Members
Little sad words in heart language. http://wordsofmelancholia.wordpress.com/
"But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we..." -Edgar Allan Poe
Poems
Charles Bukowski Jan 2010
Melancholia
the history of melancholia
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in ***** sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ***.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ***
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.
includes all of us.
me, I writhe in ***** sheets
while staring at blue walls
and nothing.
I have gotten so used to melancholia
that
I greet it like an old
friend.
I will now do 15 minutes of grieving
for the lost redhead,
I tell the gods.
I do it and feel quite bad
quite sad,
then I rise
CLEANSED
even though nothing
is solved.
that's what I get for kicking
religion in the ***.
I should have kicked the redhead
in the ***
where her brains and her bread and
butter are
at ...
but, no, I've felt sad
about everything:
the lost redhead was just another
smash in a lifelong
loss ...
I listen to drums on the radio now
and grin.
there is something wrong with me
besides
melancholia.
aAr Oct 18
Melancholia🪻
aAr
Oct 18
How blue the iris grew.
How grey the clouds gathered.
As oak leaves wandered in the wind,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How high the crows soar.
How loud the crickets chirped.
As windows slammed in the wind,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How loftily the sky roars.
How quickly the gale moves.
As the willow whirled in the wind,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How the birds hurry home.
How the plants await the rain.
As my eyes ambled around them,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How the lightning flashed
and how the thunder crashed.
As i walk through my pale garden,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How heavy my heart.
How dreary the scenery.
As the gods wept upon me,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How it eclipse my tears.
How wholly it devoured me.
As i look upon my ephemeral life,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How grey the clouds gathered.
As oak leaves wandered in the wind,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How high the crows soar.
How loud the crickets chirped.
As windows slammed in the wind,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How loftily the sky roars.
How quickly the gale moves.
As the willow whirled in the wind,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How the birds hurry home.
How the plants await the rain.
As my eyes ambled around them,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How the lightning flashed
and how the thunder crashed.
As i walk through my pale garden,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How heavy my heart.
How dreary the scenery.
As the gods wept upon me,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
How it eclipse my tears.
How wholly it devoured me.
As i look upon my ephemeral life,
melancholia rushed through my vein.
when the weather match your mood <3
Mateuš Conrad
Aug 2018
.ludo savis... play nice... ludo savis... play nice:
i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair... i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?
one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...
again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...
african phonetic encoding....
debussy chopin
satie schumannn...
and?
there's too much of loon'don....
had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
****-ups....
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...
it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...
my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
i still visit,
spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
fix up the kitchen...
but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...
a closure...
the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
he remembers things
like the two SS-men
posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...
i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!
at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...
dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
to remember himself?
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
and i'm only 32...
but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...
i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...
but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
point being...
a life opens up,
but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
he's an old man...
he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?
me?
some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
wumpscut, two songs...
thorns & wreath of barbs,
bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...
sudoku no. 10101...
after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?
it went something akin to this
[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]
that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
with regards to how the grid is filled.
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...
it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...
my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
i still visit,
spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
fix up the kitchen...
but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...
a closure...
the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
he remembers things
like the two SS-men
posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...
i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!
at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...
dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
to remember himself?
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
and i'm only 32...
but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...
i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...
but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
point being...
a life opens up,
but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
he's an old man...
he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?
me?
some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
wumpscut, two songs...
thorns & wreath of barbs,
bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...
sudoku no. 10101...
after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?
it went something akin to this
[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]
that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
with regards to how the grid is filled.
oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
פור day,
drunk cruxion?!
lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?
oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?
i'll keep repeating...
talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!
and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...
i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...
oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...
abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
now?
i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
naan bread,
turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,
em....
[9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...
well...
"apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!
braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!
a.: ⠓⠑ ⠺⠓⠕
⠎⠑⠑⠎
⠊⠎ ⠁⠃⠇⠑
⠞⠕
⠗⠑⠁⠙
b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....
