Pocket Revolution

A chill January wind descends upon town like a horde of mad, pillaging vikings, taking roofs, roads, towers, nooks and crannies completely by surprise, violently lashing thick and heavy raindrops against my exposed face. 

I turn up my collar and dig my chin deep into the fabric of my scarf, while the rain continues to pound on an unsheltered world, sparing no-one and nothing. It hammers against the thick, protective bark of groaning, disarranged trees and drums on colourful car roofs, bursting into tiny, glittering fragments on impact.

I quicken my pace and gaze into a dreary, weeping sky, where nature's diorama crowds layers of rolling hills, each one in different shades of blue-ish greys, against a snowy white horizon.

A short, stout woman dressed in a woollen sea of flapping beige coughs past me, sneezing noisily into a crumpled paper handkerchief. A moustached policeman struggles out of his patrol car and strides across the cobblestone road. The smell of coffee-to-go wafts over from his paper cup. An elderly, pale, skinny man wrestles with a mischievous gust of wind over the possession of a black, battered umbrella. Man versus nature. For a change, man prevails.

Below my feet the dirty, brown soup that is the river writhes and burrows through town like a blind, lumbering worm. An overweight, soaked-through nordic walker wheezes past me, already regretting his new year's eve resolution. While he slowly fades from the corner of my eye, I walk past a wall covered with fifteen year old graffiti. 

I stare at the faded colours and the broken letters and pity the same old paroles, the same old swearwords, unchanged for more than a decade, and wonder: doesn't this generation have anything to say anymore? Is rebellion smothered by glaring walls of music, painted with tiny headphones and even tinier iPods, or are the mouse click and the HD-screen the new brush and canvas of revolution? 

I stop for a brief moment and listen, but there is no answer, as the spirit of the rebellious youth remains silent. 

Out Of My Control

Outside, darkness chokes town in a tightening grip of ever decreasing circles, as December chills cling to every wall and crawl into every corner; while snot freezes on the Beagle's nose; while pigeon feathers splinter in the freezing cold; while ice cubes clatter loudly down the road. Pity the lack of snow.

Inside, the fading evening is illuminated by the heavy, warm embrace of the soothing, orange-yellow-ish glow of dying candles, as it sends calming, ever-so-comforting ripples across the stillness of my sea of eternal numbness. Pity the lack of a storm.

And as the bottle steadily empties, the future looks - for the fraction of a fleeting moment - brighter than ever, while I watch it slip through my fingers and fade away like the last chord of a lover's lament. Pity the lack of love.

And through the shielding glass of the window, I stare down into dark alleyways, where predators with slicked-back hair ostentatiously pound their puffed out chests and chase their eager, mini-skirted prey, while the White Rabbit stares at me with bulging, begging, blood-shot eyes. It checks its watch and shrieks "Don't dawdle! There is no time!", and impatiently pulls my sleeve.

And while the predators victoriously dance around their hunted prey, I wonder whatever happened to the faithful soul, whatever happened to constancy, whatever happened to the things we vowed to do? 

Should I smoke this cigarette while I watch you bleed? Should I join the hunt or lay down to die? Should I let it pass and ask myself what could have been?

"Relax.", says the Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar. "It'll all be fine. There's still plenty of time ..."

Box Of Rain

'Stay hungry. Stay foolish.'

Steven Paul Jobs passed away on October 5, 2011. He was 56 years old.

Thank you for giving us the future. You'll be missed.

Image used with kind permission from Wired.com.

Summer In The City

This year's May ultimately unmasks last year's August as the deceptive and shamelessly lying crook it turned out to be.

While the ones' name promised joys of summer, making merry in the greenest of meadows and frolicking in the sun, it let the heavens pour at leisure instead, sucking all the colour from the sky, crowning weary mountain tops with unwanted caps of snow, reintroducing cardigans to an audience dying for the tiniest leftovers from a memory of warm and sunlit childhood summer afternoons.

The other - proud, loud and self-assured in the glistening sunlight - is far ahead of its time, blinds you with over-exposed imagery, belies its ancestral place and mocks the changing of the seasons with its overheated temperament, wanting to be top dog in a summer yet to come.

