Letter to Krissy:
fish_part - second book of a letter to Krissy.
Living to find the write letter to right.
Finding one to love.
fish_part_05

So now, the Chinese say they are fully prepared to go to war with USA. Bet out of our water, kind of thing. And the cleaning lady is there next door by the smelly old drunk. His friend from up stairs pisses on the floor quite often because he gets blind drunk. They are a little disturbing since it’s our toilet they piss over. And we hear everything, she’s now vacuuming and talking with him or them. Wiebke has her hair dryer a going. I don’t need a hair dryer on account you could put my hair all in a tea cup. I should say that normally our neighbor is not that much trouble, just tedious. And Wiebke doesn’t like the pools of piss. I had some other alliteration today that I though quite clever. But this cold front, it’s March 11th, won’t go away. It’s sunny but it was blasted cold. They have a warm front moving up slowly, well spring time, from Spain. But it’s going slow like a man with a beer belly riding a bicycle. They said that. Only in German Did I tell you I was here in German land. The cleaning lady told Wiebke she felt sorry for the two losers of this game. She pities the self-abusers. It’s her own fault. It’s all right to be kind though. Being ugly never helps. Anyhow. I sometimes think I enjoy my job. I’m sure I would if I didn’t have to go every day. Wiebke can be sweet. She’s waiting to take - anyway we go to a movie now.

_bunnie stop_

Again I have nothing to say. It’s a poor condition for a writer. Fuckin’ pen. I hate not having 3 pens within arms reach. Luckily I had this one. It’s green. I used to write to Franny with this one. It’s almost empty. Like me. Being empty isn’t so good. It might even be less good than being full of shit. I don’t want to be a teenager, I enjoy having some awareness, but I don’t know if I like this rapid galloping towards old age. And I was thinking about things like what about getting frozen when you’re dead and then when they have the technology, they can bring you back. They seem to be able to do most anything, those ‘they’ people. But what I wondered about was if such a thing did become possible and the world isn’t dead, for that would make coming back to life pointless, what would the being be that they brought back. If that being was me when it was dead, or you if you’d like to also extrapolate, would it be me when it was recreated. What actually is a me. I seem to view the world and things in it and out of it from this point and I have thought about whatnot. It strikes me odd sometimes that I’m a me. Not that I don’t think everyone else isn’t, but is it something that can be frozen then thawed again? I doubt everything so I’ll also doubt this point. I’ll have paid all this money I don’t have to have my head frozen, heads are cheaper than whole bodies, and some fucker will probably have to start a new consciousness at 60 or 80 years of age with a new body they built for him out of my money. But I don’t know. Maybe I would still be me. Even though I don’t even feel like it most of the time when I haven’t even been dead, that I can remember. I didn’t even wash after work, table tennis and bow and arrow time. Not even my face. I’m going to do my face now. Better. Another thing that pisses me off other than soon being dead or alive and not me or immortal and extremely bored, is that the fucker in charge of sending us weather haven’t got around to sending this winter shit away. It’s April in 3 days. I am also sad that I probably offended you in my last letter and you have written me off. I miss Wiebke tonight as well. It’s good to miss her once in a while. She’ll be back soon. In the next few days or a week. I don’t know, Krissy. Tomorrow I’m going to try to stay busy and not allow myself to reflect too much. Reflected darkness. Think about it. I can see why people kill themselves. I’ve got it pretty good and I sometimes wonder why I bother. Other people. Cigarettes. That’s my cigarette brand name if I can get a company to sponsor me, which is unlikely since I won’t bother to tell of the idea. OP cigarettes. Other Peoples. ‘Buy your own cigarettes and smoke Other Peoples.’ ‘I smoke Other People’s cigarettes.’ ‘Hey, can I bum a smoke.’ ‘You could, but I smoke . . . you can see the add campaign. Wiebke called. She misses me and is coming home Wed. I hate being told what to do, especially if it’s more than once. And Wiebke doesn’t understand it and I explain it to her. Anyhow. I either have to shit or sleep so I’ll try sleep. It’s simpler.

