Thinking about the next song to play. Thinking about getting up and boiling eggs. Thinking about falling asleep again. Thinking about getting my shit together. Thinking about the next song to play. Thinking about walking to the garden for no reason, but it’s too hot outside. Thinking about lighting a cigarette.
continue readingTag: literature
-
Shit is deeper than you think it is.
I am alive because I am alive and nobody can guarantee my life. Nobody can tell its expiry date, not even those astrologers, palm readers, lawmen, gunmen, bandits, snipers, doctors, hangmen, retail sellers, cinema hall goers, economists, conspiracy theorists, gods, philosophers, psychiatrists, healers, priests, butchers, facefuckers, assfuckers, blowjob givers, dickheads, cunts, the terminally ill, the mad, the insane. Nobody knows shit about anything. We all have been fooled, HA HA HA HA HA HA. FOOLED!!!
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Rewind. Repeat. Smoke and die.
The wound takes time to heal. First, there’s redness. Then a little itching. Sometimes, too much. Then the new cells form and then, new skin. After a time, the wound disappears, like it was never there. But sometimes, the hurt continues. The flexibility just goes away. The bone gets weaker. The skin wrinkles. The muscles slacken. Even a little twist begins to hurt. Sometimes, you blow wind on where it hurts hoping it gets a little better. Sometimes, it does get better. Sometimes. The song keeps changing. The voice changing. It’s a whole goddamn playlist to cry over tonight. Lou Reed playing again. A call interrupted the mood. Not an important call.It was just my mother. 30 seconds long call. That much is enough to tell her I am still alive and everything is alright. Rewound the song. Played again from the start. Almost broke down. Almost.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Blues, Coffee, Cigarettes, Lighters, Matchsticks.
Another one of those evenings with coffee, cigarettes, old school blues loud on my speakers. Muddy Waters, Buddy Guy, B.B.King. Mustang Sally on repeat. What voices! What voices! And what lyrics! They throw you right away in the sweetest goddamn blues. You can’t help but light another cigarette. And there’s nothing like lighting a cigarette with goddamn matchsticks. Yeah, right off those goddamn matchsticks. I think if a cigarette has to be lit, and if you really really want to light it and I mean really want to light it, it better be done with a matchstick and in one go. Well, that’s some cigarette wisdom right there. A lighter isn’t bad or anything to use, it’s just it’s too organised, too polished, too nice. Now, we have these lighters with plastic red blue yellow bodies. Gas lighters. Transparent. You can see the fuel right through and how much of it remains, so that you get an idea about when to buy a new one. With matchsticks and matchboxes, it’s somewhat similar but not the same. The feeling is not the same. Matchboxes with no labels or names come straight from hell. Matchsticks carry some rawness. I like that rawness, that feeling of living like an animal. Damnit give me as raw as it can be. Things too clean begin to disgust me after some time. Clean bedroom, clean kitchen, clean toilet, clean bedsheet, clean glasses and plates, clean clothes, clean face, meditation and yoga, breakfast on time, dinner on time, sleep on time, just one glass of red wine, just one cigarette, just one glass of rum, just one bottle of beer, combed hair, brushing every day, taking bath each morning. Things dirty make me unstoppable, activate all my neurons at once, fill my veins with stallion blood. Drugs could never really make me high enough. Even if they did, it was all just momentary. Somebody once told me not to chase what’s momentary. I told him to fuck off. I am chasing nothing. I am here in this moment, trying to be as alive as I can be in the ways that I know of.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Enough of this shit.
