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gomaos garden
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Short stories
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Bridges...
1. Death drives a fancy car
It's late at night.
Inside the house the sounds audible from outside appear to indicate a rainstorm.
But the weather is mild.
I'm in bed, conceiving visions in a state near sleep. Now and then, my eyelids open, and my eyes stare into the dark
outside.
Mourning sounds enter the room, such as the breaking of twigs of a tree in an autumn storm.
But I know that no trees exist here in a radius of hundred metres.
There are only houses and buildings.
Restless, I turn from one side to the other, trying to find sleep.
But it is impossible to find relaxation.
I get up and look out of the window.
The road lies there, deserted, hardly illuminated by a few street lights.
The glasses in the windows of nearby houses are dark and dead.
No human being seems to be awake at this time of night, very late, just before dawn.
The road lies strangely quiet, even for this time.
In the daytime there will be heavy traffic, continuously... Or will there be?
I return to bed. There is nothing that should upset me, I ought to be able to sleep.
But in bed I cannot watch the street.
My perception of impressions from outside changes... again I hear sounds that don't seem to fit my environment. There
seems to be the rustling of dry leaves, and scraping noises. It sounds like someone walking heavily through an autumn forest.
This sensation deepens rapidly.
Somebody walks though a forest kicking up leaves, gusts of wind clatter them around, against tree trunks. A dark figure
becomes apparent. All this has to be happening inside my head, and I try to lighten up the darkness, to see into the face
of that figure. My vision sharpens, I can see familiar lines, it's a face i have known for a long time. I snap awake, and
all dream pictures disappear. Through the window i can hear brakes squeaking, almost noiseless. I look out, onto the road,
and distinguish a strange and beautiful car of an unknown model. It looks modern and ancient at the same time, delicately
balanced in it's fabrication, as impressive as a chariot, but not much bigger than necessary. Every part of it is how and
where it should be, the car lacks nothing, but there is not a single gadget too much on it. It's colour is of a lustrous black,
and it is glistening in a fiery, reddish luminescense from the inside. I throw over some clothes and step outside. Standing
here on the street, I notice a light fog. It flows in white puffs through the early morning air, and out of the car's exhaust
pipe, ever new white hazes of smoke come, hushed... I walk through the crisp blue pre-dawn morning towards the car until
I can recognize the driver through the windscreen. It is my brother, my brother, who lives many thousand miles away from here,
my brother, who now smiles at me in friendship, and familiarity, with a quiet, honest smile, and at this time he makes a gesture
for me to get inside. I--- (how can he be here, how can he possibly be here, and this isn't his car, where did he get it?)
GET--- (where are his wife and his family, why is he traveling alone, why is he so quiet...?) IN. I get in, and we look at
each other, and everything is blueish white, reddish blue, black-blue-shining... I look into his face, and he is friendly,
and as i turn around to have a glimpse of the interior of the car, it seems to be gigantic, it even seems to be growing as
I am watching... We begin to drive, he moves the gearshift, we drive, he touches the accelarator, we drive at dawn, at this
radiant, misty daybreak. Through blanched clouds far away I can see a bridge, an enormously large, artistically constructed
bridge....
2. Inferno
As we move, the nebula in my head begins to thicken yet at the same time I am asking myself what is really happening.
As we are picking up speed, the perception of colours within the car seems to be moving up and down te spectrum, opposite
ways at the same time. Faster we go, and with changing colours come changing shapes: The auto's features melt into each other
and an entirely different veicle is formed... The impression now is that of a racing car, and we are still picking up speed...
As I look at the driver, I am not sure it is my brother anymore... He wears goggles now, and a race driver's cap, and the
woolen shawl around his neck moves with the wind...wind? Yes, there is a terrible gust of wind inside the car, and as I am
wearing only light house clothes, I clutch my arms around my body, as icecold shivers shoot up and down my spinal column...
I want to shout at the driver, whoever he now is, to STOP!, but motor- and other noises are so loud now that they drown out
everything else.... The driver, who looks like an entire stranger now, smiles a broad smile that becomes a grin, and after
laughter, loud laughter, getting ever more earsplitting... With what maybe the speed of a jet plane taking off, we are approaching
the bridge, which is gigantic now. There are toll booths and gates across the road, barricades and road blocks, perhaps we
are expected to pay a bridge toll. The driver's laughter has become a roar, like an elephant trumpeting, and he makes no move
to stop or slow the car... Instead, he acclelerates EVEN MORE--- and with immense speed we crash RIGHT THROUGH THE BARRIERS!
Copyright Gomaos
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...railway lines...
(...death before the railway lines...)
a thousand nightmares finally shrink out of existence...
billions of neurons switch from unconscious to conscious...
