Tavisselin

It´s only for your comfort, trust me.

Tablecloth.

Sure. You can lean on me. Why not? I mean I had your back since you were having your first drink. Put your greasy chicken wing fingers on my fine linen. Spill that cheap red wine on me. I don’t even mind. I will be there for you.

Sometimes , you put me in the washing machine at 60 degrees, who am I to judge your choice of detergent? My embroidery getting ruined? I have never been an enthusiast of extravagant superficialities. I’ll be there for you.

I mean, I am friends with the table, my companion. Sturdy and unforgiving he endured endless nights. Consequently, many say: why would a tablecloth be needed?

As in life, we all need a Medium to relate to, something that shows us boundaries but at the same time, integrates. And me, I am literally woven with strings, tied together in complex patterns to form a unitary fabric to spill beer on. I don’t even mind what’s on me, I take the stain with pride.

So take me to your wedding, sit on me while having a spontaneous dinner in the park. But think about me once in a while.

Your sincerely and truthfully forever,

Tablecloth.

Lawnmower.

Chop, chop chop. With forty-five thousand rounds per minute the blades massacre the lascious green. Only the tips land in the basket to collect them. The severed pieces are thrown onto each other, left to rot, someplace nobody knows. Whats is left is a meticulously leveled plateau of plants. Humans find it pleasant that way. Why? Who knows. This roaring machine makes everything plain and wipes away any obstacle in its path. That reminds me of something...

“You are talking too much, be quiet!”

“You are giggling too much, what´s the matter with you?”

“Have you done your homework?”

“What are your parents gonna think about this when I tell them?”

“Don´t run in the yard!”

“Don´t run!”

“Don´t!”

And in the end, just maybe, you feel like one of these blades of grass. Standing there, upright, in the middle of everybody else. You cannot move, you are not supposed to. And whatever made you distinct, it got chopped of. By that huge blade, swinging over you, daring you to come closer. But what is supposed to change? It has always been that way, for you, for the grass. Humans find it pleseant that way. Why? Who knows.

So whatever you do, don´t be a brick in the wall. Be a stone in the grass. Dent that blade. Make the dent memorable so at least you won´t get your head chopped off for nothing.

Bridge.

Sometimes I feel like I don't have a partner Sometimes I feel like my only friend Is the city I live in, The City of Angels Lonely as I am together we cry.

He drove down the highway in his cabrio and put on his sunglasses. For a long time he has not felt like he mattered to anyone. His job sucked. He got richer by the minute but it just sucked. The Rolex, the clothes, the drugs. It all sucks.

“What are you gonna do then?”, he frequently asked himself. You don´t know anything else. You don´t have the guts to do it differently. Saying that made his stomach cramp. Only the car, a ´69 Pontiac Firebird, that´s the only good thing that came out of this. The rumbling V8 under the bonnet was soothing his stomach pain, which he tried to kill with Whisky when he wasn´t driving.

“How do I get out of this endless loop?”

He looked towards the sky and imagined just vanishing. What would be remembered about him? Certainly not how he ripped those people of with selling rotting stocks. He wanted to change something when he was younger. He felt like he COULD change something.

“Just enjoy the end of the world”, his business partner says. But why does it have to be the end? Because shit is burning? Because we are killing each other for a piece of paper with a number written on it?

There he was, rambling V8 in front, the road, crammed as always.

“I AM gonna change something”, he said while turning towards the empty lane. With a smirk on his face he put down the gas pedal. “I will change. I will help. This is not the end”, he said. He looked up towards the pedestrian bridge. A girl with an ice cream cone was standing there waving. He waved back and crashed into the car in front of him that abruptly.

(Under the bridge downtown) Is where I drew some blood (Under the bridge downtown) I could not get enough (Under the bridge downtown) Forgot about my love (Under the bridge downtown) I gave my life away, yeah

Bank clerk.

