…and there he was, thoroughly mobbed by rust and moldy wood, sopping in the lashes of last night’s rain. There was nothing human left to him, nothing but the colors of his greenness, the scarlet dye of his soul. The solely idea to be seen was hurting his groin, was chewing up his liver like a murrain. Somehow, there was nothing organic in his pain, it never is. The pain is only the creation of the mind. The death, the fear, the monsters of appearance, the vanity, the zestfulness of beauty. There is nothing organic in the pain.
…and there I was, wrinkled and engorged in a twisty, putrefied wonder. Nobody would touch me, really, but everybody would cringe, fascinated by my wooden aortas. I sat alone and sobbed, next to a sinewy blade of grass.
I was covered in itchy sand, and only dead leaves would keep me warm at night. Inside of me, ants were crawling, blind and ambitious, trying to find their lost galleries, like some chubby gnomes.You stopped for a moment, touched your sunburned lips, and walked away to pick up some wet Hyacinths.
The idea of a wet nose every day flabbergasted me, made me chase my tail and eat grass in despair.
I have asked them:
-Is that mandatory? Do I need to keep it wet all day long? Can’t I have a break, laying in the sun and let the molecules be transformed?
-NO! they said, your nose has to be wet! You have to greet your owners by stroking your damp, shiny, black breathing recipient against their faces and legs!
Since then, me, The Dog, I have learned how to greet you, Man, with a happy, wet nose! So don’t be upset if I leave stains.
We met in front of a Psychiatric cabinet from Geervliet (Zuid Holland). I was having my Saturday walk through unknown places, she was waiting in line – for her doctor appointment. At least, that’s what her aloofness made me think. Needy, but visibly repulsed by my fake, protruding eye, she was purring for attention, yet ignoring me for a pumpkin box. Glancing to the door, she was hoping somebody would let her in, you see – the storm was coming. I could have pet her, if she wouldn’t have given me the cattitude.
It’s Wednesday, 5:15 in the morning. Before firing up my laptop, I open the window of the office. The air is unusually warm for mid February, but brings in the dampness of North Sea and the smell of the changing seasons. Since I am working this Read More