What matters is the big picture. That’s why so many things look best when viewed from afar. Paintings, for example. Or large orchestrated gatherings such as those from the Soviet Union, China, North Korea.
What I hate about women (hate being the wrong word), especially girls. Wait. Just because you read-up on the meaning of misogyny…
It’s about the chemical. Like life itself. It’s about the chemical. In the case of life it’s about the chemical reaction. What would the female be like if she had a different chemical? I know it’s not all chemical, certainly a lot of it is social, but still…
Get away from the hate. It’s not hate. Is it admiration. They can be everything you can’t.
Why are they the brunt of so much, why do they carry so little? Is it the weaker thing? I ask you what is the difference between the ovary and the womb? (Assuming there is a difference.) Is it the same? (Including the same difference?) Is it the same between testicles and penis? The confusion.
Polyester = Polly Esther. (???)
That’s why they ask so many questions–because burried very deep within is the wrath of their future to be played out and they do so. Really. Just like Billy Bob Thornton. What did I read in the paper given me by mother? That silly but oh so profound declaration/statement. Like something funky out of the seventies. We all miss those days, eh? Well not all. “You can love it–but it won’t necassarily love you back–just like dating a German chick.” (Thanks Billy Bob!)
-Du bist ein Schwein.
-Wieso?
-Guck nur wie du dich verhältst.
-Nicht wie ein Schwein. Hast du schon mal ein Schwein gesehen.
-Natürlich. Und zieh mal her…
-Nein. Du sollst ein Schwein sehen. Wieso hat es so ein Ruf? Du muss nur ein sehen. Die kümmern sich mehr um einander als Menschen.
-Was soll das Heißen? Du willst nur immer das Theme wechseln. Aber du bist ein Schwein–das kannst du nicht ändern.
(Pan out to messy room.)
Friends father died yesterday. Friend left in his emotional rush in his cheap Toyota-made new car with his ear piece mic attached to his ear. Was it a picture of loneliness or one of organised loneliness? “I could write a book on my son,” his mother kept saying. Yes, this friend left me with his mother and she spilled her guts. I can’t believe she spilled her guts. Between “I’m not a racist” and the story of her/the rape and subsequent matrimonial bondage to the father of her three children. It’s not at all like revealing something that is and should be very private. People of all ages have discovered the fascination of revealing everything at the bottom of their soul at the tip-nip of a button pressed too hard by some lost inner sacrificial lamb-thing on the edge of a volcano during the never before reached year of the goose-swallow for Maya unfound calendars. It’s as though I was put in front of her movie that she had to re-run because of the death of the father of her children. What does it take to bring that out of a human? That which should be secret? To bring the old/the past celluloid that should be lost. Somehow. Her way of dealing with it? Is it the answers we seek or the question we (wish we could) ask? Nomatter. Either way we are opening up human parts that should remain closed. Thank goodness for armchair psycho-therapy, eh! The terrible things that happen the past. Some of them are brought out because of current events. Like the death of a father. “The asshole,” some would say. Others would defend that he is no such (a) thing. Ah, the reality of divorce. Or is the rape? And then then the ex-wife will start to tell all, drawn out by the loss of not just the man in death but also of the rapist who terrorised her. I have had epiphanies before but this one was quite (the difference). The epiphany became feminine. Feminine’s epiphany.
She had huge boobs and blonde hair. It made no sense. She was stupid but that was Ok. Her beauty was in the simplicity, just like a succulent rock formed on the seafloor or shore. I tried to fight her away but eventually gave in. She is simply too strong and beautiful. Wait. What about those tits? I gave in after only a short battle. For there is no war to be fought here. She went on and she went on and my epiphany faded. COME BACK. I barked. How he raped her and she was only seventeen. (Or did he say nineteen? Not older than that.) She finally admitted to the ignorance of it all–how stupid she could have been. If she were more than imagination. The detail about how sick she was and how the tyrant made her wear a garter because she couldn’t show she was prey… pregnant. OMG, there are more in this world. For the life of me I cannot figure out where they come from. Which has a consequence: I have no idear where I come from.
They say if I can make it there than I can make it anywhere. What’s the problem with that?
Charlie Daniels‘ The Devils Song–or whatever it’s called. Some young bloke just explained to me in rough English that Charlie Daniels always wrote country songs that told a story. Somebody’s god help me.
Uh Oh. Drunken stupor. Listening to The Beatles–hold me, love me, eight days a week… Is this song about getting chicks?
They are the Donna’s from hell. Oh so afraid to become the dikes they should become. But when they say “like” so much… and their eyes move so fluently with their every gesture. They are eighteen.
His name was Norm. My last bartender. Across from him was… I don’t know his name… will call him… Hank… I ended up buying Hank a beer. He worked their. He spoke of Charlie Daniels.
It’s as though they’re all made to melt. Beyond some kind of song. Some rock song from nineteen… whatever and the kids all think that the writing in this book is some kind of… enigma. But I’m only drunk, I say in my defence. And. Little to they know. This is worst-writing at its best. Indeed. In a drunk stupor. The know so little. I have to give my (new) friend Norm a hat–take my hat off to norm.
There’s a bartendress with a slight belly who/that wants to makes me ask the question if she is pregnant. But don’t ask it, Tom. Don’t. I did. Could she, should she? The innocent look she has. Not so innocent underneath, eh? But where will it take her and the one to my left has the cartoon look of an Elvis progeny. The peaches song is on. All the young men are trying so hard. Talking of the places they will be. My belly is starting to sour, though. From the drink or this spectacle? And the girl that was twice on my left has halved, the second part is now on my right.
Between this and that they all ramble with their mobile phone. Mobile phones are everywhere. And I don’t care what the eyes see–they all stare so intensely at me with greedy eyes–proof that humanity wants wisdom–even the girls. My old favourite. John Cougar sings about chili days and Jack and Diane. Bobby Brookes. Those jeans that contain the thrill of life.
Closing time. The last effort. The guys are all trying. I looked at Joylanda and told her what I thought she looked like. “You look like Elvis,” I said. She was utterly devastated. She went her own way. I tried to tell her that it meant nothing. Like I cared, really. The words, “You look like Elvis,” should be compliment to anyone. Maybe anyone not of this earth but have listened to earthly radio airwaves. The words sprang from me as though she were made from teflon. And all I can add is that I’m glad I have no daughter. Would or could she be in such a place? Joylanda? Like those chicks left or right–one and the same, split in two. So desperate. And when asked given a good and honest truth fiight it as though it were an ugly beast.
-Tommi
worstwriter 