I look down on crooked rooftops as they simmer in the brightly burning afternoon sun. The heat parades triumphantly through streets, leans on terraces, lingers on squares, and invades the most private, hidden corners of the city.

Dehydrated tourists stagger aimlessly through winding cobblestone alleys like drugged lab rats through a maze. Water spills from a bottle and evaporates before it hits the ground. Steve McQueen completely loses his cool. A pigeon lights up like a match as it lands on the hot tin roof. I scatter its ashes across the concrete below, while a premature summer laughs in the rotting face of winter's corpse.

"Shadows Grew Into Giants And Died As The Sun Burned Orange And Sank."

It is the only sentence taking root in the mind. The rest is blurry, out of focus, as both brain and eyes are distracted far too easily from the excellence that is the text they should adore:

The ant that scuttles along the farthest corner of the eye. The wave of cheerful laughter wafting over from the Bistro across the street. The young, stout, arse-wiggling girl with the overblown makeup of a parisian drag-queen. The roaring noise of passing cars that always seem to come in threes. The brief moments of silence in between it all.

I take a sip from my cup of coffee. It has been sitting in the glaring sunlight for almost half an hour. It is nearly cold. A mosquito sits on the saucer. It flaps its wings, feeling its way on the unfamiliar surface like a blind man, slipping, falling, landing on its back, struggling back on its feet, performing the strangest dance on its porcelain stage.

A cyclist approaches and gracefully parks his bike alongside the hedge that borders the beergarden. The way he flounces across to the tables exposes him as the show-off he is. He takes a seat at the table next to mine. In his attire he looks like a member of a SWAT team, a fireman from a future where they don't read books anymore, but burn them instead. I firmly hold on to my novel, as for a split-second I expect him to produce a flamethrower. It turns out to be just a lighter. As if to belie his outfit and his athletic build he orders a pint and lights up a fag.

The cyclist uninvitedly introduces himself as Heinz and throws sentences over to my table. I smile and nod occasionally, resort to the briefest possible replies, while still trying to read. It is in vein, as the verbal bombardment increases.

While still trying to remain polite I decide I've had enough. I look at the sky, then at my watch, and pretend to realise how late it has become. Swiftly I drink up and pay.

I apologise to my newfound, unintended friend and make an exit, as shadows grow into giants and die, as the sun burns orange and sinks.

Funeral Spring

The sky is an orgy of grey and blue and yellow, as I drive into a busy Saturday morning. The streets are bustling with cars of all makes, shapes and colours. Like little baby spiders they scattle out from under every stone, out of every hole, rushing frantically through the madness that is morning traffic, changing lanes like a crazy murderer on the run from an overzealous law enforcer.

I shut out the insanity around me and turn up the volume of the car stereo. Roky Erickson's "True Love Cast Out All Evil" provides the perfect soundtrack, as I leave the city behind and follow the straight, vulgar, invading grey line cut into the gentle beauty of the rural landscape, which is already showing signs of spring's zenith.

All the fields of rape have already turned from bright and even plains that blind the eye with colourful, yellow monotony into a checkered mess of darkish green and dying yellow. Adjourning fields, then brown, exposed and naked in the glaring sunlight, are now covered by a silky blanket of pallish, swaying green. Trees with branches groaning under the weight of clusters of white and pink now lounge in gentle green, while the remnants of their colourful dresses lie rotting in the sprouting grass.

Sunlight bounces off the windscreen and the sky changes colour yet again, as impressions of an ageing spring make way for the return of civilisation. In the distance, six broad and busy ribbons made of asphalt, each one speckled with tiny dots of colour rushing to and from its circular centre, meet to form a star, as I take the lane that gets me on the motorway.

Here, madness is swift and comes in shiny, polished disguises. As usual I try to occupy the middle lane, and while I leave the lorries behind me to the right, groaning, puffing and blowing as they carry their heavy load, the cavalry thunders past me to the left. Porsche, Audi, Mercedes, BMW. The fast lane - a catwalk of the vanities. Bored and lonely drivers revel in their voyeurism, as they are rushing past. I did not invite them, yet they nosily peer inside my car like they would peer inside my living room, windows open and curtains drawn back.

Again I turn up the volume and listen to Roky once more, while outside the race continues. On the motorway. In a race where there is no winner, no first, no second prize. Yet everyone still wants to finish first.