‘Enough of this shit,’ I thought at exactly 8:35 night, got up from my chair, turned it to face my laptop, sat back, turned on my laptop, thought about writing some more shit. The music, well, it never stops playing as long as I am alive and not deaf. Once I go deaf, it will make for a completely different story. A tragic story, tragic like nothing else. I guess I’ve still got time to go deaf. I think something else will take me away before that happens. Something like my 9-5 job. Yeah. Something as brutal as that. A 9-5 job can be more brutal than any war. Billions of casualties every day. BILLIONS! Can you imagine that, billions dying the same death every day and all that for nothing? And all that repeating the next day and the next and the next. What can be more brutal than that! At least war doesn’t take that long to end you, and it has got a much better flavor. I heard that nothing good ever comes out of a war. It’s true. Nothing good comes out of a 9-5 job either. That’s my goddamn truth. Everyday brutality is something quite personal. It can take any form. For me, it’s my 9-5 job. For others, it might be something else. But that brutality is there in some form. You can see it clearly in their faces, in the ways they fail to laugh with all their heart. So much fear. So much spite for one another. So much good and mad and all that down the shithole without anybody noticing. I am a little different and completely fucked up. I have got these damned eyes and this damned brain and I can see it all. Some motherfucker rang my doorbell again. Must be the neighbors’ kids. Someday I will fit a bomb there. Someday. The rain seems to have stopped. Yeah, it rained like hell this evening, all that rainwater filling the belly of this earth. There could be some other earth somewhere, surviving on sulfur, on peroxides, on the most poisonous of the poisons. Out of nowhere, I begin to think about such an alternative earth. No, I am not getting anywhere. I will die right here with my beer and my cigarettes and my mad heroes and mad artists. That will be my end and it won’t be that bad and I do not know whether to feel happy or sad about it..
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Thought about your ass in my hands.
Some cool guitar acoustics playing on my speakers. Another day. Stayed in bed until noon. Made love to you. Got up. Brushed my teeth. Threw everything out of my fridge and into the trash can. Kept the door closed. I am the biggest criminal. I am the violation, the wound, the biggest crack in this earth. I am the one who gets killed. Sat in my chair, turned on my laptop, thought about lighting a cigarette, thought about your ass in my hands again and again. Lit a cigarette and smoked and thought about your ass in my hands all through the noon. Turned of the speakers, left my chair and got in bed again.
Finally got up from bed at five in the evening. Took bath. Played some guitar acoustics again. Sat in my chair. Lit another cigarette and smoked Looked outside the window. The same old leaves hanging down the same old branches. The same old cloudless sky. The same old sound of the rustling of leaves. Ache in my eyes. Maybe it’s from the cigarette smoke. Maybe it’s from something else. All I know is that it’s there.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Somewhat like the blues.
Some electronic blues on my speakers. Let’s see what these new fuckers have to offer. First song finished. Next. Next. Next. Next. Next. It’s good but not good enough. Not as good as the old blues. But that’s how modern sadness is, I guess. Something only half felt or felt not at all but spoken about twice as much. Something only wading on the surface, but not ready to plunge all the way down. Also, all their music sounds the same. Which makes me think, how can two people feel sad in the same way? The idea baffles me. Have they started copying each other’s emotions as well. Crazy! This music only sounds somewhat like the blues but it’s really not the blues. Anyways, I am nobody to criticize. I am no critic. Maybe this music will sound better to me on some other day, at some other time, when I am in some other mood. Maybe. I will listen to some more. Nothing better to do.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Leaving all behind once again.
Wore my pyjamas. Wore my blue round neck t-shirt. Wore my leather slippers. Never combed my hair anyways. Picked up the keys. Stepped out of the door and what the hell am I looking at! Three men standing in the front lawn with a chain saw in one’s hand and three trees fallen down. Took me a moment to grasp the scene. What is really happening here. Is this a dream. Have I really not woken up. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my palm and looked again. No, nothing was wrong with my eyes. I was awake and standing there and looking at all that. Everything seemed real now. Three men. The chain saw running. The three trees on the ground. Then I looked at the men’s faces. One of them was my landlord, wearing the same brown sneakers, dark green t-shirt, no hair on his head, all hair on his football face. His yellow scooter was parked just outside the main gate. Another man had black goggles, a muffler around his neck, white pyjamas, The third man, well, he was standing behind some bushes. I could see only his ass and his half face and I didn’t recognize him. I looked at my landlord. My landlord looked at me. ‘Hello, Mr Tomic! No work today?’ ‘No, sir. No work until Tuesday,’ I replied. ‘Oh great. Great. Everything alright?’ ‘Yeah, pretty much. Thank you,’ I replied and then I walked to the main gate and unlocked. I really wasn’t interested in knowing about what was happening in my front lawn. I reversed my motorcycle, turned on the ignition. The sweet thumping of the engine was back in the air, and it shook me back to life at once. I put my motorcycle in gear and drove off, leaving the main gate open, leaving all the confusion behind.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Reading cigarettes, smoking Murakami.
