Letter to Krissy:
full of raves, rants, poetry, chants,
discourse, stories, sound and furry, signifying bunnie.
bunnie_part_02
Back again for a short entry. I’m not decided what it should be. I could comment on Jewish Synagogues and how some people throw bombs at them. The Jews seem to attract anti-Semitism more than other religions. Sorry. I just wanted to be silly.
Let’s get to the point. There are somewhere between 10,000 and 10,000,00 different religions, denominations of sects of, and cults and sports fans. That’s the problem, at least one of the biggest, and what is the solution? How do we get people to loosen their grip on dangerous deceptions? Throwing bombs and fighting and killing doesn’t help at all. People get harder and less flexible. Fuck. I can’t get an idea into a sentence. Let’s forget about trying to save the world. Someone else can do it. People are too narrow to evolve or allow any kind of higher thinking. Or some kind of honest consciousness. I was going to try to leave religion out of my 3rd novel. But. Head. I should start typing every day. I’m so far behind. And I haven’t written in my 3rd novel hardly at all and neglected another project and now here I am starting to ramble feverously here with mad delusions that somehow this will be the breaking point of my writing career. I don’t know how well David McFadden is doing, but he was going to write 5 books about trips around the great lakes with his family. They were really fun. But he ran into a problem and only finished two. How does this relate? I’ve decided to write 5 letters with 5 books each in them. This is letter 2, the first of the books. The books aren’t so big. So I think I can do it in no time. As they say. Who ever they are. They are a different they then the they’s who we don’t know who they are, or if they even do, at the top.
One thing I’m concerned about is what to write about. Babbling on about non relative non-whatever things may not constitute a good repute. And not only may it be too tedious for the reader. It may be a drag for the writer. So I’ll go brush my teeth.
How ‘bout dat. I don’t know what ta say. I drew a bunny on Wiebke’s leg. And I could even write a sequel at the end of the five. One more book for each letter so as to have six.
Microfish are caught with smaller nets than even the Spanish have.
I should make one thing clear. Like the car window, so one can see where one is going. And also, that if I slag the Spanish for being fish thieves and forget to say that some of them are nice people even if they have trouble with their identity, being ignorant Catholics and macho. I don’t mean they’re stupid either, fish thieves, I mean they don’t know shit about their belief, they just wear it. And most people who claim a religion or a soccer team as there’s, don’t know what they believe. Soccer’s not a good example. People actually study that. So to close this entry, I’ll state my disclaimer that if I by chance slag some fish thieves or bomb throwers, I don’t mean to pass judgment. I know people have different ways to see the world. Wow. Look at that ass. Good night.
_'¡¡'_
Krissy. I’m stoned on one pill. The doctor proscribed something for my allergies and it’s more detracting than the hacking I wake up with in the night. Timor told me what to ask for and I did but the doctor had another idea in his head. He doesn’t know about Wiebke yet. If he wants to make me take drugs that make me a mess, so that I can’t even have sex, he’ll have to deal with her.
Speaking of drugs, let me tell you about an event we witnessed a couple of weeks ago. Rather than a cold and windy night, which is often the case for a story, it was a beautiful spring day, the end of April, with the green almost in full. Spring comes early in the Saarland. Wiebke wanted her semi annual sun-bed session so I waited on a park bench for her.
In this park, the benches are often occupied. I chose the bench that was closest and had just one other human on it. He didn’t appear to be stoned out of his head. We had a conversation and my German was working pretty good. Pretty good. He knew I was an Auslander. He couldn’t understand why I would want to live in the Saarland rather than Canada. The Germans often have a good picture of our home land.
He was fresh out of jail. He had been four years locked up for coke trafficking. Up until the second last week he had stayed off of heroin, if I got the story right. One of his friends came to visit and offered him some. He took it. Up his nose. He didn’t ever shoot it.
So there he was in a park in Saarbrücken, the junkie park, trying to go cold turkey. He had moved to the city to stay with his father. he wanted to stay away from his heroin friends in Frankfurt.
I wasn’t clear on why he chose the junkie park to attempt his withdrawal but I believe it was good for him that I had no heroin to offer. When Wiebke was finished, I bid my acquaintance good perseverance. Wiebke, my beautiful women, and I entered the Kabob restaurant for a heavy meal. One that would be enough to make her sick all the next day. But it was as usual, yummy.
