Letter to Krissy:
full of raves, rants, poetry, chants,
discourse, stories, sound and furry, signifying nothing.
bunnie_part_03

What a bullshit talk show. They perform it like they are showing you something quite frightfully shocking. But they say very little. They said almost nothing on Auslanders and went strait on to coal. They mentioned that police beat Auslanders and don’t even pay for the missing teeth.

Police don’t just beat Auslanders though. And it’s not all police, just many of them. The people who want to become police are usually unwell. That is to say, they are ill. Sick. Demented. They are the killers who want to be in a big club. An organization that looks out for it’s own. And of course, we’ve developed our society so that we need policing.

Well, I don’t care to develop this theme so till later Krissy. I might have something to say about a motorcycle trip next time, weather permitting. it’s a long weekend and the plan is 10 to 15 people in the Vogesen. That’s in France. (And not spelled like that.) It used to be Germany so the towns are pretty. And the trees and mountains are beautiful. Saarbrücken is a good place to live if you can afford to take little trips. Which we can’t but do sometimes anyhow. Or will one day. I’ll let you know where we get to other than Luxembourg, Trier and Matz. Hell, even the Saarland is pretty. One day trip to Saarburg was pretty.

_¡"¡_

It doesn’t look good for motorcycle trip this weekend. Rain is the word. Or was it Bird. Michael changed the two front brake pads on Wiebke’s motorbike today after I finished work. It was a good thing on account the other pads were ‘fast kaputt’ and also the bonehead that had changed the front tire for Wiebke forgot to tighten the bolt that keeps the axle from coming loose. ‘Daß heißt’, eventually the front wheel falls off when you are going down the Autobahn and that’s the end. Sorry, I forgot, doesn’t help when you’re torn into tiny bits. Speaking of horrible body damage, did you know it is still a custom in many countries where people are still complete idiots rather than just the partial idiots we tend to be here in the wiser west, to hack off a young girl’s clitoris and vagina lips. It’s a religious thing. Women must not enjoy sex or it might confuse them about why their asshole husbands only rape them for 3 minutes ‘cause they aren’t concerned about or capable of giving a woman an orgasm. I don’t believe this story. Just like I don’t believe more money is spent on building better war machines while less and less is spent on education, third world development, research on alternative fuels and perhaps a little concern on the dying planet. But they tell me, ‘Off with the clitoris and shoot the insubordinates’. I’m going to try to regurgitate an old sentence. I can’t. It went something like: Our claim to intelligence with our flying to Mars and whatever shit is all a bit nullified with the stupid way in which we have forgotten that we might need air and water, both of which are completely fucked, no lies, and what about it. It was much nicer written before. And what confuses me that most is that we don’t give a flying fuck. Saying you do, as I like to pipe out, is nothing. Shutting up isn’t much different. Why we don’t get roaring mad and go to war against the industries, from cars and planes to computer manufactures and bleach bottlers, is beyond sensible. Greenpeace and groups like it should have a little support form us lazy careless complainers. Instead, we leave it for someone else. Well there isn’t someone else and no God is going to save us. We fucked up.

And other than that, I had nothing to say. Tomorrow I’m going to finish my third chair for our old kitchen set. I’m such a master referbisher now.

_¡"¡_

Jumping Jesus Shit, can women be unreasonable especially when they have blood coming out of their vagina. What is it? They can get caught on a theme and belabour it until they drive you mad. I can’t decide if they are stubborn idiots or demented trouble makers. Maybe they like to be told to shut the fuck up. What do you think, Krissy? It’s not easy making a marriage work, as you know. When two humans spend so much time together, it’s dangerous, There has to be space. Mary said that if she ever gets married again, she wants separate apartments.

I wanted to talk about something else. It was a thought I had this morning. Maybe it wasn’t anything to do with Brian but I got a letter from him yesterday. Nope. Wasn’t that. One nice thing about Wiebke is that she likes some of the music I like. She doesn’t like me being angry at her and I’m sure it would be better to be sweet but I can’t take it. George Thourogood, who’s coming to Roskilde, said once, ‘You talk to much’. And that’s it. Sometimes people have to shut up when it’s time to shut up. And I guess it’s time for me to shut up.