_bunnie stop_

When I’m rich, sometime this Century, pretty bold to say in ‘96, I’m gonna buy me an island and build a diesel powered clean air generator. That’s when I’ll be finally happy.

I told Mauro that if people don’t buy my first 4 novels, I’ll write one of those shit stuffing murder sex books that people like. Then they’ll wanna read more and will go buy the others and maybe they’ll learn their lesson, those work all day, wanna be spoon fed mindless entertainment not enveloping thinking kind of people that could vary well use their thick heads if they flushed some of the shit out, kind of people. Was that a sentence of something a little less than coherent. I can let the last redundant clause out and the sentence would be fine. Sometimes, when I embark on a lengthy sentence that if proposing to explain all around an idea without breaking away for a stop so as to get a unit feel to a particular explanation, I forget where I had started by the time I have wandered long past the point where I most properly should have completed the run-onness of a babbling work of a tedious mind drain, often loosely referred to as a sentence. Finally a period. In German, it would be worse. They usually wait till the end of a sentence to spring the verb on you. Watch if you see someone translating German to English. The German will elegantly spew out his shit and the translator will wait with anticipation as though she doesn’t understand, ‘Hey, what’s he saying?’ someone yells. She yells back, ‘Shut up, you ignorant inbred mountain goat, I’m waiting for the fuckin’ verb.’

_bunnie stop_

While I was deciding to tell you I had Egyptian blood, I almost bit my tongue off. My Grandfather might tell me someone was trying to tell me something. But aside from English, German, Irish, Scottish, likely a little North American Indian, who knows what all and most of us have a little African form slave times in America, there’s Jewish in there. At least the name suggests it. Anyhow the Jews were slaves in Egypt for quite a long stint. Need I say more. (PS apparently there is no historical proof of this, they where slaves in Babylon though)

_bunnie stop_

It’s now the eve of April 1st. I’m not sure if I start with the scab in the middle of my tongue, or the stinky neighbor. Did I mention him before? He smells and is an alcoholic who drinks always. Beer mostly, sometimes wine. His skin is dry. I know this because he leaves flakes of it on the toilet seat sometimes. Why is he on our toilet seat? Because we have one toilet for the two apartments. That is a bit of a pain in the ass, especially now that he has cable. Now, with added entertainment, the drunk from upstairs often comes down and pisses on the toilet and floor and adds to the smell. And it’s the one shitty thing about this otherwise quite excellent place.

Poverty sucks.

I don’t believe I have a theme to go on, so till later, Krissy.

_bunnie stop_

Before I go back to my breakfast, I have to tell you of my dream. I found myself back in Toronto as I had the night before in my dream. I was back on Augusta St. but the place was different. The sound of the pump, which was real. was driving me batty and I woke up in my small room. the back door of my room looked out to the hall that went to the fire escape and up to the kitchen. My other door went out to the living-room, where I went. The people were watching TV and in the kitchen 15 people sat waiting for the one bathroom. None of them lived there. It was the day after a party. I wanted to leave and maybe take a shower at Brent’s place, or Darrell’s place, but neither of them lived where they used to live and I could only remember my phone number from Germany and Toby’s and Nevin’s. I explained these things to one of the ugly girls. She could see I was lonely. She laid down on the coach beside me but didn’t attempt anything beyond a little comfort, which I accepted.

I don’t remember beyond that but it’s a common dream to be back alone in Toronto. Especially when Wiebke is not here. She’s back in two days though. I try not to mess her and enjoy my aloneness, but I think I feel much better with her around. We had some very personal sex in my dream last night. I won’t trouble you with details. Till later.

_bunnie stop_

We, I mean Wiebke and I. I will try to avoid sexual fantasies with you unless you tell me you don’t mind. Hell, at my age, what am I gonna do - oh, I gotta go meet Mauro. And Chinsia and I are going north to Lubeck tomorrow to joint Wiebke and all the others to go to Andi’s 30th Birthday party. So see ya.