The automated shades open up and the bright sunlight kisses him awake. Beer bottles, a powdery substance, some pills, naked girls. He rubs his eyes and stares into the sun. He gets up and stumbles towards the table where his sunglasses are. They put a yellow filter over the world around him. He feels tired and empty, but infinitely blessed. He leans on the giant glass window that faces to the infinity pool. Some of his friends passed out on the lawn, well, who even knows who is friend and who is not. In the end he does not care anymore. Why did he buy this house, certainly not to make lifelong friends.

He stumbles down towards the dinner table where breakfast is served for him. Cleaning teams hurry around him to erase the mess from last night. “I am so sick of this silver spoon”, he thought. He throws it through the room. He was full, just filled with everything. Money, cars, people (“friends”), drugs, alcohol, houses, estates, women, servants. What do you want to have when you had everything? What do you want when you can have anything you want? To your mind, the reader, one or two things certainly come to mind. But he had it. Everything you can come up with, he had.

C.R.E.A.M.

  • CASH RULES EVERYTHING AROUND ME.

When he started out, he often reminisced about the time this Wu-Tang classic was his favorite tune, pushing him to work harder. To work dirtier. Get more money, accumulate cash. The rest will come with it. And it came, raining down on him. On the way he lost the tune, the beat. The introspection went right down the drain.

Everything in his house is shiny and it makes his blood boil. It gives him a headache. All clean, all shine. But what do you know, the scrambled egg stays an scrambled egg, the orange juice, still the same brand from his childhood. He hold onto these reminiscants of simpler times. He grabs the juice and pours vodka in.

As he stands there, he likes the way he is. Looking up from the screen and the number that has to be divided into commata to make it easy to read. “How much would you like to withdraw?”, he says with a smile in his face, knowing that he is lucky not having to asnwer that question. Cause he is just a bank clerk.

“Dollar dollar bill, y'all”.

Cabbage.

„What the fuck do you mean they breached the candy frontier?” “Sir, we can’t hold the sweets aisle any longer”

His father was born into this war, as was his grandfather. He can’t remember seeing anything else than vegetables on the floor. They were scattered there, like a grotesque reminiscence of the horrors that this conflict had brought. It all started when a can of German sauerkraut was thrown out of the shelf. By whom, no one can really tell. In the end, no one will really care. That is, if there will be an end. After the Aisle 6 incident, the cabbages parted into factions, releasing thunder in the vegetable aisle. Sauerkraut against white cabbage, white cabbage fighting, in what the claim was defense. The red cabbage saw its opportunity to once again gain what was rightfully theirs, taken by the white cabbage hundreds of years ago. Every faction had a bill to settle.

“Sir, we need to retreat. The Würstel faction has joined the Sauerkraut.”

He held his head high up, facing the ever-glowing neon lights.

“Sergeant, have you ever seen the sky turn black?”

“No sir, can’t say I have, sir.”

“Me neither.”

He took the toothpick, which had pierced so many cabbages before and went away from the position they had held. His grandfather died there, his father did as well.

“I won’t.”

For as long as he could remember, he was lying there. Piercing every cabbage that tried to cross the line. Just as he was told by the men before him. But this war, it has gotten larger than him, not only involving cabbages but sausages and even eggs now. The causes of joining the war become more irrelevant with every action.

He looked down again, facing the storming groups of Sauerkraut and Würstel.

“This will end.”

He put up his toothpick, held it high into the air and threw it to his feet. The line of Sauerkraut stopped. No one knew, what he just did. They were told to capture this position. But what if there was nothing to capture?

“I am going home”, he said, turning his back to the frontier.

With each step, he thought harder and harder what he desired. What he wanted to do first when arriving home. Maybe he would just go on a walk. Maybe he would have a drink. Maybe, he would rest.

A deep pain hit his back. He stopped. His breath began to shorten. He fell to his knees. As he was looking down, he saw the tip of a toothpick, sticking out of his rib cage. Looking up, he said:

“Well, how could I believe… to change… the life of a cabbage?”

