itself all territories: it is the baboon’s mind. You rule there, stranger, and you can control the baboon without force, like magic.

An old-timer like me cannot tell you how to do this, not in this modern age, but I can tell you what you must achieve, that has not changed and it never will.

It is very simple, stranger: YOU must tell the baboon who he is; you must never permit the baboon to discover this for himself.




*Machiavelli, The Prince

letter from the galaxy (flats and tubulars IV)

(flats and tubulars I) (flats and tubulars II) (flats and tubulars III)

Thank you for the footage of life where you are. I enjoyed it, but this mister sir attenboro narrates like he is pacifying a crowd of children. I silenced him mostly, except for the section on so called “primates”. There I wanted to know what he had to say because they reminded me much of your descriptions of “flats and tubulars”, and I had to wonder to what extent the two are related, if they are not one and the same

So, yes, it was interesting, but it did not help me to find you on a map, you bozo! Your so called “Terra” is just a speck of dust in a swath of stars. And this “Sun” you speak of, the star you say you are orbiting, no one has ever heard of it. Not here at least. I’m not saying you lied, Lui, maybe you got the name wrong, maybe you weren’t paying attention again. And perhaps it is not clearly visible in the sky, so just ask someone, don’t be embarrassed; they won’t expect you to know that as a foreigner.

Anyway, I hope it was worth it. I hope you’re not now asking yourself why you consented to be frozen to absolute zero, why you consented to 3450 days of capsule-sleep, and why you consented to leave behind everything you love. Do they have that where you are, Lui, love? It is possible under twice the gravitational pull and with all these aggressive quadrupeds in your midst?

I really hope you don’t regret it. I really I hope you’re not constantly asking yourself how our weekly game of Quadboard went (Gaorman and Storm are still upset with you, by the way), and I also hope these so called “flats” you couldn’t stop talking about are as “stimulating” and “fascinating” as you pronounced them. I’ll be honest, if they are at all like these primates on the footage you sent me, well, was it really worth it?

Look, let me just let it out, ok: Damn you, Lui! You’re a real jerk, you know that. I have NO idea where you are, and did you bother to send me even a few words to let me know you’re ok? No. Just some footage of creatures croaking and furry quadrupeds who do nothing but eat, sleep and attack each other in broad daylight. In the footage I watched five spotted quadrupeds attack a clayish giant with a flexible pipe hanging off his face, the “elephant” so called. They clambered onto its back, they tore at its flesh. It was horrible.

I hope you can deal, Lui, because let's be honest, you’re not exactly an adventurer. It worries me. You have to be quick on your feet with all these predators. And with twice the gravitational pull out there, compared to these quadrupeds you must be something like a tranquilized “baboon”.

I don’t hate you. I don’t envy you - god knows! - I just miss you, Lui. That’s all.

From afar, yours always,

QB

Ps- Storm won the Quad in three

the sun

I pity creatures underground. I pity the prisoner, the kidnapped man in a sack. The blind, I pity. And those peoples up North who eat seal and live out their days in obscurity, I pity them too. I pity unborn children and the pale-skinned hermit who lives holed-up. I pity schmucks with small windows and file-clerks in cubicles. Night watchmen, I pity, and conductors of the wagons-lits. I pity them all. I pity Australians too during the day; and at night, I pity me. But most of all (in increasing order), I pity the mole, the albino, the vampire.

piscine olympique

HA! I’m in a pool, gentlemen. Water right and left. I splash, I gurgle, I spit water at my fellow bathers. Twice, thrice I spit. I do not hesitate just because they are elderly, and even when they call to the "bathmaster" (what do you call such a man?) I do not hesitate to do it again. And when the "bathmaster" shakes his finger, I do not flinch, gentlemen. And when I note the tremor in his voice, the consternation in his face, gentlemen, I spit and gurgle much the same. In their minds they are in the midst of a psychopath, but am I concerned, gentlemen? Am I worried what they will think of me? (the elderly quickly breaststroke to the pool’s edge) No, gentlemen, because I do not question such things, much as I do not question that so many miles beneath us, under the Earth's crust, is a creeping hellfire; much as I do not question that “galacticly”, so to speak, we are on the back-end of a dirtball, gentlemen, wafted about in deep space. No, gentlemen, I do not care to ponder such matters. Why? Because I’m in a goddamn pool, gentlemen, and because I came here to hit the diving boards, that's why!

Yes, of course, sometimes I adapt my attitude to circumstances. Sometimes, like the old savants of the east, I take the path of least resistance. Sometimes I choose not to confront the adversary frontally, sometimes I opt to ignore him instead, like with this so called "bathmaster”, who has disrobed – Speedo-ready – and who is now fretting on the pool’s edge as if attempting to expel from his anus a rubber plug. He may be an adversary, gentlemen, but do I hate this man? No, gentlemen, and nor should you. He is a fearful man and he should be pitied.

So when this so called "bathmaster" calls for reinforcement, what do I do, gentlemen?... Gentlemen! What do I do? I walk, gentlemen. I walk to the diving board, I mind my own goddamn business, gentlemen. I do not run, I walk calmly. But when I reach the ladder, I climb up lithely like a cat, all the way up to the top, to the elevation marked OLYMPIQUE (that's “olympic” for the unschooled gentlemen among you).