Started reading another story by Murakami. Damn that’s tragic. Depressing. Makes you want to cry and break down and cry some more. Some time later, drove out. Bought a pack of cigarettes. Took me some time to find out a shop that was open and selling cigarettes. Strange? Yeah, I know. Finally found this man standing at the door of his house way down this ripped street that ran like a wounded snake through old tent-like buildings and roof-less houses. He was standing at his door when I stopped my motorcycle right in front. ‘What ya want, man?’ He asked looking at me. ‘A pack of cigarettes,’ I replied. ‘Anything else?’ ‘No that will be all,’ I replied. He went inside his home wearing his white soiled vest and brown trousers, and returned with a pack of cigarettes all sealed and neat looking like a diamond thrown down from the sky by the devil itself. I took the cigarette pack, stuffed in the pocket of my pyjamas, paid him and drove back
And at one point in the story came this line “There’ nothing worth getting in this world that you can get easily.” I stopped right there after reading the line, and thought about it. I had already smoked two cigarettes and suddenly I wanted to light a third one. Some good old morning blues was playing on my speakers continuously since morning. I finished reading that story, got up from my chair, took a piss and walked out of the door thinking about all that I had just finished reading. So good and so moving and so full of the silent tragedy in our lives.
But while I got up and I was walking to the toilet, a number of thoughts crossed my mind. The way he wrote that story. The way I write things. There’s no use of tough words to write something beautiful and readable. I have always believed in that. Always. My focus is more on the formation of the whole sentence. I want no extra word in there. I want no word less either. Just the right amount of words and I somehow feel it inside me when I get those right amount of words and I somehow know it when my sentence feels complete and right. My focus is on forming such sentences that can reach somebody’s spirit without minimal obstruction. I do not write for the mind. Academicians and intellectuals and philosophers are doing a great job at it and they are doing a better job at it than I ever will. Mind is a terrible terrible place. Took me a lot of years to get to this understanding. Mind of a scientist, a beggar, a teacher, a poet, a retail seller, a chain smoker, a sweeper, a yogi, a lunatic. All minds are terrible, and so I am never concerned with them. I prefer to keep myself away from all minds as much as possible.
Lit my third cigarette of the day. Never owned an ashtray. Never used a thing meant for the sole purpose of that thing. My bowl is my ashtray now. Thinking about reading another story. Thinking about masturbating. Thinking about lighting another cigarette. Thinking about playing some goddamn blues again. Thinking. It’s night already. Crazy! Never thought that another night wold come, and now look at it. It came just like that.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
-
Another day killed.
Today. Did’t really write much. Didn’t write much but thought about a lot of poems that I could have written. Headache killed a major part of the day. Killed my mood. Kept me away from my desk and my chair until late evening. It has stopped raining now. Everything wet outside. The tree leaves. The roads. The iron gate to my house. My motorcycle. Wires swinging between the electric poles. Men and women who couldn’t reach home on time. Everything.
This place is devoid of writers, artists, any human with a spark. Here, people just exist and then the die. Rarely, something moves them. No books in their homes. No paintings hanging on their walls. No cassette players or MP3 players or gramophones or records or even a pair of goddamn speakers in their houses. If you ever go to somebody’s house, all you can hope for is a nice cup of tea. But that doesn’t mean that you will get it. You can grab your balls or squeeze your breasts or do whatever with whatever you got while the tea is cooking for you but nothing can guarantee that the cup of tea that you get would be a really nice cup of tea. And no coffee. Absolutely no coffee. You cannot even hope for a cup of coffee. They don’t even know what coffee is. If you tell them, they will run behind you with bats and beat you to death. Coffee is like sin to them. And god knows how much they are afraid of committing sins.
I don’t visit anybody. I never socialize. I can go months, even years without feeling the need to open my mouth and talk to somebody. I listen to music and I write and I read and I masturbate and that’s pretty much it.
Ding Dong. Ding Dong. Somebody’s here. I hope their stay is short and I am back in my chair before long.
Copyright © Tomic Riter. All rights reserved.
You must be logged in to post a comment.