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Tuesday, November 03, 2009
Happen
Cheer up. It might never happen.
What did you say? Did you say it might never happen?
Yeh, it might never happen. Cheer up I mean. You always look so flaming miserable.
Happen? Fucking happen? What the fuck do you know about happen? I’ve got more happen in my little finger than you’ve got in your whole life you fucking jamrag vendor. Fuck you coming to me with happen. I’ll chip a piece of my happen off and stick it up your ripe, unhappened fucking arsehole. You fucking prick. I’ve had more fucking happen than you could ever dream of. I’ve had more happen than all your fucking lives strung up in a row. How fucking dare you ask me about happening. I’m ready to give you the biggest happen of your life. I’ll happen all over you you cunt. Happen.
RuKsaK posted at 7:21 PM
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Friday, October 23, 2009
Perhaps
I'll come back. I miss this. Not sure I do enough though. Perhaps.
RuKsaK posted at 9:13 PM
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Sunday, February 15, 2009
Two hours this morning
I had half a bottle of wine last night and three large, Indian beers. I went to bed at a little after midnight and turned off the television as soon as I heard my own snoring.
I woke up two hours ago. After spending the first ten minutes of the day on the toilet, I came downstairs and switched on the computer. I poured a glass of water while it was starting up. I’ve spent those two hours looking at the internet. The only interruptions have been to put cartoons on for my three-year-old boy and to get more water and make a bacon sandwich. My boy wanted some cereal too, so I’ve given him that. He likes to eat it dry, without milk, which is okay with me as there’s less chance of any mess and I want him to be happy and quiet.
I’ve read the bits of news I want to already. I’ve looked at some pornography. It seems skinny Eastern European women being fucked on a sofa were the ticket today. I read through some film reviews and read an interview with Clive Owen. I checked some football results. My team lost and it seems unlikely they’ll get promotion now. I’m a little worried about how much this doesn’t bother me.
I’m making a second bacon sandwich now. When I’ve eaten it, I’ll make some coffee and a sandwich for my wife. I’ll take it to her in bed and she’ll wake up – not wanting to – but will see me holding the sandwich and coffee and say something like ‘oh, thank you sweetie.’ I’ll tell her the kids are downstairs and leave her to it. At some point in the day I’ll mention how early I got up, and how I fed the kids and brought her breakfast in bed, in order to get something in return. I might say it seriously, to get a household chore done, or I might make it a joke and request a sexual act be performed on me. I might do both these things.
I could type more, but my second bacon sandwich is ready now. While I eat it, I’ll post this on my blog called Ruksak. Perhaps you’ll read it.
RuKsaK posted at 9:06 AM
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Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Public transport
Sometimes I get them. Mostly someone else does.
It's when I'm on public transport I realise how much other people, and their behaviour, has contributed to my gait. The way I sit is dependent on how they behave.
On Monday I had a guy sit next to me in his arrogant pretend sleep, his legs splayed so I had to sit with mine compressed together, my inner thighs pushing together so hard I could have crushed a raw potato with them. By the time I got off, my legs were aching and I felt angry at myself for not saying anything. I got home and ate more than I'd hoped to.
A large man with brutal lips and close cropped grey hair got on today. He told someone with a boom in his voice, which all the passengers could here, about how he'd bought a pie he thought was warm. The pie had turned out to very hot and in his enthusiasm he'd burnt his nose. He used a constant clatter of monosyllables to tell his story, with 'fucks' populating it. My spine was rigid until he got off. I think most people had the same problem.
It makes me all wonder about the word 'public' and what we are. I also wonder if every make someone's body react when I'm on a bus. I hope not - I don't really want to be in the public. I don't want to be on their transport.
RuKsaK posted at 7:48 PM
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Sunday, February 08, 2009
What I think about when I think about Murakami running
There are plenty of books on the shelve. Sometimes I feel like counting them more than I feel like reading them. I have just over a thousand. I've read a few of them.
More and more I don't reach the end of them. Sitting on the bus in the morning I'd rather looking at the same trees, the same byroads, rather than unzip the latest from my bag. Each and everyone seems like a runt of the litter. It's rare for one to make it past a hundred pages for me.
I'm writing this because the latest is about to be put back on the shelf unfinished. Sorry Mr McCarthy, I loved your book about the man and his son, but this one about the three guys in Mexico on their horses, I can't any longer.
