RuKsaK

A lot of people say my daughter looks just like me. Of course, as she is three-years-old, if what they said was true, then both of us would be seeking medical help.

She does not resemble me heavily, and I am thankful for that alone.
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Thousands of metal elevators, creaking pieces of transport have slapped grey sprinkles on to the sides of my hair. Only visible in the right light, but steel wires are increasing on my head's edges.

The skin under my eyes has been mugged by a million moments. Fear of death in Saudi Arabia took a good old tug, as did the slapping heat of two Arabian summers. The bottom of dozens vodka bottles, and countless beers sucked away too. Thousands of wanks and orgasms, subtle liars that they are, have also deceived my face. Half a dozen Russian winters hit the deepening ridges of me with nasty, hoary smudges.

The 1980s made music and people to steal the front corners of my hairline. The last of that decade ran off with the last of a flat stomach. The 1990s laid into me too, leaving me almost broke.
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I can’t find these thieves. Which momentary culprits took my tighter cheeks? When exactly was the burglar of smoother skin? I knew them once, and so often they come back with conman charm and grab more, for me to notice years later.
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So, I searched my face for what the greatest criminal seconds took. Lifting up my chin, to look at the apparent next one, I hunted for the first sight of my wife’s pussy. Having failed there I looked for a few years back, but not a trace of fourteen-year-old appearances in court, I scoured my whole fucking phizog, but no virginity loss, no countries, no hangovers, no pieces of anger or joy, no sexual mal-delicacies. Just this increasing grey sludge – no end of forensics would find the traces.
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I turned to my daughter to see if a bicycle tumble, a shouting for drawing on walls, a hundred Disney cartoons had started to steal from her – nothing to be seen.
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This all left me raging. I wanted to take a few scenic views: the Kremlin tower from my Moscow flat balcony, tea plantations from the top of Sri Lanka, the grim North Sea from years in my hometown. I wanted to pick them up, throttle them, demand some of my older face back.

I wanted to take five hundred belly laughs and beat the fuck out of them, stamp on them until they surrendered a tighter pair of jowls. I could have murdered so many great drunken evenings just to get a wrinkle replaced.

Maybe if I could get my hands on some lonely days, some embarrassing minutes from childhood, and execute them, I’d get some better face back.
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However, these piled up minutes are such a deceptive, clever mob. I have no idea what they took, and they’re not talking. Just mocking and making me, giving me what I deserve. That’s the problem, I don’t own a single memory. Everyone of the cunts owns me.

Gorgeous bastards.
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This aside came up just before the Monkey visited me in Seoul last week. The next three-parter will tell you about the Monkey’s visit and all the things he taught me. I have included Convincing the Monkey below. If you’ve read it before, then don’t bother reading on, just leave a comment, if you want, about this post.

If you haven’t read Convincing the Monkey, then you must before the next post arrives on Saturday or Sunday.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005

Unfortunately, flowers are beautiful