Ghost-Town Of My Brain

Lonely winds send tumbleweed across neglected alleys, as I stand by the dusty roadside of my mind. Glaring sunlight bounces off the fissured asphalt and blinds my hazy eyes. There's a dead poodle rotting away in the remains of a puddle. A flock of wild piglets feeds on its bloated carcass.

In the distance looms the tattered silhouette of what has now become a ghost town. I meander through its empty streets. Blunt, revealing sunlight stares at decrepit roofs. Mad coyotes rummage through dented dustbins. Dust gathers on keyboards. The silence is unbearable and there is only so much cricket chirping a man can take.

"Stop meandering down memory lane", grunts the old shepherd. "Move on! What you want, what you are looking for, we don't sell it here no more!" His complacent and sardonic grin grimaces at me through rotten teeth, but I know he's wrong. The shop around the corner isn't doomed quite yet.

I was not lost in the jungles of Argentina. In fact, I have never been there. And while the hands have been idle, the mind was not. Knuckles will be cracked once more, keys will be punched yet again. The brimful drawers of the mind will be emptied and webspace will again be wasted.

And while I contemplate, let us marvel at a glimpse of spring:

January Git

January passes almost without mention. It is bitterly cold and its funeral is dreary and bleak. The brass band never shows up and there are no mourners, except for the drunken beggar and his crippled, one-eyed dog. They stare into the open grave, while a murder of crows glides through the heavy, grey sky, carking noisy insults at the pathetic gathering.

The priest holds his sermon. It is short and plain. There is nothing much to say, yet I reminisce while the coffin slowly descends:

The last remnants of the festive season gradually disappear. Skeletons of christmas trees, deprived of their tawdry evening gowns, litter the pavements. Grandchildren rush into shops and exchange unwanted presents. The last of the Christmas decoration is put back into its dusty dosses.

Spring rears its sleepy head and nature hints at April. Sunshine briskly glares at naked roofs. White becomes brown and green. Footpaths become sludge and melting snow reveals a plastic bag, carelessly thrown away on a cold December evening walk.

It lasts a fortnight, until winter launches a successful comeback, descending upon the world like a predator on its unsuspecting prey. Again white is the dominant colour, and while Australia is being swept away and revolution ripples through Arabia, here early morning life comes to a stop, as the world drowns in a sea of white feathers. Busy townspeople arm themselves with snow shovels. Their battle cries - aluminum on asphalt - are heard on every corner. Their fight is brave, desperate, in vein.

Roads are littered with cars helplessly sliding across the road, dancing their dance on a slippery stage in uncoordinated symmetry. Display of chaos by the ballet of the disabled. The performance lasts until nature surrenders to salt and steel and finally the curtain falls. No-one applauds, no-one bows. Everyone moves on.

Doctor, Doctor

December 28 continued

Parquet floor and warm, earthy colours dominate. Pop Art prints look at me from every direction. They try to look friendly, like the waiting room tries to look comfortable, at which it only partly succeeds. An imposing hulk of a reception desk sits in the middle of the room, like a beast lurking on its prey. It intimidates and evokes visions of Kafka.

The lighting is common for waiting rooms. It is cold and harsh and makes sick people look even more sick. Like the lighting in supermarkets that makes fruit, meat and vegetables appear healthier- and juicier-looking than they are. In both cases I sense a huge marketing scam.

I exchange the necessary essentials with the woman behind the monstrous desk. She is genuinely relaxed, warm and friendly and single-handedly disarms the monstrosity that is her workplace.

I take a seat opposite Charles C. Ebbets' much overused "Lunchtime Atop a Skyscraper". Ignoring the pile of ancient magazines on the table, I unpack my iPad and continue reading Dan Simmons. A young bloke observes my actions and politely inquires about the device. I give him the grand tour, become his very own sales assistant. I do the perfect iPad sales pitch, and am convinced he'll be off to buy one the minute he'll be finished here.

They call my name and I freeze for a moment as it booms through the speaker system. Finally - still far too early. I part from my newly found iPad friend and enter a white room filled with electronic and medical equipment, undoubtedly straight out of Hollywood's latest Sci-Fi-nightmare.