· · · · ·
· − − · · · · − − −
· · · · · · · · :
· · · · ·
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · · · (a / b)
− − − −
· − · · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · · (a)
(he who sees: is able to read)...
i can attest...
i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
far more easier.
finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..
i knew the relationship was over when i encountered her ex-boyfriend sitting in her st. petersburg flat drinking ***** with me, no, wait, it was when she started questionning me using cosmopolitan magazine quiz about perfect girlfriends on our way from st. petersburg to moscow to see metallica, while all i wanted was to listen to bob dylan and appreciate whatever rural russia had to offer... beside that? it took me quiet a time to fiddle through and find the glagolitic alphabet, the slavic alphabet before the learned greek came across "my" people, given the romans never venture that far... good luck finding an african phonetic encoding system, beside the hieroglyphs... i won't bother looking right now... not to insult, though: so much for a large phallus megalomania contra envy... Ⰶ: życie (life) is not the half of the caron ž in the form of: the acute... (ź): ździra (don't ask, seriously, the word implies worse than ***** / szmata)... źródło (source)... eh... the one-armed caron (ž)... ź... i can't explain it any further: you need to speak the lingo to keep the "nuance" alive... southern slavs treat the caron akin to ž = ż... how beautiful... given the english language has no diacritical marker application: can't exactly claim diacritical markers using only the automated hovering decapitated heads above ι & ȷ... i'm not english i'm tired of looking up h'america's *******! i don't need not fancy pants to debrief the people i'm concerned with to mind, not giving a **** about them... thanks for your jeans: subtitle made in canada... beside the whole mao shitshow of: made in china.... back in the 1990s! *******... even in terms of music h'america isn't really relevant.. it just is... and "whatever" this "is" is to be, will remain... but only as an r.e.m. ref. pointer, that requires the physical translation of the lyrics: the one i love... a simple prop: to occupy my mind.... fire! the silesian vampire... because... said so... learning about monsters is what i could only fathom, which included me... but, sorry... the glagolithic script... ⰄⰀⰏ: dam... i.e. i will give... fun fact: r.e.m. didn't sell their: it's the end of the world as we know it (and i feel fine) to microsoft for a commercial break.. glagolitic script... where are the africans? oh, right, nowhere when phonetic encoding is turning heads... **** me... even the blind are onto the affair... i went as far back as the glagolithic script: pre cyrillic, about the same time that the latins incorporated the northern "savages" with applying the chisel to the ᚱ / R... ᚠ / F... copernican "up-side down": why do all tree (beside the pines) resemble a Y shape, a gamma? why did god compensate his existence with opiates?! refresh my memory, though, why am i drawing blanks at african phonetic encoding? **** me, the blind drew something, the deaf too... if you played the guitar, forget about reading braille... you need tender, french, fingertips.... you can't play the guitasr and read braille... mind you... encoding morse overshadows braille... but even the european blindman overcomes the fully ****-naked butter-cup sprinting *** of a black man every day of the week: i'm not here to compensate for a leprechaun's sized *****: mind you... in the hands of a porcelain ***- beauty? everything looks like a hiroshima... i just started to entertain an asian fetish... 4th knuckle mizzing... missing... the most ****** aspect of a female aesthetic? her hand... when *** & the city cited trimming ***** hair (no circumsion, really?), so no asian porcelain hands, no 4th knuckle missing?! i hate what the anglo-speaking world has become, it's this, this, this quasi-Islam.... at least i respect the Quran... but 1984, by the secular prophet of the western world? why do people still calling it: silicon vallyey... it's a ******* curtain, smart-you not seeing the replacement mechanisms of the silicon curtain: now wow... ******, where you're getting-to-go get from? any ideas?! a tehran baza?! ******. 1960s homosexuals fiddling their way past the tunis police, happy? loitering sucker-****** pansie? again... entertain me... where is the african phonetic encoding system... this is my "i.q." avenue masterpiece... i don't care about i.q. but a ******* blind man beat the african at phonetic encoding... personally?
one just simply falls, tired of the right-wing momentum regarding beauty, it's such a bothersome crtique of its generic foundation if beauty..... i hate it, this objective classicism: back to the future take no, 4; *******...
again, where were the africans sorting
out their invetement in the slave trade...
ONLY WHITE PEOPLE
WERE BAD, CONCERNING BLACK PEOPLE...
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin
Idi Amin... Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin Idi Amin ....
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i said: ******! please!
ever see an african-h'american in africa?
i'd love to see an african-h'american
in africa... mouthin-off their stature...
african phonetic encoding....
debussy chopin
satie schumannn...
and?
there's too much of loon'don....
had enough of it, ****'s....
too much ***-kissing,
too much of the h'american swindle...
carelesss buggers; these brits...