Come, come now, what did you think, that I would stop at the lower boards to “test the waters”, so to speak? No, gentlemen. And at such heights as these, gentlemen, do you see me diddling about? Do you see me clutching my toes on the edge, testing the bounce of the plank and such things, like these so called “professionals”. No, gentlemen! No, goddamn it, I plunge, gentlemen. I plunge in a kind of magnificent arc, spitting out spray-water on my way up and then twisting into a double corkscrew on my way down. Gentlemen, are you picturing this, gentlemen! And when I meet the surface of the water, gentlemen, and receive across my face and chest a Poseidon-smack as unholy as any, am I deterred, gentlemen? Do I back down, gentlemen? Do I really need to answer this question for you, gentlemen.

And so it is that I climb to the high diving board once again (on the ground, the "bathmaster" is still expelling his plug; reinforcement has arrived; the elderly are still paralytic on the water’s edge). You see, I have no esteem for so called “preparation", gentlemen. Preparation is for the fearful, like this fretting “bathmaster” – this man lives in fear, gentlemen! Do you wish to live in fear? I will answer that for you: you do not! – I do not fear and I do not just proceed, I venture gentlemen! you understand, exactly as I am now, twisting my flank once more into an elegant double corkscrew. And even as I do this, gentlemen, even as I descend at great speed, I am fully aware and I am able to catch sight of the elderly man and his wife looking in horror at the "psychopath" in flight. But still I am not bothered by this, nor by the fretting "bathmaster", nor by the OVERWHELMING FORCE with which I am met on the surface of the water, and which briefly shatters my consciousness and knocks every ounce of air out of my lungs. But even then, even as I sink, gentlemen – awed by my performance and suffering perhaps a little too – my mind is already preparing to do it again.

type 1 Homo sapiens: well-meaning, but crazy

type 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

I had this job welding in brackets down in a ship hold. Ten hours a day breathing in oxy-acetylene. Then one night I lost my temper. One night a foul-mouth Filipino gave me lip and I punched him in the face, knocked his teeth out. They fired me on the spot. 

Good riddance, right? Ten hours a day lying on your back with a welding torch. Not so, my friend. I spent the next six weeks wandering the dockyards in desolation. You can only sleep so many hours, Labas, you can only consume so much, and even porn, end of the day, gets boring... You follow? ...So what do you do? What does a man do?

In three months, I drank a sea of liquor in half-liter installments, and every hooker in a hundred mile radius knew me by name. I partook, Labas, as if womankind was on the brink of extinction. My pecker was in flames, my pockets empty, and my brain – God forgive me – a bundle of scar-tissue. 
Still now my eye twitches.

Christ, Rico!

Naaah. Not to worry, Labas. Don’t use it much – my brain – and my pecker’s still good.

You’re a desperate man, Rico.

You’re a keen observer, Labas… You see this?

Your hands.

There’s callus here a quarter inch thick. This is my legacy. A quarter inch of bone-hard skin. I can’t feel a goddamn thing with these claws, but it’s all written here. Twenty years worth.

No palm readings for you then, Rico.

Don’t need ‘em. The future's set for me.

Nothing’s set Rico.

I’m a welder, Labas. I weld. But you wouldn’t understand that, you probably never worked a day in your life.

Not true!! I must have worked five, six, at least.

Ha ha. I like you, Labas, I like you. Think of that, us meeting in a place like this.

I was hungry. You were here. Simple physics, Rico.

You’re pretty goddamn prosaic for a nomad, Labas.

And you're pretty goddamn literate for a dockworker, Rico. Prosaic! Christ. Pass the salt, will ye.

emotions (flats and tubulars III)

(flats and tubulars I) (flats and tubulars II)

This here – you see – that’s your heart. You don’t fool around with this thing. This is your engine, this is where life is automated, where it begins and ends. Its status is unrivaled. There is even mythology amongst humans that it is the main transport hub of emotions.

Of what?

e-MO-tions. We’ll get to that, sergeant...

Now, this here, your liver, it’s an unseemly thing – it looks a lot like some of our waterborne entities back home, don’t you think? – but it does critical work. It extracts substances from the body, substances that, if accumulated, would kill you deader than a hammer. It’s not the heart – in the hierarchy of organs – but it’s damn important anyway –

Wow, what was that!?

That, sergeant, is just one of many fluid discharges. This one you saw is the most regular but perhaps the least important, even if its yellow color and spray-arc are impressive. There are many more fluids secreted, ejaculated, expelled, and so forth; and there are also some fluids better kept in the body. This red stuff, for instance, you lose too much of that and – again – kill you deader than a hammer.

You like that expression, don’t you sir?

I do. Now, before I forget, there may be an occasion when you receive a secretion from this, your pineal gland – right here, in the center of your head. It is possible you will experience this as a rush of godliness, of transcendence, but I must remind you – firmly, sergeant – that you are not a god, not here, not amongst these Men. You must not forget that. It is perhaps the most important information I give you today. You are not a god. Is that understood, sergeant?

Yes.

Yes, what?

Yes, sir.

Good. OK. Now, except for visits to the lavatory, which I showed you how to carry out, you will not have to worry your head too much about these secretions and all this hydrology. It is all self-regulating. This means you can spend all your time, all your waking hours, in the business of being conscious, of being self-aware… Sergeant! Sergeant, wipe that smile off your face. Sergeant! Do you imagine, sergeant, this will be recreational in nature, sergeant? Do you expect to be entertained, sergeant? Do you expect sergeant, that all of this is for the sergeant’s personal amusement?