Two friendly, middle-aged assistants lead me to a chair, where I take off my shirt. Warm smiles left and right, as they pierce my skin, put tubes in my mouth, connect me to computers and stick needles into my arm. Blood pressure. Blood samples. Lung function tests. X-rays and ultrasound scannings. Computer screens display multi-coloured graphs, printers spit out columns of numbers, and a symphony of busy beeps and bleeps fills the room. I feel like a guinea pig. A rat in a cage. Should I soon discover the secret of Nimh?

Hazy Shade of Winter

The early hours of the new day are slow. Out of a white, overcast sky, daylight settles reluctantly on snow covered rooftops. Streets are empty. Alleyways lie partly in the dark. A fresh, thin, and still undisturbed blanket of snow covers the world around me.

The air is crisp and clear and the city slumbers in its frozen sleep. The chill feels like needles on my cheeks and I am glad I brought my hat. My footsteps crunch in the soft snow. A jogger crosses my path. He pumps out tiny clouds of breath while effortlessly gliding over snow covered cobblestone. I inhale the cold morning air and it sends a sting through my nose. In the distance I can hear the unmistakeable sound of an ice scraper fighting its fight against a frozen windscreen. A council worker clears away snow and scatters road salt across the pavement. In his bright, fluorescent jacket he looks like an orange fighting an invasion of coconut flakes.

Up ahead I can already see my destination. A cube made of glass and concrete - four storeys of perfect, ugly symmetry. I arrive far too early. Inside it is warm, but empty. I remove my hat and walk up a flight of stairs, sneering at the elevator, proudly celebrating my newly found enthusiasm for relying on my legs instead of technical gadgets as a means of transportation.

A woman services the coffee dispenser. I wish her a good morning and she looks at me like I just threatened to kill her only child. Without coffee I move on. With every step my wet shoes make a squeaking noise on the linoleum floor. I walk past a number of identical doors, before I arrive at my final destination. I enter the waiting room with the usual obedience of someone wanting to be some place else. To my surprise it is almost empty. Is it too early? Isn't anybody sick anymore? Are they all already dead?

It's Christmas! Let's Be Glad!

The weeks of exposure to aggressive, ugly advertising, bearded, fat old blokes dressed in red, and sweetly sickening music come to an abrupt end, as the moment itself passes almost in an instant - much quicker than its slow, pompous build-up had promised. Blink and you miss it.

After being heralded for so long and welcomed by so many, Christmas fucks off and dies with a whimper. Stabbed in the back like a petty crook on the run, left to die in a dark side alley somewhere on the way back to everyday life. Still, while rain turns to snow and the chill makes an unwelcome return, my way home is littered with its remnants and leftovers.

Porches are crowned with arches of blinking lights. The naked skeleton of a tree is illuminated by hundreds of tiny, glowing beads, sitting where leaves would rustle in the summer wind. The shopping centre radiates in a majestic glow that blinds the eye and numbs the mind. It is a proud beacon of commercialism, a suburban siren, luring many a poor soul to financial shipwreck on the rocky coast of consumerism.

A police car stands by the kerbside. Its occupants are looking for drivers who enjoyed too much of the christmas spirit(s). A streetlight flickers and sends out one last, blue-ish spark before going dark for good. The falling snow gets more intense and starts covering streets with a thin, white layer. Winter is back. People go to sleep. Waste bins are filled with torn and crumpled wrapping paper and the bones of turkeys - all evidence has been disposed of. Christmas is over. No-one sheds a tear.

Say Hello, Wave Goodbye

The flame ignites, flickers brightly for a fraction of a second, and dies. The ending is not slow and painful. It is swift, but expected. Love lost before love becomes love.

All that remains are the brief moments we fell into place. The rest is smoke from a smothered candle. I open the window and the breeze clears it away. Romanticism killed by light of day and the noise of passing traffic. In a strange, yet familiar way, reality is a welcome and comforting friend. There is no anger, there is no surprise. Just a feeling of déjà vu.

Routine sneaks in and takes over. It all happens far too quickly and with every passing of the tide the waters become shallower. Some people are not made for relationships. Hopeful fools. Hopeless romantics. Yet they move on and never stop trying ... caught in an infinite loop ...

