Category Archives: Shorts

The Don

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Walked through Burggarten to see Mozart’s monument, after failing to find a café where he would have visited – it doesn’t exist. “Café Mozart” or “Mozart Café” across the Albertina surely isn’t it.

Plus, I didn’t have four seventy (coffee with milk) on me.

Finally, I found his picturesque and statutory ass, shining from underneath the cover of snow in nearly the same color. I told him I would be back with a Wiener melange and a vanilla-flavored cigar from afar.

And so I was.

Like all the coffee with milk in Vienna, this one was unbearably tepid. Indeed you are better off getting a glühwein or orange punch if your goal is to gear up and warm up your coldest of sides.

Funny enough, I never needed to warm up at any given Viennan moment – as if the snow was in fact like a blanket, or my near-Dutch heart just felt right at home, no matter how little fat covering it.

No, I just needed my daily dose of caffeine. Besides, I had a date with Wolfgang, and he loves the smell of burning beans and vanilla in the morning, or so I imagine.

A secret that must be shared so I don’t look like some statue-loving fetish freak, is that Mozart is actually buried right there in the Burggarten; not in the cocky Zentralfriedhof, but not in the common people’s St. Marxer Friedhof either.

So, in order to discuss the thing I needed to discuss with this genius slash fellow ‘humad’ man, at the Burggarten is where I needed to be. Got out my transistor radio, put it on 1487 Hz, lit my Stimmung and enjoyed the composer’s company and thoughts for several ball-freezing hours.

(He was truly amused when I told him I had fallen fast asleep standing upside down during Don Giovanni. Indeed, he is convinced it was his least enticing opera ever made. Indeed, while the temperature belonged to my heart, my balls did what they did despite of it.)

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Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the human. The human. The human in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am not human. Nor am I the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernist thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. But, yah, no-one said I was, so I’m not quite sure how I came to emphasize that here.

I am merely a writer from another dimension with the desire to share his soul, and how it is thrown back by the force of the human beings denying its existence in the face of their reality. It brings me to life…A life I don’t need, as it is one in which art is facing total annihilation.

Ah, humanness: Gaia forbid that you ever be left uncaptured by the brush holding, pen licking, clay sticking, stage tricking, string plucking, dicks ****** freaks and geeks on this earth that we call artists. Mozart, Kafka and Brecht. I am walking in their footsteps…And I’m sad I came too late.

The traces of great men with great minds in times of terrible trouble. And it occurred to me that none of these traces will be captured in a glass box, plaster casted to outlast the shit storm we are currently concocting.

It occurred to me that these traces needed to be refreshed…


Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man
Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the mad man. The mad man. The mad man in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Let’s make one thing clear: I am a mad man. I am not, however, the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. For he is otherwise known as the genius artist. And although it is real that genius artists are mad men – I, a mad man, am not a genius artist. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of being mentally incapacitated, of having been thrown back by the force of the mad man genius so hard once, that he was pulled onto and forced to blueball the horse of crazy for the rest of his life.

It must be evident, by now, where I am going with this: Madness is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe – if it wasn’t alive already, through birth. And I wasn’t born the way you real people are born…So…

I see Caravaggio, Keats, Socrates and Ataman. For it is them that I next visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. At least, it takes a mad man to believe they are there. See for yourself.

It takes one to know one.

I talk to them, I smell their dead presence as ignorant and disbelieving tourists walk past – snap, snap…tap! As if a ghost can be captured on celluloid…It can’t, okay? Pixels neither. One needs to invite it into the habitat of the living with some live conversation, maybe a smoke, and a fresh cup of coffee, or something or other. Do that, and you’ll be up for a real good conversation. Find out about untruths that will make your ears sing. Green eggs and ham isn’t the only meal we never heard of…

It turns out the genius creator has decided he will be the mad man none of us, without losing their fragile minds, could be. Indeed, at this very moment even, my fingers have trickled away from the cerebral center they are controlled by, and green goo in the shape of square bubbles is oozing down the walls left and right of me. There isn’t much sense anymore in letting these letters fall together so coherently; they have nothing to say about the state I am found in yester morning days, seven pickles…Path, laugh, dribble…

And indeed, as Dalí pointed out, the only difference between mad men and mad men genius creators, so to say, is that the latter aren’t actually mad. I have to admit – I do feel the same. “We are but men, ROCK!”