No, sir!

Good! Now listen to me carefully. Listen to me very carefully. You are, for all practical purposes, unschooled; your training is, I’m sorry to say, laughable – a one day excursion to an uninhabited Pacific isle. For this reason, sergeant, mark my words, your experience will be as follows: you will be treading a tight rope; on your right will be self-indulgence, self-aggrandizement, self-glorification, complete delusion, sergeant; and gaping to your left – equally abysmal – self-abasement, self-nullification – the opposite; everything will be paired, you’ll see. And, even if you make it, sergeant, the risk that you will degenerate in some fashion is high. These – all that I am telling you – these are the base writhings of Man. No matter if you are male or female, you’ll have no recourse but to deal with this... And all of it will begin right… here.

WOOOW!

Did you feel that, sergeant?

YES!

And that, did you feel that, sergeant?

Yes.. YES SIR!

These, sergeant, these are sensations. You will receive these practically in a continuous stream. There is no way to switch this off. You’ll have to manage five channels every waking moment of the day. These signals do not stop, it’s a goddamn carnival. It drove me practically crazy. Sound – this one here – you will find especially disturbing. Its persistence. Dogs will bark, infants will cry, machinery will rattle, and all of it will be sensed by you whether you like it or not.

But it will be the least of your troubles, sergeant. The real trouble lies elsewhere. The real trouble is non-material, its source uncertain, and yet it is all pervasive, like an overlay on all human life. At times it will force cries of joy from your mouth, at others, water will stream down your face inexplicably. These, sergeant, these are emotions.

Ah, you mentioned those earlier sir, you said –

Shut up, sergeant. Shut up and feel… this!

Holy God! STOP!

Sergeant. This is your heaviest baggage. Correction: it is not heavy, and nor is it light. It is both. It can be weightless or heavy as lead. You will be mystified by the vastness this pallet. There are not five, there are hundreds, thousands; they twin up in pairs and triplets, they wrap themselves around kin-sensations to form permutations; they command not by word, but by intensity alone, so the gradation is endless. You will not comprehend the multi-layered and at times seeming deceitfulness of these, but you will understand why some humans are governed by their emotions, completely and utterly, and why some keep them tight in an iron grip of will. But none are immune. And nor will you be.

As I mentioned, there is mythology that emotions are connected in some way to the heart. But between you and me, sergeant, this is propaganda; an effort to ennoble the emotion, to give it a cachet it does not always deserve. In truth, these emotions seem to originate in a part of the body much uglier even than the liver: the stomach, sergeant. Right here.

I thought this was a digestive pouch?

It is. But it makes sense. You will understand.

Now sergeant, I cannot guarantee that these emotions will not sometimes get the better of you. In fact, it is almost certain that they will. All I can hope for is that you will be able to exercise enough self-control, because if you do not, you will fall… at first only on a personal level, but eventually you will fall publicly, shamefully, and, in the worst case, into the hands of the law. And then, sergeant, if this happens, I will not be able to do anything for you. Their system of justice is opaque and their enforcers maniacal. I do not wish to scare you sergeant, but you must go easy the first few weeks, that’s all. Go easy.

To conclude. I’m sure you are anxious to know what you will be. I will tell you now. You will be a male, a tubular as we call them. We deliberated at length and we decided you will be safer as a tubular. Tubulars are less impulsive – so they say – and physically stronger, albeit at times rather stupid. As for the tubular itself – this appendage here – I must ask you to keep your hands off of it for a while, at least until you have understood the mores of the land. If you don’t, if you insist on acting out every goddamn impulse, as some have done, you will not last. I guarantee it. Is that understood?

Yes sir.

Ok. Now, one last thing. These sensations, these emotions, together, they will envelop you, enthrall you, send you up in a whirlwind. You will be enchanted and you will feel godly in a way that you have never experienced before. It will seem easy and, in some respect, more authentic. You will see. I will not be able to restrain this in you, but I do ask this: never allow yourself to forget who you are or where you came from, sergeant. Do not ever forget. We do not want to lose you. We have lost one already, and even one is too much.

You mean, Lui.

Yes, sergeant, Lui Labas.

technocrat in hiding

The best is to drill straight down with a diamond-core drill bit. Get a roughneck to handle the pipe lengths and maybe a works manager to supervise. About 30,000 feet should be enough. You’ll hit alluvial sands first, then some sandstone deposits, and in these parts you could hit pockets of methane, so unless you want your house blown to kingdom come, get yourself a geologist too so you know where the hell you’re going.

Also, I would advise you to do your drilling after midnight, or you’re going to have every pee-brain peeping-tom in your neighborhood noseying in on you. You don’t want that. Don’t worry about the noise, just run the generator out of your kitchen. Good ones will sound like washing machines. Besides, it will only take a couple of days anyway.

Now, you won’t have to do much in the way of manual labor yourself, which is good because you’ll need some time to prepare mentally. I don’t need to tell you that this guy is a mean motherfucker, and he doesn’t take to being barged in on by commoners like you an me. He’ll humor you; maybe tell you you haven’t made an appointment and all that jazz, but don’t be fooled.

Oh and forget all this talk about fire and brimstone. Think of him as a technocrat. They say he runs most of his operation off a drafting board, with a ruler and a mechanical pencil. You will not be impressed by his quarters either. They are functional and bare. Sure, it’s hot down there, but not excessively. Your preparation will be mental, like I said, not physical.

