So that is good, because I am feeling good

it feels good to feel good.

I am working as an IT Sheriff now, or soon will be. Met some clients today and we had a lunch

I could help them with anything really, by going into bitbucket for example, and put Borg Cubes as icons for all of their kubernetes repos

If need be

It doesn’t matter that much

I can patch stuff,

I feel the carpenter last year said some wise words; I asked whether he could do these dressings around the massive windows. He said that as long as he got paid he could, and he could even mow the lawns

If he got paid

And there is wisdom in this, of course

Furthermore, on this special lunch, by happenstance, I saw a travelling friend who was visiting my town today

And we decided to have a beer this evening

Which we did

I had a black one, a stout, which the bartender said tasted of decadence. Sweet, strong and bitter. I think he was right about that

I often dip my toes in decadence, like the yin to my yang (or vice versa), I think it’s a way of finding a sort of balance

It balances the humours, I feel

And still, I picture a grey mind as being way worse than having a black one

Ok thanks for reading this text straight from my heart (because like I said, there’s nothing much going on in my brain)

And it helps

I was out running the same path yesterday, with the same thoughts I have had recently on repeat, I think this processing helps building new tracks and paths in my deep dark rainforest brain

And with each exhale, vapours of foul miasma is expelled from me

And like I said, the sun helps too.

A dog on each side, sitting in this comfortable folding chair, in the bright early summer late evening

It is here I want to sit

It doesn’t sound like much, maybe, but it took me all my life to get there.

I dreamt there where these ”regular”board games, a type of which people who aren’t interested in board games play

And I got a phone call from what looked like Nick Cave but with the bald man wig, resembling that inventor’s from back to the future: a bald head with white hair on the sides, but as a wig.

And his eyes were lunatic’s eyes.

Yellow eyes

And he wasn’t up to no good

I don’t remember what he said to me over the phone but something deeply unsettling

I remembered the details more vividly as it woke me, but I feared it would bridge the gap between dream and waking world were I to write it down then,

And I was too scared to go back to sleep because I didn’t want the dream to continue

So I went to the bathroom

And finally I slept. If I dreamt, I have no memories of that.

As I can barely recollect this frightful dream just described,

Strange

In a wabi sabi type of way.

I was digging with my spade, moving soil from one place to another, digging and feeling the sweat drenched Sonata Arctica T-Shirt — with a wolf print, howling at the moon — clinging to my powerful belly as I roll with my wheelbarrow and a light spring in my mighty legs.

It’s their spirit animal, the wolf (which some people also claim is the case for Chakotay (from star trek: voyager) (whereas mine is a donkey like I wrote before)).

It’s peaceful to work the earth like that, making things grow, listening to Scooter in the headphones.

🎧

And the air feels fresh, and I’m sure the soil has a murky smell even though I don’t know

let’s write it like this, because for reasons unknown, my caches have been corrupted, and I’ve invalidated them, meaning old truths must be reexamined with the latest patch set I’ve painstakingly installed (this is a metaphor) and then rebooted,

An example:

When we were young, my sister said the neighbour boy once threw a machete at his younger siblings

That he killed kittens

That he broke her arm on purpose with his mountainbike

That he was wild

And it never occurred to me to question that even though I knew him and spent most days playing with him and we were true friends

I never saw him do anything remotely like that, the strangest thing was that he took tea water straight from the tap

And didn’t like to wear socks

it’s true I never wanted to anger him, but that means little; I never wanted to anger anyone…

Why did I trust her so blindly?

It’s not just something she said as a child letting her wild imagination loose,

She was adult she maintained all these things

And I as an adult took her words for truth even though I’d never seen anything like that

Why hasn’t it occurred for me until now to question this?

Isn’t that strange?

Isn’t it?

I’d rather be abed now, but I know there is a cold grave waiting for me in less than one hundred years, whereas now the blood is pumping through my veins still.

and I’m riding the train

Of course I’d rather be burnt to ashes so I don’t wake up like in kill bill — I’m claustrophobic after all.

No I’m alive and spending my valuable time improving my relations with the family of choice

my daughter found black bean in her purse, we’ll plant it and see if it too can grow, but that’s for after the train ride.

Now I’m just goofing around and being silly and it’s true what I learned from my book about poultry farming, that to see these turkeys play and goof around means they are feeling good and are healthy

And this is true for humans too

First there was a middle aged lady stood outside by the train station with a megaphone like some sort of street preacher, imploring everyone to take heed of our mortalities, that we would all be dead in merely one hundred years, and that we should worry about this fact

Which sounded counter intuitive to me, because that is the one thing I do not worry about. I figure the good thing about being dead is that all of the sorrows die too, but I think of course she is alluding to eternal damnation

Of course she is.

I don’t think that’s gonna happen, but time will tell which one of us got it right.

Then I started listening on repeat to ”My Sorrowful Wife” by ”Nick Cave”, a great text about love and the betrayal of inadequacy, which is to not be enough to heal the ones we love, maybe even the opposite, through blindness and foolishness

I listen to it with a lump in my chest

…

To not be able to take the pain away

To just stand by not being able to heal their hurt, not to be able to mend

Even though that’s really what you want most of all

That’s sad

Walking the same path some time later: a big bald man, a miniature whiskey bottle in his giant fist, clutched also

And I got word of a dead relative through SMS from my mum (who I don’t talk to much no more, we’ve run out of things to say to each other)

And I quit my old job, as the new one is lined up finally

And lastly, I saw a man with a big butt crack walking by, wearing black jeans jacket and black jeans. There was something sad I couldn’t put my finger on, his eyes maybe, about his kind face. (I saw this as I went for a stroll to stretch my weary legs …)

An eventful journey indeed

I’m listening again to H.I.M “His Infernal Majesty” (🤘), “Wings of a butterfly “. I always circle back to this track; it has this deeply disturbing text about ripping out the wings of a butterfly, which I think is a very potent symbol of corruption and dekadence which for some reason resonates with my darkness which is churning deep within.

Because a human being isn’t either good or bad, they could be, for example, a great guy but who likes HIM nonetheless.