_bunnie stop_

It’s silly to start writing now at 05:23 when people are going to be here soon. But I was thinking about the rainy night I ate too many mushrooms at Geoff’s and my Dad brought me home and I don’t know what he thought but I was very out of my tree and I didn’t sleep the whole night because I couldn’t and I was afraid I’d die if they got me to sleep. Those not at all nice ‘they’. In the morning around this horrible hour, I had to get up and go work in a grave yard. Here’s someone.

_bunnie stop_

Some things have come to my mind. Most of them only make it more messy. I miss my friends and they don’t mess me, that makes me sad and that makes me mad. I also still wonder what the fuck people, I mean us humans here, think we’re fuckin’ doing. I hope we don’t think we are pretty smart. What I see makes me think we are pretty lost. And what nonsense do we hang on to. Example, TV and Jesus. We want to believe as much bullshit as possible so we aren’t left alone with our brains. People believe in any-thing. Tell them someone died on the cross for their sins, they say, oh cool. I’m in. They won’t ask what a sin is and if Jesus did anything at all worthy of notation in his life. And fashion’s the same. We believe things. And I don’t wanna right or write it so I stop. I sleep.

_bunnie stop_

The trouble with dreams, Krissy, is that when you try to use words to explain them, it doesn’t work. Words usually have a more restricted time motion continuum, where as dreams are more of a collected time. At least I think so now. I don’t know if I thought so before. One of my dreams last night (I feel I should be telling Dr. Mike) we (I’m not certain who the we was) were in a mountain town and wanted to take the stairs down. They went down and down. We started with some old people in front of us who went very slowly. The stairs kept getting steeper and thinner and eventually they seemed to disappear and there was nowhere to go and the stairwell was so unbelievable deep. Someone dropped a soccer ball down and it took such a long time to hit the bottom. When it finally did, it came all the way up to where we were and fell down again. I think two girls down there played with it when it stopped bouncing up so high.

We went up again and met a blond hared man that told us we could make lots of money if we wanted to. We found out he was the owner of the elevator that went down to the town that seemed so far under. We were to meet him. We went to the house first where the woman with us, kept her things. She wanted something as evidence. The man happened upon us and the young woman handed us a camera with 30 or the 36 pictures already shot. She also wanted to change her ear rings. Neither was necessary but she wanted the man to not suspect that we suspected him.

This is what we suspected; the stairs were purposely left in disorder so he could make money with his modern electric elevator. Another thing I suspected was that the stair well or hole that went down, was not as deep as we were lead to believe. The soccer ball was a trick with air pressure used below to slow the fall of the ball to give the illusion of a greater distance. Well it’s breakfast time. So see ya.

_bunnie stop_

We came home last night after our little party at Andi and Mauro’s. We ate well. I was cautious not to over eat. I don’t fit into my motorcycle leather pants anymore. Himmelfart is in 2 weeks. That’s just after my 36th birthday. I’m so old and I don’t hardly remember getting here. I hardly even remember hockey. And on the road was an Igel, I think we call them hedgehogs. They are quite sweat. Miniature porcupines. Which of course reminds me of the ride down the mountain in BC with the four French guys that stuffed us into there small car. One guy was excitedly calling out for a porcupine. He was hoping for a sighting.

The Igel, ‘I’ sounds like ‘E’, and ‘E’ sound like a short ‘A’, was dead. Still is dead. And I think it was pregnant. And I think it was hit by one of the blind Germans that drive 60 in a 30 zone because they don’t care about any stupid Igel or children or people sleeping, or old ladies walking their dogs.

But the hole point of this entry is to attempt to explain my dream. Wiebke was a little frustrated with me when I went to sleep. And I’m going to be sad today as well. Maybe even depressed if I can keep people from making joke with them.