I don't know if it's because it's easier to watch American Idol and Lost than it is to read a book. I don't what's happened to me.
I remember a week when I read ten books. It was a week off and I pulled them off the shelf, sat in an armchair by the window and piled through them. I finished every single one without the hint it could ever feel like a chore.
But, now I pick up a book like it's a spade and I have to go grave digging. It's onerous and mechanical. I read half a dozen pages and realise I've taken nothing in - I've been missing the same old trees while the typed text passes by.
I need to fix it. I want to read again, but don't know where to look. And, this is what I think about when I think Murakami running.
I think about it a lot.
RuKsaK posted at 6:52 PM
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Sunday, December 07, 2008
I can't sleep
I can’t sleep. I don’t know why and I feel tired. Me and sleep have never liked each other. I don’t go to it with open arms and cuddle up to it for as long as I can. Me and sleep are not old friends. We are not a sweet old couple. I do sleep, but it has to track me down, tie me to a surface I can lie down on and smother me.
I’d rather brush my teeth than sleep. I rather iron shirts, wash dishes, watch the worst of television. I’d rather type this than sleep.
My son, almost three now, ended my nightly wrestle with sleep this morning. He came into our bed, climbed over on my wife’s side. He whimpered himself to sleep with a couple of ‘papa’s and was fine. My wife barely woke up. She loves sleep. For her sleep is an angel, for me it’s Goliath. I’m jealous of my wife on this. I’d like for me and sleep to get on.
I hate the fucker though. It reminds me of death. It’s the only thing which truly reminds me of something that hasn’t happened yet. It’s the only thing which reminds me of something that hasn’t happened yet, but surely will. I may never have another bacon sandwich. I may never make love again. I may never learn to drive a car. I may never again sit on a tropical beach, get drunk, swear loudly with passion, masturbate, walk in the snow, wink at my children, kick a ball, laugh, go to work, tell someone I love them.
But, I will fucking die and sleep, the bastard, the evil, silent bastard, reminds me of this every single day.
And, even when I am drunk on red wine. Even when I come inside my wife. Even when I hold my children. At those moments when death is almost, almost forgotten, out of my ken, sleep still waits behind the armchair, under the pillow, with that fucking grin on his face, that knife at my side, waiting without fatigue with boundless, unforgiving relish, to stick it to me again. And again. Until it wins and I lose.
And, in this, and only this, you are no different from me.
RuKsaK posted at 6:51 AM
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Monday, November 24, 2008
A portabella mushroom
Hi. Took me longer than I wanted to post. Blurted this one out this evening. Something more soon I hope. Blogrolling is fecked too - plan to un-link and new-link and re-link people soon.
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I’m in the supermarket looking for the stuff I need. I’ve bought some goat’s cheese already. I remember when I thought that was pretentious and inedible. I still think that in some ways – it makes it all taste better. I buy food for its adjectives a lot nowadays. I like to use these adjectives when I’m describing what I ate. It makes me feel like the food is right for me, like it fulfils more than my stomach.
This is a step too far away from the cave.
I’d never seen a dead body before. I had no idea, of course, that this would be far from the last. It’s seems since the first one I’ve been cursed to see them at increasingly accelerated rates. This one had his tongue protruded from his mouth, swollen like an aubergine, crude and defiant. When I walked by later it’d grown to twice the size. His tongue was a tumour cracking his mouth wide open. Like his dead face was giving birth to all his innards in a purple bag.
It sat me right at the back of the cave, shaking like a naked baby.
I thought it was spelled ‘portabello’ - like the market. I thought the last letter was ‘o’, but it’s ‘a’. It gives me some comfort to know there are things I don’t know. Especially with adjectives for food. I feel I can pronounce it better now when I’m melting the soft goat’s cheese on top with a cherry tomato wedged in. I now have to use sea salt to garnish.
I can barely see the cave at this moment.
Some workmen had finished their day’s work in the small graveyard. The digger was left with the door open. There were some bones in the dirt. I thought it must be a joke. Then I saw a skull grinning at me. Then another. Several in fact. One of them was dark brown and I don’t know why. The rest were muddy, but white. This one was brown and seemed all the more disgustingly dead because of it.
It scared me to think my brown skull might be dug up one day. Long after my bulbous, robber tongue has run off with my guts. Long, long after my last adjective laden meal.
I’ll never get out of this fucking place.
RuKsaK posted at 9:27 PM
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