Russian village houses in August

Yoda is a Dead-Set Legend

Yoda, you Jedi you,
You mind-tricker,
You Sith-licker,
You dead-set legend.
But a quiet and peaceful death
Is not the Jedi way.
Yoda, you're not really dead...
Are you?

Four hundred and fifty five words on friendship

It is necessary, at this moment, to pause in our reflections on wisdom that I might drop a charmed word or four hundred and fifty five on the topic of friendship.

When in need, there are few greater resources than a gaggle of willing friends. It’s ever so handy to have at one’s disposal a select group of moderately incompetent well-wishers to ease the rocky roads we are all forced to tread from time to needlessly trying time. I suppose that the satisfaction derived from being a Daemon Lord lies not only in the pursuit of carnality, but also in the knowledge that one has a bevy of hyena-men pootling about, jaws aslaver at the prospect of giving you a damned good hand with the dishes.

I recently discovered that I had no friends. Being such manifestly wonderful creations, one could be forgiven for thinking that making friends would be to humans what nest-building is to birds: a task you’d rather some other bastard would undertake for you, so you can simply receive the finished product with little babies waiting to hatch and an irresistable urge to chunder in each others’ mouths, but by dammit something that can well be done with one’s own hands – or wings, as the case may be – and with considerable aplomb, should the need arise. Well, I certainly hope I need not mention that such is not the case. Readers who, having cast an appraising eye over the preceding sentiments, casually evoked somesuch thought: ‘What is the man whinging about? Making friends is like wanking: fast, easy, and satisfying,’ may avert thine eyes now. We are not all Gods walking upon this Earth, able to win true and lifelong friends willy-nilly by sheer force of our numinous nimbi, rampant libidos, and lightning crackling from fingers. It’s damned hard work – especially those of us who, obliged to fulfill certain domestic responsibilities (Earl Grey does not make itself, after all), are unable to venture forth with a cheery smile plastered across the old mug, hugging this prole and that in an orgy of soulmatery. Friends are supposed to be the kind of people who wriggle their disgusting way out of the woodwork at just the right time. Well, do you think any came wriggling my way? It was quite, I can assure you, the opposite: I planted myself on the ground and waited for friends to flock around, frothing with enthusiasm, yet found myself watching three millipedes trundle away in that enragingly pointless fashion of theirs from under the leaves I had disturbed. Millipedes, for God’s sake: even a smelly little blighter with thirty-thousand excess legs and a tendency to coil up like a poo had more friends than I.

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ANOTHER WONDERFUL STORIES OF OUR OWN

deuxieme vue

Parfois, souvent, cycliquement, sans reflechir, mecaniquement, la ville inconnue leve sa tete de beton dans la nuit electrique, se laisse caresser son entre-jambe asphaltee, ouvre grand ses bras a la decadence.

Mekanika.

On sent les colliers en Argent foueter le visage, amazonne en treillis, petits seins replets, levres corallines, ongles de pieds rouge vif, tromperie.

Sonic Youth.

J'y serai. In. Vodka-Red-Bull. Performance. V-J. Xs et tremblotte, regard maitrise sur la foule, emotion palpable, tenant la main imaginaire de Marina, la brise de l'air conditionne, le plafond, la fumee des pipes. Une roquette me transperce le cerveau de fond en comble.

Ce soir, je meurs.

Reflections on Wisdom: 3

I was recently unsettled by a particularly onerous task. In a frustrated fit of strop, I decided then and there that what I needed was a good dose of wisdom. Wisdom – and only wisdom – could tell me whether I should undertake said task or run away, screaming wildly. Wisdom – and only wisdom – could advise how best to complete said task or else how best to find a loathsome hidey hole deep enough to evade capture forever and ever.

So I flung the cupboards open and rattled the drawers in a great show of exasperation, for when one has succumbed to strop, one must exorcise the daemons with immediate action. Of course, no elixir of wisdom was to be found, and I decided to blame the cat, who happened to be minding his own business on the kitchen floor. Having stomped around and issued a brief and unsatisfying rant, I pointed my finger at the wary feline and, enraged at his impertinent refusal to scamper from the might of my wrath, aimed a kick at the blighter.

Now, of course, is the moment to assure the horrified reader that I am not a cruel man but a considerate and gentle one. I have no truck with violence spawned of anger, especially when directed toward animals, children, and disgusting cripples. Said kick, admittedly aimed in the cat’s direction, was not actually intended to launch a bundle of powdered bone and catmeat through the wall and into the street – merely to invoke within him the Fear of Me.

However, at that moment, my housemate descended the stairway, and, seeing me winding a rampant toe back to nape, assumed the worst.

All three of us had been undone by a poverty of wisdom!

Reflections on Wisdom: 2

Herein lies the fundamental problem with Wisdom: it is cloaked in the decidedly ragged garb of Advice. Yes, ragged, I say – Advice which has enormous holes, which is held together by a few loose threads, which is easily torn apart under the slightest pressure. It is only after one has donned the filthy rag and wandered around Hades for a spell, fending off men-slugs and three-headed dogs with a flute, that one can determine whether it is indeed mere Advice or actually and in fact mighty Wisdom. Every self-respecting wiseman will be only too pleased to sit at your kitchen table drinking Earl Grey, eating boiled eggs, and praising the virtues of Wisdom. But what of the man who, donning his ragged cloak and descending to the Netherworld, hopes against hope it will prove to be Wisdom, yet discovers, as beastmen rend him to bloody gore and shards of bone, that the blasted thing is, after all, just Advice – and Bad Advice at that? It would be a wise move indeed to place tags on the backs of these cloaks, reading either ‘100% authentic Wisdom’ or ‘Produced from the Best Quality Advice’.

God of Ugly Things

Wetapunga, you fetid wretch,
Where are you now?
Piki Mahuta is dead and the North Island,
The North Island grows lonely.
Yesterday's carapaces and volcanic waters
Have been lost among a seething carpet
Of rats and plastic and tetra-paks.
Wetapunga, you terrible grasshopper,
What will happen to us?
Living death beneath the snow,
And hissing isn’t enough anymore.
Besieged and ancient: Wetapunga,
Your time draws near.
What will happen to we ugly things
When you are gone?

Reflections on Wisdom: 1

Wisdom is one of those tricky blasted concepts which shits a man to tears through force of its perfection. It doesn’t seem to matter whether you sneak up on the beggar with a garotte or drive a bulldozer at it – it always wins, simply by virtue of being wise. If I could come back to this Earth (or better yet, another, vastly improved Earth) as a trait incarnate, I would choose Wisdom. Of course, I’d probably become so peeved with my own smug sagacity that I’d end up biffing my own teeth out, but then, being Wisdom Incarnate, I’d probably be wise enough either not to be so damned wise all the time, or else I’d understand that biffing my own teeth out would serve a very useful purpose. The thought occurs that I may indeed already be Wisdom Incarnate, looking upon these barren lands with eyes that have known all, dispensing good advice as if it were mere opinion. If it comes to that, I wouldn’t be at all surprised to learn that Wisdom Incarnate is wise enough to understand that He can never understand that He is Wisdom Incarnate. Such being the case, the charitable reader will understand if we proceed from here under the quiet supposition that I am Wisdom Incarnate, albeit lacking self-awareness and a grey beard.