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Below is the RSS feed from my blogspot: http://wildheit.blogspot.com/

From a place of wrath and tears
  • All the invisible people
    Humans have the capacity to get used to anything.

    When we moved from a relatively quiet neighborhood to a house on a major national road, with a bus stop practically at our doorstep, light sleeper that I was, I had a lot of difficulties of getting a decent night sleep. Two years on, I started waking up every Sunday morning before sunrise, the kind of waking one does when the cat swipes something from the table during the night, the sort of waking one does when something is wrong. Turned out the bus schedule changed and the first bus on Sunday morning was abolished. Five to ten minutes after that bus would have passed, my brain jerked me awake. Danger danger!

    Shit rains down every day, it becomes normal.
    I read somewhere Syrian children don't even cry when there's explosions and dead people everywhere. All part of normal everyday shit.

    I've come to terms with the people living in the ceiling and the walls. The ones that through invisible electric lightning beams torture my mom with a little pain in her big toe, or elbow. Like a woman in labor I breathe through it, trying to listen if the people in the ceiling or the walls aren't hiding something important. Does her big toe hurt, or is it just a spasm? Is she tired, or did she forget to eat? Maybe I should simply ask them, the people that live in the ceiling or the wall, then the circle would be complete.

    She worries, she does, about what the invisible people do when she's not home and she can't keep an eye on them.

    I nod, and I breathe in, breathe out.
  • There are ups. And sometimes, there are downs, into the pit of hell.
    Only yesterday I was Alice in Wonderland.

    The Imposter, invited to a meeting where none like me would ever get.
    But by their own blood, sweat and tears.
    Skin of their teeth.
    The slaying of their firstborns in name of his Majesty of the Be-tentacled Face.

    Like a secret council meeting where the destiny of the kingdom is decided.

    (sigh) I'm telling this wrong.

    It is the secret council meeting where the destiny of the kingdom is decided.
    The kingdom which has been poisoning my soul, my dreams.
    The kingdom I've protected blood and nails, at the neglect of my own health.
    That stupid place which I used to love so dearly, and which has been killing me softly.

    Up until recently, that is. You see, the mayors of the country, the bourgeoisie who think they rule the land, decided they had to teach me a lesson. I had to learn my place, or some commonplace drudgery those imagination impaired see as their lofty goals.

    Me, the only one booking results against the wildebeests and wildermen infesting the land.
    I ravaged at my finance just for those!
    My health.
    Including my own love for the kingdom.

    So. I went Chernobyl, tssssssssssssssssss.

    Strange how people hearing those words imagine blinding flash, mushroom cloud explosion, heat wave turning everything into ash. Even you, dearest digipblip, even you saw those iconic images.
    Did you not pay attention when tit happened? Did you not read up on history?

    Chernobyl was: no flash, no mushroom cloud, no heat wave.
    Like a pit of gravitational vengeance it burned (still burns) itself into the earth.

    It changed the course of evolution.
    If malformed frogs don't scare you: it halted decay in the forest.
    There is no Roman or Greek god who ever claimed that power: the trees died, and time stopped.

    (whisper) it keeps things from dying, mommy.

    Oh no, it's not so much the explosion or heat one must fear, around Chernobyl.

    But Oh! Its cold dismay for time.

    And, Ach! Its utter neglect of the force for light and warmth it used to be.

    And oy vey, its never-ending power for destruction.
  • Time flexing like a whore
    Too little of it, need more to look at a picture of black and white fur. Nights are desolate places in my mind, no one watching, no one purring.

    And too much of it. How much longer obliging this hobby-turned-into-job-and-hating-the-hobby. I had so many dreams, had so many break throughs.

    Can I go back over twelve years, when the deadline was tomorrow and I wasn't even 30? Where I'd work a full day, come home and tend the flowers and weeds, and still find energy and time to spend with my friends who now sometimes keep me awake anight with their urgent questions. Always the same questions, as it is. Where will we go? How will we end? Tell us, write it all down...

