All the rage…

I don’t really know where the anger comes from. It takes just one little thing, and the rage bubbles up. It flames up within, like a fire exploding from silent, slowly burning embers.

It burns from within, a fire within a flesh-bound mold. It twists and writhes inside, an eel slithering free of my grip.

I want to bite, and scratch, and kick, and kill. I’ve never killed – not in real life anyway. I don’t act on it. In my mind, I have spilled another’s blood, not out of vengeance or duty, but out of pure rage.

It takes on a life of its own, this fury. It wants to taste violence, to feel pain, to see destruction, yet it’s a flame devastating an entire wood of emotion. Sometimes, it is the only thing that keeps me walking through the rain falling on this bleak, moderate existence.

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Proust questionnaire – pt.2

Your most marked characteristic?
Tattoos.

What do you most value in your friends?
Honesty and not feeling alone when around them.

What is your principle defect?
Indecision and losing myself in thought.

What would you like to be?
My animal form – wolf.

In what country would you like to live?
Anywhere with fields for me to run free in.

What is your favourite color?
Black.

What is your favourite flower?
Venus flytrap – it’s pure evil. Otherwise, gardenia blooms.

What is your favourite bird?
Hawk.

Who are your favourite prose writers?
Vikram Seth, Valerio Massimo Manfredi, Raymond Queneau, De Sade.

Who are your favourite poets?
Pablo Neruda, Kavafis, Shakespeare (sonnets).

Who are your favourite composers?
Duke Ellington.

Who are your heroes in real life?
My dad, and G.K.V.

Who are your favourite heroines in real life?
My mum, and my friend A.K. Oh, and Kathleen Hanna.

Who are your favourite heroines of history?
Jeanne d’Arc, Sappho.

What historical figures do you most despise?
List is too long to put here.

What event in military history do you most admire?
The 300 Spartans fighting at Thermopylae and then how it all went to hell with the rivalry between Athens and Sparta. The best, and worst of human nature.

What reform do you most admire?

What natural gift would you most like to possess?
Eloquence.

How would you like to die?
While standing up for what I believe in.

What is your present state of mind?
Blinded by anger and filled with a sudden urge to be somewhere surrounded by vegetation and animals.

What is your motto?
Words fade, what is written remains.

Proust questionnaire – part 1

What do you regard as the lowest depth of misery?
Being in a cage, like the one I am in now.

Where would you like to live?
On the free plains.

What is your idea of earthly happiness?
Freedom.

To what faults do you feel most indulgent?
Anger and frustration – I enjoy them way too much.

Who are your favourite heroes of fiction?
Faust, Mephistopheles, Hamlet, Shylock, Don Quixote, Der Steppenwolf (Herman Hesse), The Inspector (‘An Inspector Calls’ – J.B. Priestley).

Who are your favourite heroines of fiction?
Wonderwoman, Lois Lane, Goddess Athene (The Odyssey).

Who are your favourite characters in history?
Miguel Cervantes, Archimedes, the inventor of the trebuchet, Pablo Neruda, Billy Tipton, Maya Angelou.

Your favourite painter?
Salvador Dali.

Your favourite musician?
Sonic Youth.

The quality you most admire in a man?
Honesty, respect, and a sense of humour.

The quality you most admire in a woman?
Honesty, respect, and a sense of humour.

Your favourite virtue?
Respect.

Your favourite occupation?
Frustration and illusion.

Who would you have liked to be?
Me – I’m not doing too badly.

Hungry like the wolf

The hunger strikes. It isn’t a sudden hunger that catches me unaware, but a slow, perforating feeling that comes from partly sleeping and partly waking all day. I trudge down the street, strangely aware of all the sounds, of all the colours – the greens of the trees, the reds of the buildings, and the grey of the sky. I am not part of this creation; I observe it from the outside. A weight rests on my mind like a boulder in front of a cave entrance. The darkness descends unwarranted as I cross the street and enter the shop.

What hits me first is the cold and brightness of the refrigerators. It was cold outside, but this is a different type of cold. It is the sterile frigidity of a processed packaged world.

My stomach rumbles.

I yawn lazily while I stare at the vegetable section and stagger on.

Meat. I need meat. Were I in the wild, I’d have bison and buffalo and elk to feed on, sinking sharp, cutting teeth into raw, bloody flesh. But in this modern existence, I must curb and satisfy my yearnings differently.

Sausages, steaks, fillets, chicken drumsticks: all parade before me as I settle in front of the chilled meat section. What hunger I had dissipates. They all look the same in their plastic containers – little reddish pink squares of sacrifices in transparent coffins. What is the pride and joy in that?

The longer I stare, the louder the screeches and squawks become. In my mind, I see the animals dying, in one dark slaughterhouse or another, in the morbid chain of mass-production – or mass-slaughter.

Moving on to the snacks section, I glare at the sandwiches and offers. Not very appealing in this garish light. What is a wellmeaning hungry wolf to do?

I snap my head at the sound of footsteps. A grey-haired fellow is walking towards me. He doesn’t stop, but simply steps around me, gazing through me, as if I were not there. He definitely doesn’t see me. Am I so far inside my own head that I am invisible?

A woman hurries past. I am still not there. That is to say, I am something to be stepped around, like furniture in a cluttered room or a pile of shit on a pavement. I sink into my leather jacket a little more, wondering as I follow her with my eyes.

I have come to understand it is not ordinary for a human to have yellow-brown eyes. It is also not customary for a biped of this age to growl.

Eventually, I look back to the food. It looks back at me, yellow stickers highlighting reductions and offers. I pick up a packet of something mushy green and brown, that claims it contains one of an average human’s five a day.

Five what exactly?

My hand dives into my pocket, reaching for some currency. I walk up to the self-service machine. I pay quickly and leave, eager to enjoy my latest conquest. It is time to feast.