******* ****** jolly-tribe
****-ups....
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...
it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...
my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
i still visit,
spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
fix up the kitchen...
but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...
a closure...
the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
he remembers things
like the two SS-men
posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...
i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!
at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...
dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
to remember himself?
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
and i'm only 32...
but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...
i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...
but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
point being...
a life opens up,
but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
he's an old man...
he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?
me?
some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
wumpscut, two songs...
thorns & wreath of barbs,
bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...
sudoku no. 10101...
after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?
it went something akin to this
[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]
that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
with regards to how the grid is filled.
i drink and relax solving a sudoku -
i'm not doing it to compete -
just having a conversation with
my neighbor about the difference
between Alzheimer's
and dementia brought back memories
of what i negated for some time...
it's only when someone else tells
you of their elder relative's dementia
you muster the courage to
spot the same symptoms in
your relative...
my grandfather has dementia...
my early teenage years,
every summer visiting him,
traveling to Krakow,
going fishing,
riding our bicycles in the afternoon...
he feeding my what books
i should read...
i still visit,
spend about a month,
say, keep him company,
fix up the kitchen...
but it's such an exhausting disease...
not so much for the sufferer -
this mild form of Alzheimer -
no killer proteins eating away at
the brain cells -
dementia?
the ontological nadir of old age...
then again, perhaps the zenith...
a closure...
the long term memory opens,
while the short term memory
closes -
he still can solve a crossword
puzzle like a mad genius...
but he lapses into what is
the cinema of mortality...
he remembers things
like the two SS-men
posted in my home town,
running up to them
and saying -
herr bitte bon-bon!...
the raven black of the uniform
and the glaring *******...
i blocked the fact that it was
dementia, when my grandmother
thought it was wise to scare all
of us, uncle, mother and father
into thinking it could degenerate
into Alzheimer's...
he still recognizes me!
Alzheimer's sufferers can't
even muster that!
at best... dementia couples itself up
with melancholia,
the natural melancholia
akin to the sadness expressed by
Nietzsche: only when the house
has been completed,
but never during the construction...
dementia is just an endless memory
loop...
when man is allowed to finally
put down the hammer, the sickle...
and retire?
he's standing on the precipices of mortality...
on a dam about to crack open,
and release a surge of the sea
of memory...
why wouldn't he take the time
to remember?
to remember himself?
the tedium comes when the same
persons implores others to listen to them...
when memories become less
of the old man's cinema and more
affairs of an oral culture -
our culture has lost the point
of oral transmission -
hence dementia sufferers have
to evolve -
into not talking so much...
not as a mean spirited conviction -
why? i do the same -
i have about 10 focal memories
that constant revive me -
and i'm only 32...
but i don't talk about them...
hell, i won't write them...
it's my own, private cinema -
but my grandfather comes from
a time before the optical explosion
of television...
i don't need to hear what he saw -
all i need is to tattoo his mannerisms
and face onto my psyche...
but dementia, thank god,
is a listening tedium...
point being...
a life opens up,
but any immediacy of life disappears...
hence his persistent ability
to solve crossword puzzles,
enjoy reading the newspaper -
but the significance of remembering
yesterday is missing...
he's an old man...
he has no obligations in terms of
duty in a professional arena of
the metalwork factory...
why wouldn't he attempt to push death
aside and not linger on
the memory of his, magnum opus -
his life sigma oeuvre?
me?
some would call this music neo-**** skinhead
****...
wumpscut, two songs...
thorns & wreath of barbs,
bunkertor sieben (reprise)...
but it relaxes me when sitting on a sudoku,
drinking Bacardi cola and lime...
enjoying the cool August air
after just enough rain
that manages to exfoliates the flowers
with refreshed sensuality...
sudoku no. 10101...
after enough numbers pop up,
the tactic is to hone in on one number
in each of the 9 squares and 9 vertical
and 9 linear line...
for sudoku no. 10101 in the Friday's
edition of the times?
it went something akin to this
[8, 5] - [3] - [1] - [9] - [7] - [2, 6] - [4]
that's the closest schematic
i'll have for you,
with regards to how the grid is filled.
oh sure sure, the uncircumcised man,
crucified when all the orthodox were
drunk,
פור day,
drunk cruxion?!
lovey purin "misgivings";
what's next?
oh sure sure, the jews would hav e crucified
me on the hill of: tel megiddo
****-heads throwing up their kippahs
into the air in some skewed form
of celebration...
like bacchus entering
Valhalla asking: where's the mead?
i've had too much wine...
where'y the whiskey?
i'll keep repeating...
talk about jews among the polonaiase?
hush hush: ****, dont want to bring
bad luck... jews in poland are very much akin
to roma gypsies: lucky charms...
but... do you see any ******* leprechauns
around? look at me: i see none...
let's tell the joke in verse,
not the stadard: a priest a rabbi and an imam
walk into a bar...