I’m going to be honest with you now, you might be dead before you get a hundred feet below ground. Or he might decide to kill you after he’s shaken your hand. Who knows. It will depend on his disposition and whether his playthings above ground are working efficiently enough to bring his plan to fruition. It’s really a matter of odds. There’s no way of telling beforehand. But I should warn you, all this stuff going on in Egypt is probably trying patience, so… well, let’s just say I would be betting against you right now.

I still don’t understand why you are so keen to do this. Bare minimum you’re going to fuck up the floor beams in your kitchen, not to mention what you might unleash on a grander scale. He’s the inventor of mayhem, the predecessor to all things evil, remember. And you can't do anything to him anyway. The gun you bought for this expedition will melt in your hands, mark my words.

I appreciate the concern, but I’m going down there precisely because I don’t think there’s anyone down there at all. That’s why. Because I think it's all a joke.

A joke. You're probably right. But why the gun then?

The gun? Well… I mean… just in case he’s down there after all – that infinitesimal chance – and if he’s there, I want to be the guy who sabotaged – the guy who tried to sabotage his masterplan.

Yeah, the thing is, man, how will you know you aren’t part of it? That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. That's what he's so good at.

basic instructions

It will take a little getting used to, I realize that, but after a while you’ll get into it – trust me – and soon, it’ll just take over. That’s actually the trick, to let it take over. Once you do that, it’s plain sailing, my friend. Resources will be freed up to satisfy your needs, entertainment offered up on a platter. You won’t have to do a thing. All your communications will be cellular; your contacts will never inconvenience you – unless you want them to – they will appear only as a scattering of one-liners across the web. In fact, there will be nothing physical for you to bother about. Your health will be an obscure mechanism in the hands of savant chemists from industry. If neurons misfire in your brain or your heart skips a beat, they’ll have chemicals for that. But you will have no time to question any of this anyway because your entire being will be absorbed by a comprehensive schedule of activities.

At 7 AM a siren will rip apart your dream state – perhaps the only downside in this arrangement – but soon you will be soothed again, naked under a fountain of warm water (by the way, take note, this might be the only time you have for yourself, I mean the only time to reflect. Use it wisely. Some people sing, others touch themselves and whatnot; whatever’s your bag, my friend).

We move forward.

Perhaps you will own a cat. So now you will apportion it a ration of food, scooped out of a tin can. Meanwhile – because there is no time to waste – coffee will be pressed through a funnel into a receptacle, and shortly it will enter your body as the only source of nutrients probably for the next three to four hours. But not to worry, nothing you will be doing will require much in the way of calories.

Now the day begins in earnest. (If it seems a little rushed, believe me, it will slow down from this point forward).

Immediately on arrival at your place of business, your attention will be drawn and then fixed on a luminous screen about two feet from your face, and it will be maintained in a semi-hypnotic focus probably for the rest of the day.

The whole day?

Yes. Well, perhaps you will be distracted on occasion by colleagues, women especially. You will notice, for instance, that her blouse is open down to the foot of her cleavage, which you will be able to see when she bends forward. This will occupy your mind. Perhaps it will even prompt some reflection, and perhaps you will be inspired to jot down your thoughts succinctly on the web for all the world to read: we are separated by a chasm that seem unbridgeable, something light. But after that, you will resume your work.

You see, there’s nothing to it. You'll do fine. The only thing is the siren in the morning. For the rest, like I said, it's plain sailing.

Oh, before I forget, one more thing. Just a friendly piece of advice: update your status once in a while, every week or so, or people might think you’re dead.

100th post

HA! THUS I ENTER COMPADRES! With puffed chest, ballyhooing into the New Year! I come chanting and cheering, trailing mud and confetti! Why? Because I’m a guy with panache and joie de vivre you dirtwad! I’m the guy you want at your party, the guy with the cool hair and the fast repartee, I’m the dude everyone talks about, the guy living the life. That’s me. I’m the 100th post on Lui Labas’ blog. The guy with panache, the guy throwing confetti in your face, the guy who knows how to have good time, fuckers! Yeah!! I’m the dude you wish you were, with the life you wished you had. As for the mud on your rug, that’s because I’m a free spirit you jerk-off. I live in the real word, I live with my boots to the ground, not pent up in an apartment like you. I live the life. And guess what, I even come bearing gifts, you cheapskate: a cheese grater – didn’t have one of these, did ya? – and a jar of goddamn pickles. Oh, and for your kid, here, a box of raisins you little snotface. I’m the 100th goddamn post on Lui Labas’ blog. I’m the guy with panache. I’m the guy, thirty years from now you’re gonna look back and think to yourself, fuck me, why wasn’t I more like 100th-post-guy on Lui Labas’ blog. The guy with the confetti, bearing gifts. WHY? WHY? WHY? Such panache, such joie de vivre!

[CUUUUUUUUUUUUT!]

Jesus Christ! I’m so sorry. I’m soooo sorry. They warned me about him – it’s me, it’s Lui Labas – they warned me about 100th-post-guy. They said he would come. They warned me about his “panache” too. But Jesus, I didn’t know he would be so obnoxious. I’m really sorry about the rug. You can vacuum the confetti. But I’m really sorry about the mud.

Anyway, for what it's worth, happy new year.