It all started when my friend wanted to evolve and breed an animal. It seemed to me like a theoretic experiment with miniature cows that looked a little like sheep-pigs. Anyhow, he took one female out of the circle and bred it with one of the first creatures. He, my friend, lost interest after that and was doing other things. But a pretty insect looking thing had come of his manipulations. I was concerned there might be a reason not to let it away so I went to get a large jar. My friend had already had it in a small gar when I returned. He dropped the small jar into the bigger one. Then he went off again while I watched the thing grow. It had wings unbelievable large, like that of a bat. And it kept growing and was soon to big for the jar and it was struggling and screaming. It would soon kill itself if I didn’t let it out. I didn’t want to but I didn’t want the one creature of it’s kind to die. I stopped holding the lid on and the creature burst out. I managed to get it into the bathroom before it turned into a hairless, reptilian looking, fighting rat-dog. It was fierce looking with it’s many teeth and obvious lack of instinct and it’s complete frantic unknowing of what it was or what to do. It scarred me. I shut the door. I pie - oh shit. It’s quarter to. I’m gonna be late.

_bunnie stop_

I’m excited about our new sofa. The French style. What’s it called? Sasawn or season. You know the one with one side higher than the other. But with a back. And it’s comfortable, green all most new though I’m sure it’s old ‘cause of the condition of the lacquer on the wood and it has the price of 20 marks. Dietric lets people who wok at the Centrum have things cheaper. And if he especially likes you, like he likes me, you might get away with paying even less than your work mates. I don’t like the idea of giving them money on account I know a few things about how things operate at this work place. Same idea as how governments work. Although a much smaller scale. Governments take money right out of your pay to piss away as they please. And another thing that tends to happen with governments as they work for the well to do and wealthy, which helps the money raise to the top. And I just thought about one of the rich women in America. She’s one of the first people into New Skin, or the top banana even. She was talking at a pep rally I had attended. The weekend was dedicated to convincing us pinheads that Nu Skin was the cat’s ass, as they say. I was trying to believe them. Sometimes I try believing in things. This woman of wealth had a little thing to say for us in the opening evening informal meeting. She was telling her story how she started out selling horse grease or something door to door when she was a little girl. And she made her and the other few money makers of Nu Skin look like heroes. And one thing she said was; she could see nothing wrong with someone becoming as rich as they can. Something like that. And sure she’s right. But I realized that most of the people wouldn’t and their lame hope for it was what was making her rich. And when I caught her eyes afterwards, I wasn’t sure if I liked to be part of the Nu Skin cult. I had tried to think it wasn’t a cult but when my man above me in this money to the top pyramid, one of the best there is by the way, tried to get me to switch to another product line with electric finger nail ovens, anti fat cream and plastic rap and products that warned if fir grew on you tongue to stop use, I had to abandon the nerve your friends with your out of character, gun-ho afraid to be over 40 products. Another thing they liked to do was say don’t quit your job, but give examples of people making money out of control that wouldn’t have to ever work again. And why am I talking about this? Everything I was involved with, with Steve, helped me to lose money. This wonderful stock he got all his friends to buy is at a nickel and going under. And it is after 2 and the sun is shining so what about that? And I’m sure that they forgot to wake up to buy something to grill. Though they want a grill party. I want a girl.

_bunnie stop_

Oh, by the way, as they say, as I was listening to the Kinks today I remembered a co-worker from Santa Fe. You know the one I wanted to have love me but like you, thought I was out to dinner. Victoria. And now I go to barbecue.