****... is that even a joke?! muslims don't drink!
what's the imam having; cranberry juice?!
and englishman a scot and an irish walk
into a bar... the three of them walk
out on stag-duty with inflanted sheep and
speaking cymcru... terrible joke...
as all my jokes were to begin with...
i am currently navigating,
my uncle's ex girlfriend is sleeping downstairs
on the couch,
blah blah Tuscany... blah blah prosecco...
i'm becoming suspect: she's a gemini,
isn't she? all the geminis i ever met where
extroverted self-absorbed louis XIV types...
they need to, they need to self-absorb themselves
in order to extract the sort of energy
associate with rhetoric,
and how they constantly digress,
there's always a sub-plot to the plot... nay,
there are always sub-plots...
great company, i mean...
when a person speaks all the time there are
no awkward moments of silence,
until the said person tells the "eager" listener...
play some music...
she's a warsaw girl, so she's a pretty learned
in the ways of the world,
i'm just an ostrowiec commoner...
oy vey! oy vey: she'***** 40 and lamenting...
i too complain about my uncle...
she had an abortion with him...
i once talked with my uncle about music
while he surfaced at mrs. roshandler's back garabe...
we ate sri lankan fried chicken wings and
chips and listened to californication
for the very first time...
abundance of hope in Tuscany...
"apparently"... but if you have ever watched
a woman, borderline on asylum incarceration?
i was looking at one just example...
it's not a pretty sight...
even when she asked: how's *** and business?
i'm a monk...
or at least i tend to...
even if she came from a stock of
failed relationships: fine fine...
now?
i served up decent food,
a malvani and a tikka masala curry...
naan bread,
turmeric infused rice,
vanilla cheese cake with strawberries...
she enjoyed it,
i like to please people...
mind you: ever see a slim chef?
i wouldn't trust a slim chef,
i never have, i never will,
you need some chubby chub chub rounding-offs...
mind you: i much prefer cooking
food than eating it,
but i would never trust a chef associated
with a c.o.d. associated with counting calories...
never have, never will...
two noteworthy proverbs:
1. too many cooks in one kitchen =
no decent meal is being made...
one cook, one couldron, that's your best bet...
2. never trust a slim, athletic cook...
those ******* can shove their kale
smoothies....
they can slurp up those smoothies
turning their ***** in straw ******* vortexes!
i'll cook on lard trimmings,
em....
[9] - [2] - [6] - [3] - [8] - [1] - [4] - [5, 7]?
that's when the sudoku puzzle was filled...
all the nines... all the twos... etc. became filled
in the 9 grids...
well...
"apart" from: my uncle's girlfriend:
i've been living in englamd
for nearly 30 yeasrs...
i've dated a french girl,
an australian, a russian....
but u've never dated an english
girl: i guess they much prefer
aged pakistani grooming gang
members....
i guess:
**** gasoline on them,
they're all readied and geared up!
braille contra morse?
if you want to play the guitar?
forget the braille....
you need tender fingertips
to read braille...
morse? nit so much...
here's a comparison...
i see!
a.: ⠓⠑ ⠺⠓⠕
⠎⠑⠑⠎
⠊⠎ ⠁⠃⠇⠑
⠞⠕
⠗⠑⠁⠙
b. play the guitar and learn to....
read finger tip braille, ******....
· · · · ·
· − − · · · · − − −
· · · · · · · · :
· · · · ·
▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ · − · · · (a / b)
− − − −
· − · · ▄▄▄▄▄▄▄ − · · (a)
(he who sees: is able to read)...
i can attest...
i would find myself readily reading
morse in braille,
than braille by itself...
far more easier.
finger-tips... i'd sooner read your morse
as braille, than braille as morse..