_¡"¡_

Today I’d like to touch on the subject of the deliberate misleading that can and is achieved with the use of words we are told are good. More specifically, I’d like to talk about the word ‘JOB’. I remember telling my grandfather about the Irving boys raping and poisoning land and water. I don’t mean to center them out, it’s just my grandfather lived in the east of Canada and Irving was one of the bigger of the monsters. My grandfather response was the typical response of someone I’d stereo type as having far less education as my grandfather. To the point. An idiotic response. A idiotic response that most of the land and sea rapers and killer use. ‘We’ll give you jobs.’ And we are supposed to believe they are doing someone a favour. It is not a favour to have a job. it might be a necessity in our times of raping and pillaging of natural resources. Zum Beispiel. Irving gave people jobs clear cutting forest. What is that job exactly? It involves the slaughter of the land and all the creatures on it and around 10,000 years of recovery time. ‘But we had jobs for a couple years so we could by a car to go to work in.’ So what if our land is dead and we will die right along with it. Another job Irving gave people was the job of poisoning the air and water and land in the process of turning trees into paper. This involves a stench that is like no other. The poisons you would have to ask Greenpeace or Environment Canada about. It’s hell. ‘But we mad paper as well as jobs.’ Neither is justification. A job destroying the planet is not such a secure job, certainly not if you care about your future. And the paper question as I scribble across some, hemp is an answer they are starting to think about. It appears to be easier to refine. And someone said something about recycling. So maybe the Irving boys will have me shot. I wouldn’t put it by them since they are obviously murderers, for a dead land kills it’s inhabitants, or they might sue for slander, but what I was starting to say before getting this run on sentence going is that, what was it? Something about a job digging a lake for a mark a day, or a job destroying the planet you live on, is not a good job. It certainly is no favour. And to you bastards that are out there raping and poisoning and smiling as you stick the knives in ignorant people’s spines, I wish for you great mental suffering from the guilt that will one day hit you when you are tired of your big life style that you know is only a delusion, a lie and a wicked show of power over week slaves.
Now. Don’t go Manson on us Krissy. Not every rich person is a killer and I had no intention to suggest it. In fact, if I had the means, I might even try it. But for now, I better finish the cookies and go to bed with Wiebke. I have to get up at seven and she’s going to need some attention.

_¡"¡_

She’s doing a bit of homework so I’ll leave her be a few minutes before - I sometimes burn the last batch of cookies, so I have to watch it. I miss the little cookie clubs. Not the big ones. Just the small gathering ones with games and or all night conversations. I know I’ll never have an all night conversation with Willie again. A wall and time has grown between us. It’s not so easy for me here to have that kind of a conflab because I haven’t learned the language of this land well enough. I’ll sign off. I’ve nothing to yap about and I won’t want to bore you with boring details of my life. Unless you wanted to hear about our excellent long weekend, motorbike tour of the Vogesen Mountains. If I think of it later, I might give details about curves on drops of distances that would - they were big.

_¡"¡_

I had something to say sometime today but that was so long ago. I’m whipped. I may go to bed in a few minutes. The motorcycle trip caught up with me.

While I put my brain in search mode for today’s forgotten topic, I’ll touch on the trip. Thursday night after everyone was gathered at Timon’s and Andi’s apartment, we packed up six motorbikes with 10 humans. I had Wiebke’s Yamaha SRX600 with full tank bag and tent, two sleeping bags and isolation mats strapped on the back with Wiebke. Andi had Steffie and full equipment on his KZ1000. Timor had Ines and full equipment on his KZ1000 and Gimpy was on his CB750, what’s his name on his 600 dirt bike and Mauro and his girlfriend’s sister on a Kawi 500. I could give you details of colours and types of humans but it’s not relevant, this ain’t a book, just an entry.

Himmelfahrt was the reason for the free Friday. The day Jesus fucked off up into the sky after hiding in a large tomb for the weekend. It rained just a few drops the time we left. We drove about 70 kilometers and stopped in a farmers field. It was dark two minutes after the tents were up. It kept threatening to rain during our barbecue. After the barbecue, the two Auslander’s, Mauro and I, went into the wooded area to drag back a little wood for a fire. We drank a little red wine and told various stories. The rain finally came at midnight to send us to bed.