We could see, why is it called ‘cold turkey’? He just called it ‘turkey’. I thought he was talking about the land Nevin’s parents came from. He left without making contact with drugs. He told me he couldn’t get money out of his bank until Tuesday because of the long weekend, and he hoped that would help him avoid buying that which he most wanted and dreaded.
Upon the successful completion of our meal, we emerged back onto the street. We had been watching from inside, a junkie helping a young man change the tire of his Mercedes-Benz. The police were checking his identification and looking in is trunk to help find his tire. We guessed that young fellow was either a dealer or a social worker with his father’s car. Without the help of his junked friend, I don’t think he could have changed his tire.
We hadn’t strolled more than eight steps before we witnessed someone throw another on the ground and kick him in the head. Nobody reacted except for one woman. She appeared to be the mother figure of the junked commune. She was hot. Her fury bellowed out at the fellow who had kicked the other fellow. The injured junkie was so wiped out of his head on drugs that he didn’t understand his condition. He might not have felt any pain. He was assisted to another bench where he sat and examined the blood from his mouth. The fellow who had kicked him was getting hell at the other bench from the woman.
The police arrived. First came the two police in the car. The same two that had been there only minutes ago talking to the man with his flat tire. They were presented with the fellow with the boot and took him along. The boot fellow was anxious about his bag and resisted moving. The other police brought his bag for him. The police were strong with him but did not hit him. They searched him and cuffed him.
The woman was still yelling. She was yelling about a gun the boot fellow had. When the police hand not found it, she pranced across the park, this is a small park with next to no vegetation, and soon came back holding a hand gun for all to see. The police accepted it. Another police came in a wagon to load the injured man in. The injured man had been trying to convince the first police that there was no need to take his friend away. A family dispute. They weren’t believing him. I don’t know if they took him to a hospital or to jail. There’s a law about being able to conduct yourself. Whatever the qualifications were, he didn’t make them.
The woman above us in her apartment window was glad to see two of them go. She would have rather they were all taken away. The rest of the story happened somewhere else.
We went home and packed a bag for our Saturday train trip to Lübeck. It was 12 or 13 hours of travel. We, especially me, normally wouldn’t go up to visit her parents but Petra had an all day birthday party Sunday and we wanted to join the ‘Hurry up the end of the World Club’. Timon’s father’s wife had her mother’s car that she wanted to sell. She could have sold it to a dealer for 4,000 marks but for some reason preferred to sell it cheaper to Wiebke. Wiebke offered only 1,500 marks and that was accepted. It’s needed a little work but the mechanic at the Arbeitslosen Centrum, where I also work, gets parts cheep and charges me little for labour. A usual mechanic is 75 to 100 per hour. He’s 45 per hour and seems to take less time than is needed.
I suppose I could tell you about dust balls or cob webs on the ceiling. Instead, I’ll go back to typing.
_'¡¡'_
I’ve got nothing to say. Thought I’d tell you that. I can type with two hands now. I’ve got 90% range of motion now in my behinderd arm. I’m also back to work which is good and bad. Good ‘cause I get to have fun. I can renovate, that’s refurbish our kitchen table and chairs. That’s an unbelievable amount of work. When someone tries to sell you an old set of table and chairs that he has refinished, that is, taken off 3 or 4 layers of paint and one original lacquer, than I can understand why. (I assume I meant why it’s so expensive.) I’m not going to sell ours for less than 2,000. I’ll burn it before doing that. The bad thing is, I’m brain dead after a day of sanding. I feel guilty working because I know I’m wasting time. I waist time when I’m not working but at least I do more writing. And also, I guess I may learn some things at work. And it’s things I want to know. You can tell Brent I’m working in a wood shop and there’s a metal shop in the next room. I might even learn a little German since no one speaks English. I’m sort of hungry but I’ve eaten so much I feel I’m going to explode. Just one other thing. Most people will tell you dogs are quite dumb and I’d put up no argument but it’s uncanny how they can sense when you are dangerously down. I was stoned in the barn with Brent once sitting staring at nothing while Brent was pestering the sheep. I was sinking fast and was possibly next to disassociation when his Grandfather’s wolf-dog came into the barn, something he had never done in his life, and put his head on my lap, something he seldom did to anyone ever. How it knew I needed a connection, I still don’t understand, especially when the dog would have had to sense it from outside of the barn while I was in there with 30 or 40 animals. A similar, not quite so spectacular thing happened yesterday. Gehart has his Doberman pup at work all the time. It bounces around and looks for trouble. Paul and are were taking a short break when Gehart and the pup came in. It was at the same time that I was sinking quite quickly. The pup came straight over to me and put it’s head on my lap, and his nose under my arm and licked and chewed on me. Though the second example could be put off as coincidence, I’m certain that dogs, and I don’t exclude other animals, can sense when they can help you hold on when you are about to lose your grip. And so that’s my pitch for dogs. I just wish that their owners wouldn’t leave their shit on the sidewalk. It’s such an asshole thing to do. If I took a shit in front of someone’s house, I’m sure the resident would not be too pleased. What makes dog owners think that people want to walk in dog shit? That’s why I hate people having dogs. But I really enjoy cheese pie and Wiebke made one, and two other kinds, for my birthday. So now I’m 35. I’ll not write anymore now on account I’m too banal. I’ll go type.