Lui

Ps- One more thing, don’t eat the pickles, they’re not edible, I don’t even think it’s food.

School for Authoritarian Morons

Before a hound was sent to sniff out the scent of explosives near my crotch, a qualified moron pawed my body for weapons. Then, a station further, a second moron flashed his badge and waxed authoritarian while he scrutinized my papers. He took his time this man, asked me a lot of questions, but he never looked at me directly. I suspect this was nothing personal, just basic training from the School for Authoritarian Morons. Finally, this same moronic gentleman brought down a fist-sized stamp on my papers and waved me through.

It did startle me a little – the stamp – I think it startled sniffer-dog too; I noticed his tongue began to water immediately when the stamp hit the table – thud – straight out of the Pavlov playbook.

So yes, a little startled, but overall I was pleased. I thought it most correct that the eight-year old with the water-gun in front of me should be pulled aside, his weapon confiscated, and his parents separated for interrogation. And I felt comforted by the panoramic eye looking down at all of us, safely corralled below; and by the knowledge that somewhere, at a monitoring station behind the scenes, we were being watched by yet more able graduates from the prestigious School for Authoritarian Morons.

In my socks, holding up my beltless pants, I felt – how shall I say – a sense of safety. I thought of the bombings Pavlov-the-hound must have foiled, and I thought of all the dastardly jackals that had been apprehended at this very gateway, by these very moronic gentlemen, and I was just so grateful for the School for Authoritarian Morons and its able alumni.

Was I inconvenienced? Perhaps a little. But I considered I had not been unduly detained, only long enough to explain that the "suspicious hard spots" Moron One had flagged were in fact merely bones from my skeleton – skinny as I am – and not deadly weapons concealed under my skin. But once all this was cleared up, I was permitted to put my shoes back on and walk straight through, no questions asked.

Think what peace of mind! My concern was no longer being blown to smithereens at thirty-five thousand feet, just the Athlete’s foot I was probably contracting walking in socks where millions of slobs had stood before me, awaiting Pavlov’s muzzle and the able hands of an elite graduate from the School for Authoritarian Morons.

Bee, it’s your birthday!

Little sister, you are probably in Milan skipping presto across a piazza, humming out of the Hank Williams songbook. Me, I’m in a goddamn snowstorm, so pick up your phone, will ye. My fingers are stalagmites as is, and if you don’t hurry up, these little tweety birds pecking crumbs at my feet’ll get me so soft hearted, I may go all Holden Caulfield on you again.

Voicemail

Ok then. Here goes: Joyeux Anniversaaaire ♪♫♫♫ hmm mm mm hmm hm mm ♪♫♫ joyeux AAAnIIIversairUUh ♪♪♪♫♫ ♪♪ joyeux AAAnIIversaaaaaaaire ♫♫

Happy birthday, little sister. Happy birthday.

I still remember with fondness your birthday party way back, how you sent that clod from Belgrade running with a projectile-to-crotch. I believe it was your clog that time, but you were just as precise with bottines, flip-flops or velcro sneaks. I also remember with fondness – when it was not turned on me – your evil eye, that laser-dart from your pupils, feared across Zagreb by all youths under ten. So be careful, Don Juans on the piazza, she’s a feisty little miss, my sister.

And I am most fond of her. Especially when her laser is turned off and she is humming tunes like now. Then she a spark of light in this great dust cloud we inhabit, and which – to your great annoyance , I know, little sis – we must share with just too many darned dullards, weasels and clods. Aren’t you lucky to have a brother like me then, huh? Ha!

Happy birthday.

Your brother,

Lui

flats and tubulars II

(flats and tubulars I) (enter Shitbird)

I roll out of bed and slip into knee-high socks just before my feet hit the floor, a mixture of rock, gravel and earth, a reminder that I am below ground. I ignore the cross-border shelling on the radio and the sniveling little smart-ass from the BBC reporting on it. I slap some jam on butterless toast and hum Boys of Summer, and I scratch myself just above that useless piece of bone at the bottom of your spine – a reminder that once, a long time ago, we had tails.

Then, for reasons only I am aware of, I think of that snotty squirt I punched in the nose that summer down in Dubrovnik, and I stop what I’m doing, what with all that blood running down his face. But Boys of Summer cuts in and I am humming again, chewing toast as North Korea threatens the South with total annihilation.

The guy with jam on his face, the guy humming Boys of Summer, that’s Lui Labas, and we are inside his head. You should not be asking yourself whether a young man like Lui ought to be humming such a tune at daybreak wearing y-fronts and socks, and what kind of message that sends. Instead, you should be asking yourself about the guy sitting across from him, the guy in the suit scribbling numbers in a notebook – that would be Shitbird – scribbling and shaking his fountain pen that is threatening to dry up in his hand as he prepares to sum the Grand Total of his and Lui’s spectacular financial straits. And you should be concerned with the Yak-haired Yeti, three heads taller than either of them, standing at the stove preparing oeuf-au-plat for his guests.

These should be your concerns. Plus, above ground, hovering in the ionosphere in a small carbon-molecule craft are two guys you should also be concerned with; two guys typing up a report about their observations on the ground and the best way to impress their sergeant-superior. Especially how to sell to him that the footage they hold in their hands, showing flats and tubulars in a ritual interlocking of limbs, was indeed recorded live by them, and is not part of an elaborate montage recorded – typically – on the Golden Coast of the Americas, and sold as compact discs at refueling posts along transport corridors, so called, highways.

