The naked man and other vignettes

The Naked man and other vignettes

  

   There is a naked man facing the street in the window on the third floor of a grey apartment building. I can see him from the bus stop. It’s as if he has been standing there for ages, like a statue of indifference or something. He seems to be saying “tell it like it is”

                                                                 *
  If there was such a thing as an easy medicinal reboot ; Clear your head. Free your mind. Be yourself and get on with your life
                                                                
                                                                 *

   On the internet I follow a similar pattern. I check the same pages over and over just like a mouse in a test lab going to the same places to look for cheese. And I compulsively reach for my phone every time I get a spare moment; like I was threatened by the void or something even more gargantuan.  
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    There is something really pathetic about me that I only fleetingly can grasp. A complete understanding would be unbearable. At the diner of Truth I sit with a blindfold and I can only order small portions.

                                                                 *

    Houses and trees disappearing in the fog. Nurturing question marks.

                                                                 *

    The hours are dragging their feet. Leaving few impressions. Like ghosts without shadows.
Only somewhere else, in some other time, I could be of use. Boredom; Time itself hijacking your set of values.

                                                                 *

   “Playing a game”, “coercion”, “therapy” ... what is music creation really? It's like throwing a boomerang or something and the boomerang that comes back to you is not the same as the one you first threw.   . 

                                                                 *

  



    Struggling to communicate your vision, your take on existence but it becomes noise that drowned in noise. Trying to reach out and failing miserably; the void seems even more enormous than before. “Magnificent futility”. What route should you wander now? Dwelling in other realms? or denying the game altogether?
    Here comes another poet without an audience, another lonely bird on the power lines, singing nevertheless, to life and to art itself.    

                                                                 *
    Dear Narcissus. Why is the promotion of your art so important to you? What will it solve? Your low sense of self-worth?
    You can’t win this game.
  
                                                                 *

     Depression strikes. The eyes of meaninglessness are staring back at you. All those events and transactions; for nothing! Still useless. Still undelivered. No transformation has occurred. A bag of bones after all. A case of blues outside the church.
    I took my goods to the market and was rejected. I’m the clueless eyes staring at the starry night sky. How could this happen to me?... I’m not even close. Must be on the wrong planet.  

                                                                 *

     A neighbor nicknamed Mahogany stood in the doorway and said to me “never bore another man! It should be fucking illegal!”

                                                                 *

     This disintegrating body, like a vessel travelling through space, can be damaged and brought to its undoing by external or internal forces or by the relations to others.
     We have; emotional space, physical space and temporal space. We’re fragile entities floating through the spheres. 

                                                                 *

    That desperate thirst for attention is inscribed in the mind like some fundamental computer code; the operating system will surely crash without it – but perhaps a grand system failure is the only real way out?  It will be the Big bang and the beginning of Integrity.

                                                                 *

     Woman or man, who cares? They are like two different symptoms of the same disease.
 Two similar rivers connected to the ocean via a delta called Enigma.

                                                                 *

  If you would pass through here everything would be redeemed. I’m an incomplete puzzle begging for even more confusion. That is the feeling at least. Your name is a sparkling fly inside my mind chopping away at my concentration with mushroom clouds of desire. 

                                                                 *

   A list of Religions; Buddhism, Christianity, Hinduism, Islam. Judaism, and the 40-hour work-week. To commit heresy; suggest something like universal income.

                                                                 *

     There are tics and there is TIC; transient internet camaraderie – a fleeting sense of friendly connection found in the chat rooms and in the forums of cyberspace, leaving you vacuous and craving for more. It’s a derivative of human interaction, omitting facial expression and the fact that you are modulating your cues and responses to the other when engaged in face to face personal contact.

                                                                 *

    Hypothesis; Increased social-media activity and connectivity has led to more interpersonal disconnection. Let’s talk tonight. We can call it our Off-line duties.
 
                                                                 *
    January. An early afternoon. Sunlight is darting through the canopy of a wintry forest. I’m just like that light, trying to find a crack in the wall of pain.

                                                                 *

    Some weird masochistic magnetism draws me back to the instance where my soul once suffered an early crisis; making me relive it manifestly through the actions in my daily life but never coming up with any long-term solution. It’s the loopy farce of the loss of self.  How to solve that ancient crime? Well, not by being more narcissistic and egomaniacal even though that of course is the first, and sometimes the only, impulse. 

                                                                 *

      Like Paraguay - who is landlocked between Argentina, Brazil, Bolivia and Uruguay -  I am also landlocked but between involuntary work, parenting, neurosis and Time. I have been ruled by a long line of dictators and over the years I have hidden many war criminals in my forests.

                                                                 *

    A person I became infatuated with shared a similar trait with a former fling of mine and I could not pinpoint exactly what it was. It was an indistinguishable light-green music until one day, like after a long time of mental digestion, it became clear to me that it was an abyss of self-pity that stood in the way of any deeper contact, and it gave her an air of ‘elusive distance’ that made her even more attractive. She was perfect for someone like me who has a fear of intimacy.

                                                                 *

    
 

      There are no words, at this moment, that can bring me closer to her. All I have is the seismic nausea and other songs of the nerves. What is longing but the nullity of language?

                                                                 *


     A personal note; bureaucracy keeps society’s boat afloat, but it comes at a cost of a boredom so strong it can almost kill you. 

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       In an alien encyclopedia ; “Humans – Open wounds that run amok. “

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     What good is a self-help guru who has not implemented his theories and axioms in his own actions? If he has not incorporated what he teaches he is merely a spokesperson of contradiction, like the rest of us ...
                                                                 *
     
     What if I was the first to die out of boredom? That’s some form of achievement.

                                                                 *
       
     One of the more macabre dreams I had in my mid-twenties was one where I committed suicide among the mannequins in a shop window. When I woke up I concluded that I was a suicidal exhibitionist.

                                                                 *
         
        Russian, Iranian and the French….
What happens after the revolution? History is filled with examples of revolutionaries overthrowing a dictatorship only to become tyrants themselves. Don’t believe the hype.
   
                                                                 *

      It is winter. And I collect dead ends.






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