The bottle opener. He looked deep down into his empty glass. Whisky had been there, however there was nothing left of it in liquid form. The only reminiscence of it was the smoky, earthy smell of it. He dug his nose into the glass and inhaled. Meadows came to his mind, sheep just biting grass in windy atmosphere, cliffs dangerously greeting the sea. Big waves crushing against the harbour where the whisky barrels were loaded. Still, there he was, sitting alone. In his bar. Same people, same bartender. The one woman having her chin in her hand, comforting herself with the sturdiness of the bar. He was looking around, no wind, no sheeps. It was all just an illusion, drinking that little dram of finely curated nectar of the gods. He leaves his seat at the smoky bar, leaving behind the people around him. But somehow, there, standing on the street, he felt lost. Where would he go in this state between drunkenness, pettiness and no sense of belonging. When did he start being in this state? Why did he enjoy staying in it? “Well there is consolidation in sombreness. Being tender with yourself, trying to cope with your thoughts. Maybe there is something in between two drinks. Maybe just take a step back, see how you had some good times there, with the guy who always talks about his collection of typewriters, the one telling that he has been a famous fighter pilot when it still mattered, the woman who was (according to her) the most famous classic car thief in the city. So here you are, reading his story. And maybe, just maybe, you have become interested in his path. So, where do I begin, you may ask. Well, grab yourself a drink and all you need is, well, a bottle opener.

Theme of today: Red car She went downstairs with her favorite summer dress. Bright yellow, airy and with a few lollipops on it. She loved it. Her chariot was awaiting her, at least that was what she was calling her bike. She unlocked it, wiped the dust off the saddle and started to drive out of the building entry. She wanted to get groceries and maybe an ice, just because it was hot and she was craving a Magnum with almonds. So where was I? Ah yes right, our lady in the yellow summer dress. Happily gliding down the road, evading cars and pedestrians. Nothing could taint her happiness as she was on the way to get some soft cream in icy form. Along the way it got more crowded, as she was approaching the city center. A lot of posh cars, seeing the magnificent lady in her bright dress, elegantly riding between traffic jams. Not even whistling could be heard, she was too gorgeous to be disturbed by any such frivolous sounds. And while she was riding, tilting her head back at a red light where she needed to stop, she lost her balance. Right beside her, a red cabriolet stood still, awaiting green. She fell onto the bonnet of the car, quickly getting off it again and apaologising to the man in it. He had a giant mountain of hair and big sunglasses. “Do not worry about it, darling”, he said in baritone voice. She lifted herself onto the bike, blushing. “You might want to get that cleaned”, the man in the cabrio said, pointing towards her dress. It had red stains on it. “But, ....”, she mumbled.

“You see, darling... I bought this car in white. But after so many concerts, the fans just wanted to give it more admiration. So they kiss it. Everywhere. I am sorry about the lipstick and the inconvenience.”

After all, the red car was white but kissed red, almost like her face as she marveled who he was.

Richard hates you all. Now, that I have your attention, I would like to address a topic very dear to me. Craving beer at inconvenient times. So there you are, just minding your business, buying groceries or feeding the pidgeons. Or even just watching a plastic bag travel from one side of an open space to another. Just sitting there, innocently, you feel a slight scratching in neck and dryness in your mouth. You taste horrible. You feel dusty. But what is it your body craves? You cannot really tell but you are missing a cold sensation. The thing that makes you quench your thirst and refreshes your soul. Slowly you realise, it is beer you are craving. But what about the pidgeons, the plastic bag or the groceries? How will feed them? Who will watch it travel? Who will try to find the cheapest cheese in the very corner of the supermarket fridge? Do you want to abandon these friends so very dear to you? No! I am the lord and shepherd of my body, of my thirst! I will not be stopped at what I want to do. So please, someone bring me a beer. Immediately. I am here, with the pidgeons and the plastic bag and the cheese I bought earlier.