∞

Summer Here Is Over

Late afternoon. My thoughts have already arrived at the weekend, but physically I'm still somewhere between work and home. All day long winter has cunningly been sneaking its way into the world, sending forth its vanguards in the form of the occasional snow shower, but now it strikes with all its vigour. It's not the vulgar, heavy snowfall that pours down on you like goose feathers from a ripped cushion, but the kind of mild and foggy, mischievous drizzle that just won't stop, slowly but surely dowsing everything in a milky haze.

Snow ploughs, taken by surprise, drowsily pave their way through narrow streets. The dissonance of steel grinding on asphalt insults my ears. I turn on the radio, but Katy Perry's voice turns out to be an even bigger insult. I switch to CD and Justin Currie tells me he hates the world they gave him.

Trees eerily fade into view, street lamps try to radiate light, while snow comfortably settles on everything, suffocating the last remnants of summer. Cars plough through streets like flat irons glide through linen sheets. The convoy crawls forward at sleep-inducing speed. It is a funeral march. Cars with muted taillights, heads bent and shoulders hanging, mourn the loss of summer. The brass band plays "Nearer My God To Thee" and everything sounds slightly off key.

We come to a halt and I start to wonder if home will ever be an option today. I glance at the fuel gauge and it tells me not to worry. Traffic lights in the distance turn from red to green. The procession hesitantly moves on. All is good. I can almost see the shore from here.

What's The Story Morning Glory ...

In an attempt to outsmart morning traffic I get up earlier than usual - a plan I have been trying to perfect for years. It hardly ever pays off, yet I keep trying. Positive thinking. Stubborness. Stupidity. Take your pick.

The morning is hesitant and veiled in grey. Sounds are muffled. Colours are muted. Hints become shilouettes become people. Their breath, coming from mouths and nostrils, manifests in tiny clouds above their heads. It makes them look like steaming dragons. I turn up my collar and try to escape the chill by walking faster than I normally would. I get to the car and swap the cold outside with the cold inside. "You can leave your hat on" ... "woolly hat", in my case. Traffic is tolerable. The beast still slumbers and soon the city disappears behind me in the mist.

The sky clears up and there is a hint of pink on the horizon. I take a different route today. Here the streets are completely empty. White frost covers naked fields, left and right. Beyond the fields to my left a moving mass of headlights glances over from the nearby main road. The convoy ploughs through the landscape like a huge, fluorescent caterpillar. A dead rabbit lies in the middle of the road. The winner of this race turned out to be the lorry. It shouldn't have dawdled. Crows peck at its tattered carcass and are only briefly disturbed by my passing by.

I remove my woolly hat - a thing of rare beauty - while the radio and the aircon battle over audio supremacy. I turn up the latter, because the news are bleak and I like it warm. Driving towards the day I witness the most spectacular November sunrise. I stop and take a picture. The outcome is a pale reflection of reality and bears testament to why I should never even think about picking photography as a profession ...

Sunday Morning Coming Down

I wake up far too early. Wave after wave of busy noises are coming from the apartment below. Clattering of pots, pans and plates. Doors are repeatedly slammed shut, only to be instantly opened again. Lumbering footsteps pace through rooms - Sunday breakfast in high heels.

I pull back the curtains and stare out of the window. A thick, grey blanket of clouds presses down on the leafless trees, the spires, and the rooftops of the city. The mood outside complements the mood inside. The morning, or what is left of it, is dominated by getting rid of a mild hangover.

BBC4 talks about the pope, condoms and male prostitutes. Squeeze's "Tempted" makes itself a home somewhere in my temporal lobe. It has no intention of leaving and I haven't got the slightest objection.

Lunch is sparse - deliberately so. The rest of the early afternoon is spent aimlessly flicking through the channels.

An hour later I get up and decide to get active - idleness has had its chance. The sky is still grey as I saunter across the empty streets. Old, majestic buildings on both sides of the street form a tunnel that might well take me to a time long gone. It is surprisingly mild, but only few pedestrians cross my path. There is the elderly couple, bickering about their shopping list; a young, foreign looking chap in baggy trousers, determined not to notice me while he walks past; a group of pensioners are giving me their warmest smiles as I walk past them. Their lively chatter bounces off the walls and cheerily echoes through the street.