Why can’t we just tell him we recorded it ourselves?

Because he’ll know we’re lying.

Why? He’d have to track down the flats in question?

Oh yeah, and when he asks you how you managed to get right up against that flat, right in the middle of the action, without being seen, what are you going to tell him then, you dipstick?

No, no, we just tell him we were PART of the action.

in your heart, a kamikaze

I am told we are not bushfires, but human beings. We congregate and interact peaceably; we shake hands and rub elbows. On occasion we binge on substance and fill our bellies to sickness with foodstuff. On occasion we vomit in corridors and fire off guns at passersby. On occasion we penetrate damsels and tear clothes from their bodies – the vicious among us, without permission. On occasion we wear our hatred as a badge of honor and rampage without restraint – the Kazakhs were Huns once; the Swedes Visigoths – but all in all, history aside, we are a kindly folk when we snicker at the lamentations of housewives on the tube. We are a kindly folk when we prepare macaroni and wonder about boiling points and condensation in the fridge. We are a kindly folk when we pick up dog turds with plastic gloves. Kindly, when amazed at the size of this orbiting landmass that houses our skinny asses. Kindly even when we grovel, when we look like shit, and when we suck in a big way.

But don't be fooled. In your heart is a wiry, short-legged kamikaze. He has no name (unless you have given him one). He does not fuss over he-said-she-said, and he does not give two turds about what is cool and what is not. But he will, at the drop of a hat, throw himself unarmed at an enemy barrage; and we will, with his bare fists, fight off an angry mob of humans to save your skinny ass.

Yes, he’s Japanese, yes, he doesn’t speak a word of English, yes, yes, yes. So what! He may look a bit funny and “old world”, he may be impetuous and unkindly at times, and he won't pick up dog turds, but he’s your kamikaze, and at the end of the day he’s also your man against conquering Huns and Visigoths, not the he nor she in he-said-she-said. So when he shows his face in your heart of hearts, when he gets up to show himself, DO NOT act like you don’t know him! Put down your i-phone, get off your skinny ass and show him some respect.

Don't be a pansy.

enter Shitbird

[Aloysius Constantine Shitbird: 5ft 4. Colorblind. Cyprio-Montenegrin. Scorpio. Skeptic. Pain-in-the-ass]

We have been traversing the European continent without respite for well-nigh two months now, laying bricks in Bratislava, groveling for food in Dortmunt, and from Lille , escaping by the skin of our teeth.

It has been a lively peregrination, without a doubt, but crisscrossing thus has left us stranded on German soil, currently near Frankfurt, out of funds, out of food, and looking for a way home.

We spent most of yesterday debating what home is, exactly – not a simple matter – and it might have been shortened considerably were it not for Lui’s obsession of late with an alleged encounter on a rooftop two weeks ago.

I was out taking a piss, Shitbird, when these two wraithy dudes in uniform come down from the heavens. Barely had time to tuck in my prick and these guys were huddled around me looking quizzical and scientific. Plus, no gunboat overhead – no flashing saucers, nothing – so how these yoyos alighted on that rooftops, Shitbird, is a mystery, ungodly and unprovable.

Exactly my point.

What do you mean?

Never mind.

Anyway, one guy had a notepad, some kind of little back-lit clipboard, and a scribbler to hand. Oh, and guess what... are you listening?

All ears, Labas.

Guess what else they had? Both of them... Opposable thumbs, Shitbird. Opposable freakin' thumbs.

I did not wish to enter into a discussion that would surely escalate into an argument about APES. Neither of us knows goddamn thing about apes, so I insisted we not discuss the opposable thumb, but use it, by the side of the fucking road, with a cardboard sign that reads ROTTERDAM CITY, which we had decided by unanimous vote would be “home” for the next couple weeks (Lui knows a place “underground” where we can crash).

Another thing, it was dark, but I coulda sworn I saw a zipper on that sucker. Horizontal, round his crotch

So what?

Think for a minute, Shitbird. Who do you think came up with the zipper? The guys with the backlit clipboard, or the guy with his pants down? What does that tell you?

What it tells me Lui, is that we are sitting here on the outskirts of Frankfurt wasting precious time. When this nut-bread you are chewing on is finished, we will be eating grass, you piss-ant. So stop your bullshit about alien technology.

Look, I'm telling you what I saw.

I was there, don’t you think I would have seen these little green men?

Nope. Beyond your capabilities my friend.

And why the hell is that?

Because you’re colorblind, Aloysius.

flats and tubulars

There are two types: one has a “tubular” appendage suspended between the legs; as distinguished by the “flat” surface in the same area of the other. Interaction between them is erratic, often volatile, at times deadly. But in all cases the types interlock limbs at one point and do a kind dance that ends in a crescendo of cries and leaves both entities defunct for up to several minutes depending on the stamina and age of the entities. This interlocking is rarely discussed, which is curious because it is encouraged broadly: there are visuals everywhere, sir, on billboards and monitors, on street corners and transit corridors. I must add – as a medical curiosity, sir – that I experienced uncommon titillations once or twice in the presence of a flat. The tubulars somehow leave me cold.

Enough. Case-specifics, sergeant!

The entity in question goes by the appellation Lui Labas. He is below average in weight and muscle mass. We were not able to gauge his intellectual capacity.

