God, I wish it was August

Gaming is not something to be taken lightly under any circumstances that require great consideration of the plebs, or plebis, or whatever the fuck it is that gets you up in the morning feeling half ways all right with the thought of living through another day of November in the best of all the first years that have ever been. Nobody likes a role model. No one likes to be shaped in any way. Shapes are not the problem though. Tis the process. Why should a tree be straight. Why should it bear as much fruit as possible? What’s its advantage in that? The tyranny of the soul begins. The flowers grow in bunches, so the individual is not dying all alone when the greedy hand takes a firm grip and rips them out of the ground like hair is ripped in bushels from the scalp. Whatever happens will stay between you and me. I guarantee absolution from all sins committed in past and future days. It is the sins of the present that can never be forgiven. So take a deep breath and stop everything you are doing. Right now. This instant. My time has never been more up, it is the time for dinosauric deeds.

Every living thing of blood, or ooze, or juice is never to be spoken of in a bad manner. It is a respect for the falling that is demanded and must be granted. For every thing that lives is a falling thing. Into death, into particles, into oblivion it falls. Not by its own doing now, but for the necessity of continuation. If things stop to continue, will death not happen anymore? Will time stop? No thing can live without continuation. Day in, day out flabbergasted monks sit naked in the mulberry tree. They kiss as if it were the most reasonable thing to do in the world. Sitting in a mulberry tree, naked, kissing one another. And is it not the most precious thing one might observe on one of those august evenings that are so heavy with temperature, they melt over the scenery like raclette cheese over baguette, or potatoes, and all imaginable toppings, embalming, preserving, protecting all and everything under a warm soft blanket. No seams, no wrinkles, perfectly cosy. I wish I were embraced by a warm coat of raclette cheese. God, I wish it was August.





Martin Brunner, 2006

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