jc.tryps

disco

I don’t know how to categorize this text (poetry?), so if you have any suggestions please let me know!

But do you get what it was? What that thing was that hit you? That tremendous force that knocked you to your knees. Had you on your face nailed to the ground. Do you know what that was? Do you? That was life. The whole massive reality of it. That’s what that was. Life. Raw and unfiltered life. With all its crudeness and flaws. The real deal. Life. You can’t run from that. You can try, but you won’t win. No one ever does. There’s no use fighting it, you can’t win. No one does. The best you can do, your very best shot, is to just smile and enjoy the ride. Enjoy it while it lasts, cause it won’t. Nothing ever does. So enjoy it. Make that your one goal, the sole objective, the singular task. Then, and only then, will you ever even have a fighting chance of standing up. To not have to spend the rest of your days on your knees. Enjoy it. That’s the only way to stay up, to stay afloat.

This is a performance pice, i.e. written for the spoken format, but since I’ve been getting some requests for the text I thought I’d share it here in written form. 

Questioning.

Good evening ladies and gentlemen. And those of you who fall between these categories.  My intention here tonight is to be pretentious. I would like to share with you some insights I have made through a series of nervous breakthroughs using the method of questions. I intend to proclaim questioning as the origin of knowledge. The ONE thing that keeps us from repeating new versions of the same old mistakes over and over again. What makes us move on.  Allows us to reach new insights, gain new and deeper knowledge. Only through questioning can we identify bad ideas and false assumptions. Questioning is the only cure for prejudice. What prevents us from getting lost in a labyrinth of dead-end ideas. Hardcore, old school critical thinking. Questioning. Read more of this post

“Just start from the beginning.”

“What beginning?”

I hate that look. That look of understanding. They all have it. Like a mixture of pity and greed. A glow in their eyes. They think they can understand. That if they understand me enough I will be cured. Fixed. That’s all they want, to fix me. I am a danger to society and a danger to myself. I’ve got that in writing. I think they are more worried about society than me though. No way they locked me up to save me from myself. That would mean they cared. That they actually gave a shit about me, and they don’t. That’s why I hate that look. Because they don’t really want to understand. They don’t even want to see.

“Well, what ever beginning you want to start with.”

“I can’t say I want to start at any beginning. Just tell me what you want to know man.”

“I want to know about you. Where you are coming from.”

“What the hell for? Just ask me what you want to know, ok? I’ll answer.” Read more of this post

We sit down on the stairs. It’s just him and me now. No one else around. And I know this will  lead to something I don’t really want. I know I shouldn’t be here. I should go. But I don’t. I stay. We talk. At first. It’s like waiting for the inevitable. He asks me things about me. Things I don’t really want to tell. So many questions. As if he cared. As if he wanted to crawl under my skin. As if he really wanted to know me. This, is making me seriously uncomfortable. This, is making me want to tell him to just shut up. This, is not part of the game.

Then, when he leans closer, it almost comes as a relief. I know this. This I can do, this is familiar. Now I understand what he wants. Now it’s simple. His arm around me. His hand on my cheek. He caresses it gently. Too gently. He whispers something I can’t hear and he looks at me. I can’t meet his gaze. I close my eyes and wait. I wait for what I know will come. Step one: he kisses me. Step two: he touches my breasts. Step three: he asks me to come to his room. And from there it goes fast. Step four five and six. All part of the pattern. Beginning to end. A to Z.

Step one. I feel his breath on my cheek. It smells of alcohol. I feel his lips on mine. Surprisingly soft. Then he parts them, ever so slightly. I know what will happen next, what is expected of me. I part my lips, do what I am supposed to. His tongue in my mouth, his hand in my hair. He starts to breathe heavier, kiss harder. So I do too. Because that’s what is expected of me now. In this situation that’s what you do. Step one. Read more of this post

full moon

shadow play

on the wall

your face

and me

it is much too late

words

almost at an end

darkness

like velvet

a question

lingering like smoke

echoing in the air

what was it I said?

what was it you asked?

it gets lonelier still

and tears

glimmer in moonlight

I know this

now

like being trapped

must be the shadows

must be the moon

must be me