Wednesday, May 23, 2012

When the Chihuahuas Out Drink You

When the Chihuahuas out drink you (and then nip at your heels), then you know it is too much...Patron...tobacco...sleep and you lay your head on the table as the world spins then you puke (puke?) all conflict in to the ether world, pouring your brains for this misanthrope Chihuahua (who talks back, that fucking bastard) and says, "Beware of the pregnant woman. She wants your cock." Ah, thank you, Mr. Chihuahua, what a wise Chihuahua, then he and his friends nip at your heels and you think, By God! He's Fucking Right! Beware of the pregnant woman (she wants your cock), get some sleep (Goddammit!), stop this world from spinning, take a breath, calm down, play some music, love someone...this is what you learn when the Chihuahuas out drink you.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Not Having a Personal Assistant

Not having a personal assistant, privy to my every whim, is a good thing because otherwise, without time to process my thoughts, every stupid idea would be a wish automatically fulfilled. You would then see me strung out in a gutter, fetal position, talking to non-existent chipmunks and inventing new languages. Or naked in the alps, rolling in mud, falling in love with bears. Or tied to an extended diamond cross while an elderly woman whips me and spits in my face. Yes, it is a good thing I do not have a personal assistant because, if I did, instead of writing this, I'd be summoning my old self from that welcomed grave.

Saturday, May 12, 2012

My Car Smelled of Cigarettes and Vomit

My car smelled of cigarettes and vomit so I bought a liquid air freshener but the stench was too strong (and the freshener melted onto my dashboard) and now my car smells of "crescent wind" (or whatever the hell that stupid air freshener was called). Failure. Upon entering my car, therefore encountering that awful smell, I thought that I should've learned to play bass and joined a Punk band and traveled the world singing songs about being a queer anarchist. I would fall in love with a Heroin Hot Heroine and we would Fight all Social Norms and get high until we die, simmering stars into the "crescent wind" (or whatever the hell that stupid air freshener was called) but instead I am cleaning liquid goo off of my dashboard wishing that my car merely smelled of cigarettes and vomit.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

Terror in Her Eyes

Terror in her eyes, she told government ("el gobierno") killed people ("asesinaron gente") and she does not know ("y no conozco") where the dead bodies are ("donde esta los cuerpos"). I knew this. I had read this. I was at once (oh conceited me) proud that I could understand her (my Spanish is improving) but then I saw the her eyes. "Es terrible," I said, and she agreed. "Pinochet...terrible."

Later, as I lay in bed, I could not sleep. Am I so nihilistic to believe that those killed (disappeared) individuals, nameless now, never existing, are lost to the entrails of destruction. Kundera would certainly say that they were wiped out (or the memory of them was) but that the trauma is still present. The dead live forever in trauma. Such a concept is troubling--that one's eternity is captured in trauma. Such a concept makes me feel unlucky to have been born.