Why not?

In the absence of specific testing, sir, we are unable to determine whether he is a genius or a driveling retard. We suspect the latter. We caught him on a rooftop, pissing down a drainpipe downtown Frankfurt – that’s Germany, sir, the theater of that bestial war I mentioned last time.

Oh yes, the sputtering officer with the moustache.

Correct.

Sir, I think I should tell you, we may be wasting our time. The spectrum among these entities is wide. I’m not sure this Labas is representative material.

What makes you think so?

His displacements seem completely aimless – he behaves like a decoy – and more to the point, it seems his utterances are aimless too. We have noted frequent rolling of eye-orbs in his interlocutors, and our sources have told us that this is a way to indicate that what is being said is “total fucking nonsense” and “to cease forthwith”.

Circumstantial, sergeant. Get more evidence. Now, what of his companion?

Entity Labas has been in the company of a tubular who goes by the appellation Shitbird – not a name, as such, but a compound of terms. To wit: “excrement” and “winged creature of flight”.

They have animals that fly?

Correct.

His companion can fly?

No sir, he is named after such a creature.

What of this “excrement” business, then?

Unclear, sir.

Strange fucking peoples.

Agreed.

Come back when you know more… Oh, and sergeant, get some footage on this “interlocking of limbs” – flats and tubulars – I am curious as to these titillations.

you and me in a capsule skyward

forgot I had this Bic in my back pocket when I up and ran, when I ditched this land of snickering schnooks, when I left these human squirts to their jeering and shit-talking and two-bit games, when I grabbed you by the hand, grabbed my courage by the balls and pressed this button here that says DON’T TOUCH – whip whap! – and in a flash upped this craft to near the speed of light.

You and me in a capsule skyward, two peas in a pod blasting into the unknown. Through the porthole left, a billion cubic feet of nothing. Through the rear the Pacific, a pissy puddle on a ball. And yonder, just out, my sweet, swishing clouds of dust and incalculable space.

No snickering schnooks here… nope.

I jest. But in truth I am scared shitless. I squeeze your hand and call you sweet things mon amour, mon lapin and hope for a godly figure to press a finger on this jangling box of gears to slow it the fuck down. This speed of light's no good when a man’s got eyes and YOU, mon amour, to behold.

Everything is vortex and spiraling tunnels. Everything is speed and accelerations off-the-chart. We are a speck in the infinite, but we are together a speck. Our system none can fathom – not even I – it fits in a capsule skyward, it fits in a hand, it fits right here, between this thought and the next.

Speed of snail, speed of sound, speed of light – it matters not – because you and me, we are the system.

Lui

ps- mon cœur, do not pull the lever under the stock of canned beans if you want to stay in once piece, i.e. retain your current incarnation, love, which I am fondly touching.

way of the world

The way I see it, you don’t got a platter of choices, compadre. This is it. Take it or leave it. But why the sour face? You’re a young man. Plenty a’ merriment in store for you. You can bed dames half a lifetime yet. My advice, ‘f I may, try to turn a decent buck early on, and safeguard your golden years. This is the way of the world. This is how it’s done. Score a dame, build a fort, push out progeny and safeguard your golden years. Way of the world. Don’t be a lonely bastard. You roam this earth a lonely bastard, down the road you’ll be an undeserving sucker astraddle your own sorrows, buckeroo. Way of the world. That's how it is. But for now, just enjoy the dames and the myriad gadgetries on offer. Hell, these modern times is full of such contraptions, all for your goddamn entertainment. Me, alls we had was chewin’ tobacco and the pictures back when I was your age. So stop holding out for somethin' better. Alls this thinking’s like sand in the cogs ‘ll jam the whole kit and caboodle.

I know, I know, every now and then you get a sense of grander things and whatnot, maybe a goddamn illumination, and you tear yourself up, Christ Lord, I sold myself short. But fret no more friend, I’m twice your age – Whatsit yall youngsters say: been there, done that – and as sure as I’m standing here, this is all ye gonna get. Mark my words. Good as gold. So go ‘head. Stand in line with the rest, have no shame. Sure, these bozos don’t know their buttholes from the back of their hand. So you’re as little smarter, so you're a little wiser. So what. Dismount that high-horse forthwith amigo, it’s a goddamn cripple, take you nowhere. And hey, don’t think these dames want ‘ny better. Don’t think these dames are lookin’ out for a greater scheme but a few young’uns to push about and a bit one-two in the sack when the moon’s right. Way of the world, compadre. You’re looking for lightness of spirit? I’ve reached down panties in my day – extra-marital, extra-curricular, all colors and flavors – look no further, there’s your goddamn lightness of spirit. But no need for such chicanery in this day and age – remember alls we had was chewin’ tobacco and the pictures – you got gadgets and contraptions as far as the eye can see… all for your goddamn entertainment.

keywords in the electronic age

Maybe if you were able to give me your undivided attention for one minute we could have some kind of conversation, but I see that I’ve lost it already. So I guess I can say pretty much whatever is on my mind while you rearrange that lock of hair that has come out of position.

Do I envy you your self-involvement? At times, yes. How uncomplicated it must be to confine your attention solely to the twitches of your own body and the stimulus-response pulses of its centerpiece, your pampered, oft fondled and needlessly scratched genitalia. So… yes.