_!'!_
I’ve been typing in my 2nd novel. It’s very good. It makes me think I’m going to be a good writer. When I’m working in it, I feel I am the character who narrates. It is a world on a different plane. Though for now, I don’t mind going to work and making wood look good, I hope that I will soon have writing as my full time occupation. It’s not easy to pursue writing. There is no recognition in one’s validity as a participating human when nothing is published except for a couple poems in Babble. And what was that? I should be an architect’s assistant or a business man but I can’t do it.
And so what am I attempting with this lengthy letter? I don’t know. As I said, I wrote one to Franny and it was mostly junk. So I’ve no great expectations for this letter. Perhaps when my defenses are down, something pretty will happen. I may be telling a little story about something that’s happened in my placid life and the muse of madness will meld my mind into a state where the magic of relevance suddenly pretends to know itself in my pen.
Wiebke pointed out to me, as have others, that when I tell of a happening orally, it’s tedious and pointless. She accused me of doing it purposely. Toby thinks my brain’s too mushy to finish a thought. And I don’t even do drugs and won’t even get drunk. So what’s my excuse? Maybe self is too present. My self stands in the way of a story. I have to be not myself to tell a story. I have to be that character. I suppose it’s not so different than an actor. My medium is on paper. Just as my English teacher suggested I should avoid. Not all of them. Some of my college teachers actually encouraged me in my madness.
Wiebke and I don’t know what to do about a baby. Sometimes we really want to be parents but so many things encourage us not to. But not having any can be awful sad twenty years from now. And you can ‘what if?’ and ‘money’ and anything else your whole life and it has nothing to do with it. Reproducing is what we are. Aside from passionate killers and destroyers.
Sometimes life seems too fuckin’ pathetic and hopeless. I don’t know if I’d have a healthy enough attitude to help a kid give a shit. And what’s the odds of there being any air for them in ten years? It’s already looking more like a toxic waist land than a planet of life. Maybe the cockroaches can mutate to survive in it but we’re too slow. And our genes aren’t even that good. And my knees hurt sometimes. I’m almost too old to start such a venture. And bla bla blaa. I love depression. It’s hard to do that with people who love you. Wiebke doesn’t like me being mean and ugly. Only when she’s working in a stinky bar at night because I can’t support us while she’s at school, can I afford the peace needed for a little pathetic moroseness. I sometimes think I’m a perfect candidate for morphine or heroin or some kind of opiate. The only problem is, I don’t trust them. Like I don’t trust a doping religion. Jesus save me. From what? This vacuum I’m trying to believe is me. If everything didn’t happen our from me, I’d suspect I wasn’t. For there is nothing but the consistency of the reference point which remains recognizable. I’ve some memories but they don’t add up to much. I’ve many people who love me which keeps me knowing I’m me. Being alone isn’t so hard when you have people with you.
I’m not sure why I’m going on in this vain. I put on some Bob Marley to remedy it. There’s no point in me chasing the finer points of depression when it’s not what I intend to convey to you and truth be known, it’s pseudo depression and has to be worked on the be maintained. I can sit and stare at a wall sometimes and not need anymore amusement. I don’t need entertainment. In fact, I consider the television poisonous. And bla bla bla. But there’s a half hour on Auslanders tonight. Since I am one, I might watch it. Then I’m going to type again. Aaron has a big adventure I’ve got to get to print.
_'¡¡'_
by Joanne B. Washington
read on. bunnie_part_03
© 2001 | the jose wombat project