once more, herr autobahn, on the treadmill
of petty emotions -
you'd think that 6 weeks would have been
enough to somehow escape and never return -
to somehow become lost in
a forest, if one were to stumble into one,
proper;
what a promising thought:
to find enough cleavage of a shrinking
wilderness and hide in it...
6 weeks without electricity -
which implies: 6 weeks without baron
bombard, and blitz -
6 weeks without "electricity" -
in those 6 weeks? well:
the lightbulbs were working,
the t.v. was turned on, the t.v. was turned off,
the kettle boiled water,
the toaster popped fresh wheat stubble: up!
to be scraped with butter -
but there was no internet connection...
everything was where it was supposed
to be...
the fire alarm worked, the police sirens,
you could even make a phonecall...
but... there was no internet connection...
a 6 week hiatus...
i was hoping to only write a haiku summary
like some chinese sage....
6 weeks without an internet connection,
romand holiday starring gregory peck...
no... more like: in the flit mines of 3000B.C.,
6 weeks without an internet connection:
transported into a 20th century zenith...
t.v., telephone... vinyl player...
6 weeks: no porn...
3 or 4 bouts of agonising erotica with no outlet -
none akin to the irritation of accumulated
fakes and oopses and daises...
somehow? quiet liberating...
6 weeks: no cul de sac "dialectics":
in the comment sections of video uploads...
no bait... come to think of it:
no fucking pond or even a promise
of a 5am start in the vein of chris rea's: gone fishing -
6 weeks... in the meantime?
well if you do speak this tongue -
this... zuerst und zuletzt:
mutterzunge (comforting ref. point) -
you will not have heard of a Mr. Marian Banaś...
apparently...
Norway and Sweden are aeons apart...
likewise if you don't speak this tongue...
well... there's not a lot to do with
Jeffrey Epstein i can help you with, either...
seems like the old roman motto:
divide et impera (morphed under new
TOS) - i.e.: divide et divide works likes this...
6 weeks: no porn, no alcohol...
6 weeks and only 30 packets of cigarettes
smoked... 6 x 7? 42... ergo? 12 spare...

- 6 weeks no alcohol... now i'm sitting hunched
and sipping a vodka and tonic -
thinking... "thinking":
i am "thinking" about thought - or...
the Dünn König -
after all... (th)ought - is that always a moral
"question" or rather some attempt at
a narrative? when all the moral
questions have been answered?
the narrative begins?
or when none have been answered (?) -
they are dragged... deep from without
into within a imploding carnage pit? -

- if i were only better at rereading:
then again... Bukowski ended up shooting
dyslexic "coincidences" and someone
had to reply to the obfuscate- (with the open
hyphen? verb works just as well
as a noun) -

6 weeks sober implies:

Sienkiewicz - Fire in the Steppe
Pasternak - Dr Zhivago
die geburt der tragodie
oder: griechenthum und pessimismus
UND...
zur geneologie der moral,
heidegger's ponderings (VII - IX,
when i realised...
they're notes... they're not serious
entries as such... a p.s. to a humility
of sorts, nein nein nein! es ist nicht
sein und zeit)...
Knausgård - min kamp vol. 1
(500+ pages of vol. 2) -

grand literature?
i wish a book could be read like some mathematical
theorem - long zigzags and pitfalls...
but in my gebürtigzunge?
Knausgård? i always wanted to come
across my contemporaries...
to get away from the necromancy of
reading a 19th century french novel...

i wanted to read a harry potter,
a game of thrones,
a twilight saga entry,
something of that sort -
nothing...
is there a critique?
was min kamp written for a male...
or a female audience?
out of curiosity...
how i wanted to compete with my grandmother
in her ease of reading a harrlequin romance
novel...
escape from faustland -
or... escape from existentialism...
from pompous french and... irish...
existentialism...

critique, again, what critique?
envy? well there's plenty of that...
if there is such a gaping difference between
Norway and Sweden...
hukommelse / åminnelse (respecrtively) -
memory...
well... there's no point me
even attempting czech similarities between
old Krakov and Prague...
so... back from english into Sas-deutsche?

was i really going to consider reading Proust?
em... stiff little fingers...
come to think of it,
am i to be ashamed of these few little words...
when i have just pressed a sobering
me with 6 werks worth of stash
of read words... to feel...
ashamed of these... puny scribbles?

there's always heidegger to return to:
since there will be no cascading narrative...

da-sein...
there-being...
variation: english...
there's being....
da-ist-sein...
6 weeks away and 2 hours "home"...
what would possibly come from
altfliegendschiessezeigen das ist deutscheschnauze?
escapism...
dasein to me is a variation
of escapism...
i.e. the "there"...
could i read Knausgård in english?
nope... w tym dawnym i drogim mym zorem...
tak...
but like english... the language...
and not english: the people...
well... the language...
built upon the shrapnel prefix borrowing
from latin and greek...
shrapnel language structure...
at times solid words...
yet surrounded by atom like bombs of
conjunctions etc.

perhaps i'll stop reading in english altogether...
perhaps this new bilingualism à la
schizophrenia /
if bilingualism is to be the new schizophrenia,
and "the", of every imaginable "etc.",
trenches... trenches... trenches...
perhaps there would be something
to be proud of... if i were... say...
a polyglot...
7 languages and counting...
but 2... well... what's that?
if not some awaiting psychological
fuck-up to begin - and end with.