Working with Michael

Collecting bottles in winter is no fun & stealing was bringing too much heat. busking was kinda cool but i couldnt sing and play at the same time yet and i didnt even have a guitar of my own, so that maent borrowing. i hated it, but i needed a job.

David introduced me to Michael with the promise of working a cash-in-hand opperation on a construction site. i had met him before, as David's chief, but never for more than a few minutes & the words were always of work so i hardly ever listened.

Michael is one of those eccentric pseudo-hippies who's into taoist flagellation and self-improvement; alchemists' wonder serums and manifestations a-plenty. dogmatic pacifism and a belief in "the secret" rules of attraction. those who contract cancer have been attracting it. energy can be absorbed from light through the skin directly.

"i prefer to use my digestive system", i say, and point out the concept of ecological biomass. it falls flat. Michael doesnt want to attract logic right now. i mean, he's a ncie guy with a strong moral compass. very patient and non judgemental, but then he slips into his fantasy world of well-meaning but confused captains of industry, where politicians stay up at night reading his long and thoughtfull letters regarding the greater good of the world and realise their mistakes. as if they would bolt up in bed, palms sweating, "fuck me! i've been killing the world's culture and shitting on the common man. i must rectify my my mistakes! thank you so much Michael for showing me the error of my ways!"

He's a fucking idiot like that, and self-righteous too, but he's kind-hearted, you know? you wanna hit him but you can't. i mean, he doesn't know what he's doing. or rather, he doesnt know what we're doing. we're earning some beer and grass black-cash, whereas his priorities are fucking COSMIC. so it looks like this: we got no materials. we're all broke and waiting on money. the owner of the house owes Michael for previous work and yet is still charging him 200€ a month to live on-site in an incomplete appartment running off a 12V power supply, no furniture, decrepid half-demolished walls and a ceiling that's caving in.

After a small discussion between tobi and chrissi and myself, we suggest to Michael cornering the landlord and cutting ourselves an ear off if he doesnt front some fucking dollars.
"Oh no. Gentleman. Sirs!" Michael protests with genuine shock.
"We are not some band of common thugs. Sirs, we shall do no such thing"
"And why is that, Michael?"
"Well this man has a family. i have spoken with him. just because a man has money does not mean he does not have problems. quite the opposite! it is a burden. Herr Fleck probably has problems we can't even imagine"
"He's gonna have problems HE can't imagine", says Chrissi, fondling a hacksaw.

Maybe Michael is even correct in his approach. in looking at the problems of capitalism as problems that capitalists have and we can help them with, like a disease they are ill with. i just find it difficult to stomach that naive, everyone-is-innocent one-love bullshit.

"we can't go round threatening people just because they hold on to money. i tell you now: they dont really want to hold onto it", he finally comes out with. i flip.

"NO Michael! some people are just selfish dickheads who don't give a fuck about other people and spend their time trying to get one-up. get a little further in the rat-race. who jump at the opportunity to use their position of priveledge over the less fortunate for purposes of personal capital gain. it's called fucking exploitation, Michael, and capitalists the world over do this to keep the rich, rich, and the poor, poor. to keep their motherfucking tailored pockets full. if this CUNT landlord owes €2,000 here and there and is still taking 200 a month for this piece-of-SHIT "appartment", then he's dealing enough dough to throw us a few hundred so we can eat and drink and smoke and enjoy our lives of hummble comfort."

Breath. Breath. it goes on.

Anyway, back to work. So we're renovating this flat. wall-to wall: doors, floors, frames and fittings. drilling, filing, and forever sanding away through layers and layers of domestic geology. shades of ancient paint, rising through sand like an excavation of decorative preference.

Chrissi is living on the building site too, so he's having it the hardest. the guy's been there 10 days with Michael. by the time i return to work, after a week of leisure (by which i mean playing pool and poisoning myself) they're arguing lots and not talking much. waiting on money and no food. just this god-awful self-made bread with no salt, no yeast, no nothing. nada. just baking off mass-quantities of gross, vegan swamp dough. bags of flour all over the shop like Chrissi is wasting away. liek he's becoming a ghost in the flour clouds and omnipotent dry-ice of winter construction ash, left over from sanding away the ages. on every surface and in every square metre of air, blowing into Chrissi's hair and lashes.

letter to yourself

you kick downwards and you are unfair. you abuse your position of power, even if you weren't aware you were in such a position. you are sexist and racist and you are a prejudice fuck. you are, and if you think you're not, there is no time for you. please kill yourself now. do it. seriously. kill yourself. you are lying to yourself and you are spitting truth in the eye. please, kill yourself, now.

another drunken night in Berlin

"it's fucking freezing". again. we pass the fortified bottle frequently coz neither of us wants to hog it. it's too nasty to drink.

i'm reminded of england, gagging on red wine. cheap, cold, screwtop. it's like trying to gulp medicine but we get it down. we decide to walk home even though the weather is ball ache. fuck taxis, man. i just can't bring myself to pay a tenner to save an hour walk when an hour's work is a fiver.

we move and the wine hits me. suddenly i'm surrounded by urban treachery. wind tunnels of swinging lamposts and benches with missing wrungs. concrete slabs that duck and dive. land you with a full frontal return to gravity. i'm wasted, scrambling around in other people's gardens. i find a bike. it's small. maybe a kids. try to ride it but fall off. again and again till i get mad and shout, arguing with the bike, ending the discussion by throwing it in a dumpster. then i'm running wild. flailing, bleeding, screaming at god in the skies. what the fuck am i doing? i'm fucking lost. where's jack? he's here. he's holding me up. wait. who the fuck are you? this isn't jack at all! fuck THIS asshole!

then i wake up. before i move, the first thing i'm aware of is that it hurts. i twitch my foot and i'm still in shoes. bad signs. sit up. im wet. soaked, in fact. there's handfuls of broken glass in my jacket pocket. the beer bottle must have exploded. thank xenu i was wearing the leather.

social geography

we are the sediment of generations worth of failure to avoid contraception.
crushed by promiscious volumes of history, thousands of years thick.
all so that our children can add further oil to the future's burning horizon.

life is a sexually transmitted terminal disease.
and don't you fucking forget it.