I bump into an old friend and he invites me to his new apartment. It is old and spacious and delicately furnished. Nooks and alcoves and round arches compete with wide and open spaces. The place is the perfect melange between penthouse and medieval castle. I am hugely impressed. We talk a while and decide to meet up next weekend for a drink and a longer chat. I bid him farewell and make my way home to my suddenly so small and shabby abode. However, there is neither need nor time to ponder. The evening waits and it is filled with plans ...

In The Air Tonight

The time for cheap excuses is over. Once and for all. A thing of the past. From now on I can write blog posts whenever I want, wherever I want and however I want. Even in the nude. Not that I will, mind you. I am just saying that I *could*.

In the café next door, while staring at my half-empty cup of Latte Macchiato. At the toilet, instead of reading the newspaper. On the bus, the train, the plane, or the automobile. In a lorry (if I knew someone who owns a lorry, that is), in the office (when there is no work, of course), in between hors d'œuvre and main course, while sitting on the rooftop and waiting for the snow, or ... as in this case ... quite boringly and *just because I can*, right next to my desktop computer.

HAH! Isn't life great? Limitless possibilities. The world is my own, personal oyster. I feel privileged and special.

However, do not expect an increase in blog posts. It won't necessarily happen. Certainly not *just because I can* ........

This Side of the Morning ...

Monday morning establishes itself with frightening determination. The sun is fighting a brave but fruitless battle against a persistent blanket of fog, smothering the city like pink candy floss. Cars wake from their sleep and start clogging up streets. Waste bins are waiting to be emptied. The cash machine makes a short, rattling noise, while the fountain in the square remains silent. A bus howls past my open window and the fog turns from pink to grey, as the sun finally surrenders.

I meander down the road, passing an elderly lady walking her dog. Both don't look too happy. The city is still half asleep, but more awake than I am. I get into my car and join the many, lonely commuters in the daily race to their workplace. I snuggle up in my tiny bubble made of steel, plastic and glass. One person per car. Too many cars per planet. Shit streams from the radio. Rihanna's music is heinous and always will be.

Streets are wet and traffic presents itself in a muted colour palette. Taillights glare in angry reds, breaking up monotony, while lorries huff and puff uphill. No doubt they are laden to the brim with essential goods for the gentle consumer. Cherries from Chile. Garlic from China. Apples from South Africa. Potatoes from Egypt. Welcome to a globalised world! I wonder if what they get from us in return adds up in the end ...

Before The Evening Steals The Afternoon

Vienna, November 8 - Justin Currie

He plays for half an hour. Short but sweet. Like the hint of a kiss from your mistress' lips. A glimpse at perfection. You take all you can get, but long for more, and while the brief traces of Ambrosia dry far too quickly on your lips, they leave you fully satisfied, while you still wish the door could have been left open a little longer. But there will always be another time.

What Made Me Smile Today?

The ever babbling, slightly over-weight cashier at my local supermarket. The fact that an old friend I hadn't seen for quite some time called and suggested to go out for a drink this weekend. The more than apparent stupidity of a colleague of mine. The rumour of Apple finally releasing 10.5.7 this very Friday. A guy taking pictures of his car because he was obviously impressed by his own parking skills. Probably lots of other things I forgot to mention. 

What made me gnash my teeth today?

The ever babbling, slightly over-weight cashier at my local supermarket. The more than apparent stupidity of a colleague of mine. Some unpleasant (but very true) facts I learned about my personality today ... from a different colleague of mine. Probably lots of other things I don't want to talk about right now.

What am I looking forward to?

The new Star Trek Movie (and yes, I am an old-school Star Trek fan). A certain phone call. The more than apparent stupidity of a colleague of mine which probably won't have vanished by tomorrow. A work-related discussion. The weekend. Probably lots of other things I haven't thought about yet. 

What do I dread about tomorrow?

More of the usual stuff. The possibility of running out of cigarettes. The outcome of a work-related discussion. The lack of beer in my fridge. Probably lots of other things I don't want to think about right now.

What's the purpose of this post?

Don't know. Just felt like sharing. 

Do I think this is a great first post and an adequate introduction to my blog?

Weeellllll ........

Anyway, what made you smile today? What made you gnash your teeth today? What are you looking forward to? I'm curious ....