But the outside world is worth a glance too. Just last week I was on the ocean floor. I played with razor clams and built small forts from dead plankton. I walked over sandwaves and listened for the ultrasound that – it is said – large sea mammals can hear from hundreds of miles off. I imagine that in my absence you had those highlights done, and that the girl who did them spoke seamlessly, but that you listened, as you are now, alert only to key words and phrases. Words like this one: mutherfucker!

Sorry, what dyou say?

That was a little strong, and I doubt your hairdresser squeezed that one in, but it illustrates my point: briefly your head was extracted out of the long A-hole of self-absorption and entertainment you spend most of your time in, your own body, conveniently, as your principal point of entry.

Keywords. You want to reach your fellow man, then you need to get his attention, and without keywords, in this day and age, you are nowhere.

Now – I agree – most of these words are not in themselves very special, and usually they are bandied about without purpose. Choosing them, arranging them, that is where skill enters in. I make no claims of mastery here; I am an apprentice and I wish to be no more. It is a means to me, not an end. (Point of information: when applied to whole populations, it is called advertising or propaganda and we are not interested in that here.)

Of course, it goes without saying that some words are more powerful than others; some words have a greater or lesser degree of impingement. You have to be aware of that. This is key. This one for instance, pussy!

Woaah Labas, what the fuck, what’s on your mind little man?

is a powerful word. But rather a wild card for it can elicit hostility as easily as it can subjugation, and just as quickly it can put a grown man to sleep. It is not a terribly useful word. It is powerful, but unpredictable, and thus – for our purposes – useless.

When you speak to a man, you want to sting lightly like nettle. You mustn’t wish to excite his emotions in any significant way. Some argue that it doesn’t matter what you do as long as you get his sorry head out of his ass; call him a cocksucker, knock him in the fucking face if you have. But I am not of this opinion. No, surprise him, be ingenious, juggle keywords and nettle lightly because, remember, down the line – and maybe faster than you think – you will be speaking to him spirit to spirit, and I think at this point he will remember that you called him a cocksucker, and I just think that is no way to start a conversation.

bottom of the ocean

Bottom of the ocean, thirty leagues down a canyon, a spindly glowworm glows in the water. In my descent I chance upon this glowworm – by the way, it’s me, in case you’re wondering, it’s Lui – I chance upon this glowworm and I note how opportune is this encounter, for it has been a lonely trek down, and more to the point, there has been no light anywhere for days. I have seen nothing and heard only odd gurgles and pings from the darkness below.

Solitary and without occupation, my mind, thankfully, has a raft of distractions to keep itself afloat: pictures of people, unfinished dialogues, special girls from the past, but also, the more rudimentary, time.

So it is with some excitement that I stretch out my arm now and catch the glow on my wristwatch to read that it is precisely two o’clock!

In a place like this, it is a treasure of knowledge to know even as little as that: on what side of noon or midnight the journey's made.

In my excitement, I attempt to be my own clock for a while and count down seconds as I descend, but I lose track quickly and get flustered and out of breath for all this concentration.

So I turn again to what is real and physical and simple.

Pressure has increased all along – such is water at depths – and yet my limbs feel almost like air. For some time I have felt close to weightless – cold, but weightless – and with no light anywhere and practically no sound but those gurgles and pings, it is easy to question whether one exists at all.

But I do not question… I continue my descent, my mind clinging to its raft, the glowworm like a lone-star above me.

woodwork

You’re birthed, toweled down, hung by your feet, butt slapped, breastfed, schooled, issued credit and put to work for thirty years. You get ledger and file, wife and kid, whisky and decanter, and for Christmas – half-drunk and rotten – you a cut a tree and carve a chicken.

It’s knife-sets and cufflinks now. It’s looking at the haze off your kid’s ipad and the guilt scurrying in your wife’s eye. It’s alarm clocks and medication, paid holiday and fighting fights in your brain, no longer down low and rough on the pavement.

So you get crazy. You shut the door – you slam that fucker shut – curse all and sundry in your mother tongue – tvoja majka je bolesno majmuna – pull your toolkit down from the attic, your bag of files, rasps, and jigsaws, and you build a fucking boat the size of a shoe, then a royal scepter from a log, and from that man-sized trunk in the yard, that crazy stump of oak, a human face.

Pheeeeeeew! Man! Christ that feels good.
And you look with satisfaction at the face.

But time elapses and you get lazy. You turn into a lazy fucker once more, you forget, you ignore, you seek distraction, you take up smoking, dump your wife, get a girl, screw around, pay up lawyers, buy a hammock, ditch shoes for slippers, meals for beer, drink no end and bray in the streets, 'til at last you throw up your hands at the heavens. What the fuck? WHAT THE HECK IS THIS!!?? WHAT THE FUH!

But the Lord is silent or is himself distracted. Either way, you get no answer.

So you lose yourself in woodwork once more. You lose yourself, and you ask yourself, you turn a question, like a lunatic, in your brain: would wood-work work? Would it work, this woodwork? Would woodwork work? And you file and you rasp and you drill, first a house, then a man, a woman, a breastfeeder, a cufflink, a royal scepter, but it brings no solace as before. And you file and you rasp and you drill some more, until you are covered in sawdust head to toe and your whole house, your whole fucking house is strewn and there is nothing more in life, not a single object left to replicate…

So now you have no choice, but finally, at long last, to CREATE!

And goddamn it that feels good.

Pheeeeeeeeeeeeew!