Unbalanced, unhinged, and cold...
Love and flowers - we're having none of that. Not here at Mano Sinistra Publications...
As you all know, I live here in the proximity of the Keukenhof, an annual flower show that's so famous I even found an old, faded, life-sized poster of it in an internet café in the heart of Africa, Kigali. The show is closed this year, due to obvious reasons, or rather, seemingly obvious reasons - so no bloody tourists this year... The quiet... This morning I went for a walk-about, and I even could hear the birds sing. One that made the sound of a house-version of a ring-tone, even. And all it took was a little biological experiment, that went of with a spectacular result, that will have the scientific cummunity talking about for decades to come... For which I deny any responsabiliy - that will be the guy downstairs who will find out later that some fingers are pointing at him. ... I don't like his music that much, and he confuses deo with douche - while being a... enfin. No name-calling. I like birdsong better. Or trash metal. And make things Someone Elses Problem - and disappear.
About which I do have a little comment, to be a little less on a tangent, or unhinged, as my neighbor will find out about his front door in a not that far point in the future, is the reference in this sublime piece of litterature I am supposed to be commenting on, to the use of lime.
As I recall, it is already about a decade ago that the theory has been tested on corpses, and that has been found that the use of lime prevents the proliferation of maggots, slowing actually down the process of decomposition. I admit that it has some litterary cachet to use lime, but frankly it is useless. Best practice is, when hippy-minded, to just dump it in a forest, or at sea. Quickest is to set it on fire - and when shot, for example, use wooden bullets - they will burn, so it much more looks like an accident. Pine is fine - it splinters nicely, and is virtually untracable. For those in a more festive mood like the more experimental part of the '80s, one can always chop it up, and distribute the remains in the desk drawers of the temporal manager that replaces the old one, to assure that nothing is really the matter, and it is business as usual. Also to instill the right amount of... attitude.
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The happiest 35 days of my life were when, some day, some 5 years ago now, I hit upon the works of Simon T., and just spend 5, 6, 10 hours a day plowing through his ... bloody mess. That's about 40 days by now. As I, as a redactrix (red nails, riding crop), get more ripe with age, so I recognise Simon the past year finding refinement, as he is getting, the past months, more ripe with age as well. Like whiskey – in front off a log-fire. Lampshades made of the finest leather, to complete the picture. A head of some wild-life as a trophy on the wall. A roll of carpet on the floor.
Memories start to flood about construction sites I have been employed, using heavy equipment. The smell of curing cement in the morning. Walls being bricked. Elevator shafts being furnished. Stairwells, getting their first painting. Sounds of splattering, things dropping from the sixth floor. This white helmet of the chief engineer somewhere in the cold mud, with a small yellow pool inside. Echoos of ratteling noises. Large rolls of carpet being delivered. Window panes missing at all places... The drum, the rumble, the excitement of doing something that makes a mark in the landscape. The giant flood lights, high-powered electric cables...
- Doing shit about Oscar Wilde recently (I found some books for £2 more than 110 year old), this piece has the same smell as the good old stuff - just perfectly translated into a new and modern setting. Kids should be taught about this at school.
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The rumour that I married Simon, took him off to my basement and taught him how to write properly in the few months time about a year ago, what would explain the unusual large gaps between entries at that time, is a fantasy, and can be ignored. (thusly.)
To coin a frase: the love he's making to my mind is getting better with age.
Biting the hand that feeds IT