_bunnie stop_

So much for attempting to have a nap. Maybe it was the coffee at De Lorenzo’s Eiscafe. At any rate, so they say, it came to pass that we had a yummy barbecue. Wahnsin amounts of dead bovine. And wine. And Timon and I lasted the longest. I was the least drunk. I sometimes want to get drunk but I can’t drink so well. Anyhow, at 4:30 we packed it in after the fire was mostly out. I slept on Sonja’s floor. I was thinking, if I had had sex with her, which crossed my mind but so does sex with camels, not that Sonja is anything like a camel except for her two large humps, could I lie to this book. If it was a journal, which it ain’t really now, is it, I would have to tell the naked truth, if there was some but with this book, which fails to fall snugly into a category, I could actually make things up if I wanted to. I could tell you I had sex with two complete strangers last night, describe all the fabricated details about how the woman was a sexy late 20’s, shapely, beautiful Philippine woman that spoke no English or German but loved men exactly like me, and I like that in a woman and her man was a world champion table tennis muscular man that spoke forty languages, was from Hong Kong and had the most beautiful penis to go with his hard body that I found it distracting to have to satisfy the hunger of the woman for Angst that I should miss out on the man’s begging erection. Luckily we arranged ourselves so that my penis was mostly in the anal of the woman and his penis was mostly deep in my throat. In fact, that’s how I awoke in the late morning. I didn’t move until they were both awake. Shit, I better change the sheets before Wiebke gets home. The woman was so wet from having two men on her, that there’s a large dried up wet spot where her sweet, soft vagina came to rest. The real terrible thing about the whole evening is that I will likely never see them again as long as we all live. I don’t even know their names. I’ll never forget their flavour.

_bunnie stop_

Sometimes I get the feeling my baby’s gonna leave me. When she goes away three days at a time. When she’s given her loving to another man. I don’t feel like she’s any longer mine. I feel my woman has left me. Oh, I have to finish with this attempt at a song on account she came home. We’ll have to see how things go. And what’s up and things. Maybe I’ll sing the blues tomorrow.

_bunnie stop_

It’s already time to go to work. I had a nap from 9:00 till 11:00 last night, got up and went to bed. I could have gone to sleep but Wiebke didn’t want to be ignored. As well as all that, this is the last time I sit on this coach. We get, I bring, the new old one today. I have to write a few letters as well. What a life of action I have. I have to write a summary of my book. The book that starts with our hero lost in space. He slowly recaptures his memory and finds himself in a strange forest. A forest with little sounds. When he is ready, he sets out to search for his ship. Before he finds it, he is found by the aliens. The aliens are mild and gentle. They are even apathetic. He gets to know one of the few young ones, sees the monstrous city that had once housed billions of people. It now houses a few thousand even though it continues in operation.

Well he wants to get back home. His alien girlfriend comes with him and they land in Florida’s Disneyland. Soon after the adventure starts, eight years lost, we see that America is a little different. I’ve got to go to work now. Krissy, you write me a letter.

_bunnie stop_

The sofa is excellent. Most everything is okay except that I’ve been consumed by this dreadful heaviness that makes everything seem lame and tedious. I see only insincerity and pain in people. This whole business of entertainment and having fun is time lost. But what else is there? And I can’t even make myself clear. I’m only angry and have no patience. I must sleep now and my wife wants to rock ‘n’ roll. Fuck fuck fuck.

By the way, it’s two days later and I feel real good. Therefore, I have nothing to say. At least no cutting sarcasm. What I think I really want to do, is finish about ten books, that’ll be enough, then form a blues band. A rockin’ one. Or be a fisher man. Wiebke doesn’t want to live in Nova Scotia. I can’t say as I blame her. What with her prettiness to show off and fun to have. But I want to hide away somewhere. Maybe the south of France is all right as well if you, I mean me in this case of the use of you, don’t understand French and aren’t leaning toward right wing hate politics. If history has any truth, there are a few problems with such politics. Politics that lead to the rich getting rich and the poor having nothing and eventually even less. I’ve never cared much about money, but I’ve not enjoyed times when I couldn’t eat. For me, it was always within my means to change my situation. Anyhow. I’ve got to take a shit. Oh, which reminds me, my dreams were a little nutty last night. We had decided to be anal after the ironing was done but then company came and they wanted to be naked and have conversations, which seemed moderately important but not as memorable as her breast. Weird, ain’t it? Tits. Most of the men I know, except maybe one or two that don’t go for that sort of nonsense, think tits are pretty neat things. Well piss in my sock, it’s time to get a wiggle on. The hobel machine and swing sander are waiting to be neglected. See ya, lovely.