The next morning we were up around eight for a breakfast of cheese and salami sandwiches and coffee for those who cared for it. We had started packing up, waiting a little for tents to dry, when the tractor that had been prophesied about, finally came. It came with liquid cow waist to spray on the ground. We packed very quickly. The farmer smiled as he drove by us. It was stinky. He was back with a second load as we were pulling out. He had to wait for a second for Timor to get out of his way. We bid him adieu and got on the road. he waved and smiled again. We had left the place as we found it, so he had no complaints for us.

This is going to be too long if I record it all, so I’m going to skip through quickly ‘cause I don’t think I care to write tonight. Sleep is what I want.

We were in the mountains for a few hours before the rain came back. We stopped for lunch in a mountain restaurant and then went to Comar to find a camping place. The rain was light enough that we could set up camp, borrow a couple barbecues, and eat or meat.

We made some noise at the bar until it closed, made some more noise in Andi’s tent till two then went to sleep. In the rain. It rained all night and till 2 or 3 the next day. Mauro had to go back to Saarbrücken to work. Soon as he left, the rain did as well and the next two days were beautiful. We went up and down the winding roads of the mountains after visiting the old part of Comar. We saw many little villages. Munster is famous for it’s storks, and cheese. The storks build big nests on some of the downtown roof tops. Although this is France, it looks like Germany on account it used to be and the flavour stayed.

It’s pointless to try to explain how beautiful the Vogesen mountains are on a sunny day. Either you can picture it or you can’t. It’s a favourite spot for motorbikers. They like to feel the thrill of the curves at high speeds. We were fast but careful. There were some fellows, usually without women on the back of their bikes, traveling the curves at ‘breakneck’ speeds. I use the word breakneck hear deliberately. I’m not sure how many motorcyclist die in those mountains every year but I know it isn’t two. In the little range near Berlin, 30 die per year. Idiotic, suicide. Michael witnessed one of them. A fellow on his new 1100 plastic death machine took a corner too fast on the wrong side, hit a car head on, flew over it, landed at such a speed that when only his head fit under the guardrail, it left the rest of the body behind. There isn’t much to do after that. Sometimes they can sew a finger back on and it might move again but once your head is off, that’s the end of it. You waist your time trying to tell a speed freak about inevitable death. They think they don’t care, and maybe they don’t or they thing they are immune to death. I think I am and I’m not even a idiot. Sometimes you just want to go balls out and not concern yourself with what’s around the corner. That’s what kill’s them. They hunger for the thrill.

But in the end, we went back to Saarbrücken Sunday night. We went directly to the Italian ice-cream cafe where Mauro works to give him our condolences and eat some ice-cream. Bloody good ice-cream those Italians make. One of our friends father’s in London had an Italian Ice-cream and table games place. We went there often and his dad tried to make us fat with his generous portions. But let’s not slip into childhood. Instead, I’ll slip into bed. The other topic has eluded my head.

_¡"¡_

Krissy. I’m not sure how to reconcile myself to you. I feel we’ve drifted apart. Perhaps 10,000 kms.

That’s going nowhere. Did I ever tell you that I was sexually attracted to you? I suppose you might have guessed if you looked in the mirror and saw that any man would be. And so I just thought I’d admit it so we can get on with a tectonic relationship. Do you know about the Templars, founded 1119 or so? How about the Freemasons? I don’t see them freely bricking my house. Even if I had one. One day I’m going to read the dictionary. Okay, it might take a few days. And for toady’s leitmotiv: Sex. That’s short for social economic xenophobia. Do you know what a xerophyte is? And if so, can you think of one. Oh, I’m not writing every other line on this page. That could save paper but it would mean your letter would be twice as long. Or longer since I have to write smaller not to overlap the next line. The other problem is, it won’t be so easy to read should I decide to type it out and send you a copy. I haven’t even considered starting Franny’s yet. Bloody hell. I better figure how to store stuff on dick or get a bigger hard drive. I might write my third letter to Lucy. I hardly know Lucy. Back to every other line. It’s too squishy with this bloody paper with 1,250 little goddam squares pissing me off. Okay. I admit it. I love you. There. I think someone broke a bottle on the road. Do you think that if I’m sexually attracted to you and I love you that we can still have a friendship without that bloody sex tension. And so what if we can’t. A little tension is good. And anyhow. I think I’ll go to typing a little in my novel. And so I won’t bother you with a lack of topic any longer today. Your dear friend, Steve.

_'¡¡'_

by Joanne B. Washington

read on. bunnie_part_04



© 2001 | the jose wombat project