i miss my her... my you... pt1

part one:

The hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.



a.camus

I guess that it all started back in the eighties... it always starts somewhere around that time... they never told me the exact date but making 2- or -3 counts it was in 1984. Actually it started years later in 2007, the new and forbidden millennium (when i met u)

Coming out clean

I guess the main picture in my life, that i keep on coming back to, it's a small dog barking at the bag, where they put bodies (corps) in. That, in some way »idiotic« proof of the unknown was my first contract with death. Just like Christianity it was the little stupid story by someone we used to love and learned how to hate in time.
A little »almost battery filled dog owned by some fat lady in a furry coat« barked at the bag in which my _____________ was carried away.
» It proves how fucking special it was...« he told me after the 5th beer.
It wasn't counting them back then but i knew by the way the words were braking and his tong was throwing saliva all over the place.
» He was really special... even the dog could feel it...« now i know it was because the smell of the rotten human flesh. They found him the 5th day hanging by his feet. Just like a ball of glass on a Christmas tree. Even Jesus came out of his grave on the third day... I guess that's why he looks so crispy fresh and young all the time, on all those reminders of the way he died, that we all call crosses.
I saw him that night even if i never went to the funeral, i never understood why. Maybe because i wanted to. Couse he was special. He had a long beard and long hair 2. Just like Jesus. But he was hanging on the tree for 5 days so there were no wooden statues or oil portraits on canvas... not even a portrait on his tomb stone.
 
Because his own family was ashamed of his long black hair and that long beard...
(music from the musical »Hair«)
I guess that's why he sang him »the black »freckle« across his eyes« on his funeral...
Or at least he tried to...

They were laughing at him... Couse he was walking around bare foot. They even used to call me names because of him. Because we were those neighbors... in that small city that everyone is talking about, and the neighbors that they later all become.
They used to shout his surname at me when they were dunk...in bars they called »homely«. The same surname I share with him as if it was a course worth.
howls of execration: (exe'rjshn): coursing, the act of coursing;
even when they were 10 times drunker as he was when he was walking barefoot. »but they went to church the next day. And listened to stories about Jesus Christ the savior« walking barefoot on water...«
and nobody called him my surname for doing that.
My own surname...
He was special. Not because the dogs were barking but because. Even when passed out, they couldn't beat him at chess. And they call it the game of life. They do. He was best at it... and didn't want to be a part of it... they couldn't bit him. So i guess he understood it and was good at it. Because he was good at chess. The game of life.
I used to carry his picture around. Just like they do. He wasn't as pretty as Jesus or perfect as they were in their little lives. As we are... But still he was never a role model. But he was special... not because the dogs were barking.
Not because he smelled of death, but because we share the same blood...
The same name... his... sur(name)