_bunnie stop_

Here I am in Koln. An old Roman settlement with many stories about power struggle, French and secularism and how it’s still pretty Catholic and I’m in a Nunnery now. They rent out rooms. And our work place brought us here and pays for every thing including 3 days work. Which seems awful generous. They have a church down town I’d like to see. It took 632 years to build it. The Dom. It’s fuckin’ huge. I have to go pee. Soon we eat so I’ll go see about that. It’ll be a light meal. And it’s raining but not out of control. So tonight we’ll go do things.

_bunnie stop_

It’s time to go to sleep now, Krissy. After a few hours of walking, I think I’m tired enough. I showered the bar smell off me now I’m all fresh. I suppose I could say things but I’m not going to.



Krissy. I want to make myself clear. That’s why I struggle with trying to write. But it’s a stressful battle because what I’m trying to get at, understand and explain, isn’t really there and I have to create it to give me the gob of looking for it. And since it’s imaginary it’s not easy to put into simple words. I’m a little antisocial sometimes because I have a hang up with the human condition. What I mean is that I’m sometimes, especially after sex, not happy with flesh. Bryan used to say, that 30 seconds of clarity, after an orgasm. Maybe it’s quite natural not to like sex in, in what? A big bowl of fish guts? What’s the point here? Whatever. I’ll come back another time.

_bunnie stop_

The worst thing, well almost, depending on point of view and preferences, is boredom. Boredom leads to uneasiness. Then trouble is there waiting to spring to the aid. I get bored with my life every few years. So it’s time for a new one. I’m not sure what will change, except that on Wednesday I’ll be 4 years away from 40. Then what do I do? I haven’t really started my life yet and I’m about to be going down hill. As they say. Whatever. In 50 years it won’t matter. I miss you Krissy. I would like to come sit in your kitchen and have a tea. Maybe when we are older and sexual tension is gone. I’m starting to be more and more disappointed with sexual obsession. I don’t mind sex sometimes but I can’t see the madness of looking for the - whatever. Good night.

_bunnie stop_

Gold Fish is a good name for a band. Or Lizard Fish. Fish Lizard. Last Lizards. Raging Reptiles. Free Masons. Remote Control. Another Fucked Religion. Bad Black Buzzard. Burning Buzzard. Jesus Junkies. There’s an endless possibility. Maybe I could have a job giving names to Rock ‘n’ Roll bands.

It’s near the end of June now and we’re going up to Roskilde in a couple days. 4 days straight of Rock ‘n’ Roll and a few other things. I’m a little excited. I even made a 6 meter flag pole that I can screw together. And I made a flag the shape of my bunny.

I have another 6 months of work ahead of me and that’s actually okay. The work place is pretty well perfect. Absolute no stress. I’m writing my first book one more last time. Well, Krissy, there’s no time for talk about things like kids eating children ‘cause they say it on their video. I might get to it another day.


It’s late Aug 14 now. Thought I’d say hello. I miss your correspondence. I feel like I’ve lost another friend. I’ve lost most of my friends. Amer phoned last month and Geoff and Brian writes sometimes but that’s about it. Brent probably never wrote a letter.

I was thinking about a young woman. It was back in Canada when I still ate at Mc What’s-his-name’s the odd time. She was so sweet and I got the feeling, for those few moments that we stood across form each other that we were friends or even lovers. She didn’t ask me to pay for my food. I waited a few more seconds but it was clear that she wanted me to have it as a little present. I likely would never recognize her if we met but I’ll always remember those few moments that we were friends.


I wanted to tell you about Michelle McTurk. She was in my dream. But I can’t remember except that I think she’s really excellent. And I can’t write right now ‘cause I have to deal with my woman.