And so my humble little behind is out to find its kindred souls…


Catalonian ‘lude: EN ELS QUATRE GATS

Cava y pa de pages amb tomaquet i oli d’oliva verge (en Els Quatre Gats)

Finally,
Some solid solitude,
Together with one of the greatest geniuses in my life.
Was never alive when he shined,
But surely his left eye is staring me blind from behind my glass full of Cava. 
            Pictures surround me –
Rather,
Drawings from that time,
Depicting genius homies depicted by the divine.
The reprint pixels are fine,
But close by the prints are apparently from this time.
Much like the rest,
Probably, 
            And absinthe doesn’t ripe –
So that is surely not from 1909. 
            I decline into my seat and rhyme of tomato,
Olive oil and sparkling Barcelona wine. 
            Picasso,
Wish I knew your real name,
So I could come cry in the coming night. 
            Thanks for leaving this temple,
For our empty souls to devour. 
            It is nice… 

Fumar puede matar
Chasing after some American senior gat, I rush myself outside to see if I can bum a smoke off them. Too bad they’re only taking the exit to visit the gift shop across…Brainwashed Yankees.
            I stand in the cold and wonder. What could have been the original inhabitation of that building across from me and those four cats, smack in the middle of what must have been the most bubbly, alive artistic district of the first half of the Spanish 20th century? A hospital for anyone failing to perform their drinking duties under the severe pressure of the king of cubism? A whore house for the horribly lonely artists that were his friends; and since they were what they were, as Allen denotes in his study of Catalunya, always in need of living with a woman? Before, after, and during their smokin’ drinks.
            I disappoint back in, desiring to bash myself in the head with the nearly emptied plate of tomato-olive oil toast with Pablo’s picture of a cat, seeing how my own Egyptian ciggies have run out – the reason I so opportunistically rushed outside in the first place. I’m not that desperate, usually, but feel the need to at least trample to safety one bud in the exact same spot where our antagonist must have done that very same thing – although I imagine he smoked cigars – once. I could’ve just walked by and done it, after obtaining a cigar from a tabacaria well-prepared. But I was here now anyway, soaking up his left over, 100-year-old energy…and Cava.
            Come on, now, let me get my smoke on and do it…
            And as the pianist in the back room, the diner, the once brain room, I imagine, kicks off with some atmospheric sound waves, I am forced to tell you that the bartender catches on to my romantically modernist intentions, and offers me one of his hard-earned Camels – like any self-respecting, non-Dutch European would.
            Thanks, Picasso junior junior. Or is it Modigliani’s heritage – indeed, he is the only one, besides the Catalonian I’m taking home tonight, who is young enough to be regarded as stemming from another generation; the others as old as the wine I’m using to flush down my absinthe with – that is destined to serve us wanna-be Picassians? Glad to think of you both, anyway.
            The building across the street was actually a storage room for all the Italians’ long-lost masterpieces; again, Picasso was the brilliant mind in charge. He would hide all the genius that didn’t flow from his brain, and slowly his ego gained in size and importance. And now I’m standing here, looking at that very building, that secret safe of genius, through a dusty frame of nicotine, playing out a murder scene…
            The passionate crime that will be pardoned. To tell about something I’ve seen, without knowing exactly what it is…without knowing whether or not it was actually there.
            Graçias, señor Cava. Graçias por el hangover-to-be. Graçias, Barçelona.
            Picasso, I think we need to talk some more…


Moment of sanity, Part I: The Genius

Moment of Sanity, Part I: The Genius
Moment of Sanity, Part II: The Mad Man

Moment of Sanity, Part III: The Human

Art and the genius. The genius. The genius in me is living through the faces of cultural Europe. Please let’s make one thing clear: I am not a genius. I am not the ultimate icon of denial for Post-modernistic thinkers that is the humble medium of the universal truths of human emotion, human’s true eye on reality. I am merely a man from another dimension with the desire to share his moments of infatuation, of being thrown back by the force of the genius so hard that he is pulled onto the horse it is riding for a moment or two.

It is living in me through the faces of cultural Europe. It is Hemingway, Godard, Gaudí, Picasso and Dalí that I see. And it is them that I first visit as my scrawny little behind makes a move across the rough, unholy and uncoveted lands of Western Europe. Paris is in my way, and Montpellier, Barcelona, Figueres, Marseille, Rome, Athens, Thessaloniki, Istanbul, Vienna, Prague, Berlin and finally Essen – and they are also helping me – as I reach for the genius. The unforgiveable, (un)wealthy, unhealthy, blasphemous, sexist, insane and infamous genius.

Those unattainable little fuckers that never seem to think about good and bad – at least, not the way you and I do. That would never give a journalist a straight answer, unless he was upside down. That would never give the crowd what it wanted, but autistically sought to make it want just what they created. And we would finally cave…Yeah, art is not so much about good and bad, healthy and unhealthy; not in the brain either.

Given the idea, then, that art is not essentially about good or bad (health), what good would it do a pioneer to the quest for true emotion, a seeker of the unknown known to walk the path that hath been trampled on before? We are all trying to be good, trying to be healthy. What is a genius’ business sniffing around the bushes of the all-too familiar sane world? Maybe for some bread at times, a place to stay. But really, the genius creator, the artists we all love and hate (oh, we are so good) will carry madness in the mind. Bad hair. Bad teeth falling out…And he loves the way his tongue fills the holes in his mouth, that he curses.

My humble little behind out to find its kindred souls…


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