    Is that you, CowWatcher?
    What was the name you called me? (wind - called - crow - lift head - lonely)

  • Head like hole
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
    Nobody gives a fuck.
  • It sucks
    like mud covered up by a fine layer of dust and a tangle of flowers.

    There you are, all ladeedaying about in the busy busy life and then some little synaps suddenly decides to make your skin and muscles remember how it felt, the weight of him on one arm and all spread out over your lap, the very gentle swell of his breathing, the little rumble with which he'd start purring, the total abandon after a deep sigh of content. An infinite universe of memory compressed into a little black hole that pulls an alien croak from your throat.

    And you stumble along through a day suddenly broken, one feet naked, boot still stuck in the mud.
  • Wrath & tears babeh.
    THEY took him, digiblips.
    The sole living creature that has accepted my crap for 16 years.

    The problem is, life has been so much crap, for months, the last couple of years, I can no longer feel. It hurts, but I feel the festering below, the no-hurt festering, the slow sleeping toxin.

    He's gone. poof, like that.


    I'm so anrgy. I'm angry because I'm angry; I've got more self control than this. Angry at being angry helps.

    Helps them.

    They don't see. They don't know.

    I see them, whispering, there she comes, that hysteric cunt.

    They don't know the hysterics are all that keep me from simple killing them. Killing is easy. You don't even need a Kalashnikov like those bastards in Paris. A car, a bit of fire, all will do. There's a wind out, and it's howling King Lear's speech. They'll drown. I've got lightning at my fingertips if I call for it.

    Killing is easy.

    They are all digiblips.

    Bastards. They took my Steerpike from me. They will pay.
  • Karma
  • The Cross
    Hello there, strangers, we must stop meeting like this.

    How are you, digiblips?
    Because, I'm having a major bum day.

    A sort of AA day.

    Hello, my name is Wildheit and I'm addicted to saying yes. I will try to help you, and anybody that asks for that matter, to the detriment of my own life and health.

    Add some tears for effect.

    Also add a sprinkle of failure, because you can't help everybody. You just go tits up.

    The tats... The tats you get in people telling you no and sorry and all the lame and half-assed excuses you know so very well because they bounce around in your head, day in, day out, but never roll, slip or stumble from your tongue. They make it sounds so easy!

    And when you're really done with trying and trying, there is but one option: admitting failure.

    Rat's ass, that's even harder than saying no.

    Cue the flood.
  • Edge.
    Things have edges.
    Sometimes sharply defined.
    Sometimes fuzzy and rounded and toddler-safe.

    This thing today has the tact ('tactility' whispers Cow Watcher) of blunt force trauma with the in-your-face sharpness of a razor.

    That was what it was, you see.
    Razor sharp, the knife wrapped in a towel, which she had stashed in her bag.
    Razor sharp, her drawn and grim face, eyes crazed and furious and the unseen people that live in the walls of her apartment.

    If that's how your mom responds to an invitation to coffee and cake, it's time to get your head out of the sand.

    This is going to be one hell of a fun week.
  • Messiah-cell
    Woke up and didn't know where I was and what day it was.

    That's okay, the brain said, let's just turn over and sleep some more until we do.
    But through the haze came the screaming of one little braincell: Hey, we haven't felt like this in ages, so this must be wrong!
    Rest of the brain went: Blah blah, too busy turning this lump of flesh on its other side to understand a word of what you're saying.

    So then I found out that this one braincell is where my savior complex and megalomania live, all of my universe saving in the face of Armageddon powers reside. Because that tiny little braincell kept on whispering 'Alert! Alert!' but helped turning over the lump of flesh anyway, because its a cunning little braincell, you see.
    All it had to do next is open one eye, just a tiny bit while its colleagues were snuggling down into sleep again.
    And there it was.
    08:15 screaming red in the dark.
    Look, messiah-cell pointed, look. It's past seven!
    It took another second for the message to gently roll home.

    And then it was out of bed, stumble downstairs and grab a cat...