It’s tomorrow now. I have nothing to say but I thought I’d like to write about it. I fell into a heavy depression. It took me into everything sucks mood. It’s about to lighten up. If I can hold out for a few hours, I should get back to my equilibrium state. That somewhere around neurotic schizophrenia and slug complacency. Part of my trouble is that I have no friends in this town. I’ve a couple acquaintances but there’s no Taquir or someone that I was - ja well. What’s scary though is that if I moved back to Canada, people would have other lives now. I’d be just as sad and lonely. School and work can be of some relief. Alexis and Eva correspond occasionally as well. Okay, I’ll stop this babble. I’ll try go have some fun later. Sometimes that helps. And –


I don’t know much about Dole but what I saw on the news today made me think that the book I wrote will no longer be suitable for the fiction section. If the Americans vote him in, they are dumber than I give them credit for. As far as I can see, he’s promising a Military State. I won’t go as far as to say he planted the bomb at Atlanta as a ploy to under grade his opponent, but he’s used it well. The trouble with selling yourself to the stupidity of people is that it works. People in general are stone dumb. They don’t much know the difference between their ass and fucking a chicken. Couldn’t think of a proper analogy. I’m sure Americans don’t want me telling them how stupid they are so I’ll let it go. They are no stupider than any other nation. Not really. Just a different breed of stupidity. And of course, usually only 90% of a nation is stupid. Whatever.


I had some foolish things to say but I forgot what they were. I’ll tell you that Nevin is coming back in two months. She and Toby wen to England. They don’t like it so much. England doesn’t work so well. I don’t think it has anything to do with the diseased cows and sheep and milk and cheese and gummy bears and almost anything you might want to eat. It’s just too expensive and doesn’t run well.

Our neighbor is a swine. He lives, smells and sounds like a swine. He just ain’t as cute. His piss on the floor friend from up stairs stinks even more. They like getting drunk and other than that they like to drink a lot. (a lot is very much) He’s bellowing now. I can see me being dam old soon.


It’s Sept 12, 96. My wife gets me on my nuts sometimes. But I’m not going to flip about it. She’s out of control. Hormones or something.

The thing is, sometimes I don’t want to be told what to do endlessly. Ass a matter of fact, I hate it. It could be why I’m going to become an assassin. A good way to blow off steam, as they say.

Anyhow, we’re going to fly to Mallorca. It’s a one and a half hour trip from Saarbrucken airport.
I packed and empty book in case I feel like writing. You see, this one has only a few pages left.
Unless I write very big, I won’t fill this tonight. Especially since I have nothing worth recording. My dreams are sometimes pretty cool, but I usually forget them before I think to write them down. And it’s almost impossible to explain them how they were.

I’d like something yummy to eat.

I’m less than 80 kilos finally. I was up to 83. So big is this not but it’s a bad trend to slip into, this gaining weight, not caring any more, being depressed, hating everything, wonder why one bothers with anything.

That’s the trouble with being disillusioned, there ain’t much left when the mirage fades to black. But what can you do, when it’s gone it can’t be rebuilt. That’s why assholes like me are shot. I want to shatter people’s illusions. Without illusions the mind’s left in a void.

I want to believe there’s some where to go from there so I push myself if I sink into that, why the fuck bother hole. It’s there that I really don’t want anything to do with anything. Humans especially.

But I do like making things with wood. From wood. Out of wood. Sometimes I like music or writing. Or a sunny day. Maybe I stop this now.

I’ve established that I’ve nothing to say. So we’ll not belabour the point. So Krissy. Sleep good. Tonight I’m going to think of you and the little one.

_bunnie stop_

The thing is, Krissy, I’ve only 3 months of work when I come back. Then I’ve gotta worry about things. What things, I don’t know. I’ve got to hurry up now and be sweet to my wife or she’ll flip. "’Cause we’re all going on a summer holiday.” And she gets pretty excited.

It’s fucking 6 degrees C and the summer ain’t even over. I’m signing off. I might die today so in case you get this somehow which is unlikely, they just get rid of things when people die, I want you to think fondly of me and tell your daughter about what a nice guy I am. And stuff like that. Well, see
ya.



by Joanne B. Washington

read on. wombat_part_01



© 2001 | the jose wombat project