Diary of an unborn writer #19

Penguin steps.

The activity meter our company uses to help get people fitter is calibrated to a certain gait. You need to walk a certain way in our society and it appears the pengui steps of the obese are too much for the activity meter to calculate.

It overestimates their energy usage by 23%.

~o~

A dream last night where Nick Cave had my fingers trapped in a window and was screaming throught the glass: "Politcian! Politician!" before hauling down the window and raking my bruised and battered fingers through his ever-widening mouth.

I never did understand Australians

~o~

Women are the joy and downfall of an otherwise spotless sobriety. It's got to the stage where I cannot walk through the underground tunnels of Amsterdam central station - flanked by avalanches of flower shops and food sellers - without falling in love three or four times.

I love them in their highest Goddess-bloomed unfathomability that drives us men crazy. I say this sincerely though not to disgiuse the fact that I am a lusty mortal. If I could fuck seven times a day I would, with several different women, social graces and emotional capacity notwithstanding.

But th bruises creep in somehow and this small male brain finds it difficult to be wise and though it repeats on him incessantly, it is a blindspot in his compassion.

I like to believe that the most elegant way for a man to live for man is to have a lover and several mistresses.

It's a Dionysan dream though I've yet to meet a man that could sustain this pattern and remain sincere toeach treasured damsel.

I speak from the heights of respect and the depths of awarenes that man has failed his lady. I m of the persuasion that this incapacity is what keeps us from living in harmony with Mother Earth.

The more to be blessed, the better to learn, I'll serve my ladies one by one.