I wake up, to find myself lying on some sort of railway truck, an open wagon, without walls and roof...
unmoving...
in a desert landscape;
how long I have been here, and why, I don't know...
The land around is red-yellow sand desert dotted with a few spots of velvet;
at the horizon it meets a sky of indescribable colouring.
The result is an ecstatic, forceful shine that confuses my senses.
A set of railway lines is, strangely enough, not below me under the wheels of my truck,
but in some distance, far away to my right.
I lie as if under a spell, and absorb only visual impressions.
I am confused.
On one hand, I am fascinated by what i see,
on the other hand it is my biggest wish, to forget everything I see here and to exchange it for something that employs
all of my senses and creates the conditions my inner nature yearns for.
My intellect knows, that the only way I can reach this goal is to get up and start a new, different life.
So far my life doesn't seem to have been anything else than what it is now, because this lying here, absorbing impressions
appears to be deeply rooted inside me.
While thinking about the simple physical functions needed to just get up and walk away, it appears to be the easiest
thing in the world, but when I want to put these thoughts to practical use I realize that my personality has no power over
my body.
All that happens is some tweaking and twitching of my arms and legs over the surface of the truck.
Sometimes people pass by.
They are my only entertainment.
They come alone.
They come in couples.
They come in groups.
Sometimes they stop, look at me on my truck, and I can see it on their faces, that they don't know what to think about
me.
It only happens very rarely that I try to start a conversation, since the control of my mouth muscles is very hard.
It's also hard for me, to divert my attention from watching the horizon with it's incredible colours towards those people.
I get along best with those who start a conversation by themselves and sort of lead me through the conversation.
As time passes i have devoped sympathy for certain people.
I find their presence very pleasant, pleasant and annoying at the same time, since they divert my attention from the colourful
horizon.
Lately it has become busy here, very busy, there are people all around me, their stream never stops, it is very hard to
keep my attention on the horizon, those people sort of merge with it, become part of the horizon, and change it's appearance.
I don't enjoy just being a looker anymore, the horizon isn't what it used to be.
Darkly, I remember the time when I was alone here and able to enjoy something very pure, a landscape with a horizon so
vast, so colourful, so psychedelic...
Continuously lying down has become a torture, I have become very sore, and i would like to get up and walk like the others,
I know it's the most natural thing in the world.
I tell some of the passers-by of my thoughts and wishes, and ask them to help me get up, to get off this dreaded railway
truck, but they shy away, give some well-meant advice, even patronize me, but no-one really wants to help, i can feel it.
I remain lying on the truck.
Amongst other passers-by I notice a person dressed in white garments that appear to float continuously.
On her face she wears a white mask.
The figure attracts my attention, she reminds me of someone...
When she reaches the truck, she stops and starts a conversation.
I try to understand the words, they are confusing, describe something, the meaning still escapes me, but I know it is
important...
Slowly I understand that this person is offering her help.
I accept, and a gloved hand reaches for mine, and the person starts pulling me up...
As I am sitting I can feel new strenght like energy impulses passing through my body...
I know it will take only another small effort to get off the truck and walk away, to somewhere where life is better...
I feel boundless gratefulness and sympathy for the white-clothed figure freeing me from my "prison" and tell
it to her...
Under her mask, the features of the person's face distort and take on a devilish appearance, her body starts shaking with
rage...
She says i couldn't have done anything worse but develop feelings for her and that she now regrets having helped me.
With this words, she pushes me back forcefully, just as I want to get off the truck and walk away.
I fall down and my head hits an iron part of the surface of the truck.
I stay down, unable to get up again, in strong pain...
My head wound is dangerous, but I know I could be saved if I was to be helped quickly.
I lie there, hoping for a miracle.
People pass by, busy with themselves, in my head there's chaos.
Suddenly the unexpected happens:
I see, in the distance, an ambulance van coming towards me.
When it is about to pass me by, I hold out my hand like a hitchhiker.
Indeed, the ambulance van stops.
Nobody gets out, they apparently study my case from the inside of the van.
The van starts up again, navigates itself in front of my truck and just hooks it onto it's towbar.
It starts driving.
The way is long, for a long time we just drive parallell to the railway lines.
My pain is getting worse, but my hopes are up.
Finally we approach a railway crossing, and I know we just need to get on the other side of the railwaylines, help will
be there, a hospital with doctors and nurses who will save me.
My whole life I have spent on this side of the railway lines.
As we approach the crossing I see to my great disappointment that the red lights start flashing and the ambulance has
to stop.
A very long freight train starts driving across very slowly.
My pains becomes unbearable.
It is the end, I know it...
written january 73
edited and translated july 2006
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Slut
"SLUT, GOD-DAMN SLUT, GET OUT OF MY MIND." There was nothing he could do to stop his mind from holding imaginary
conversations with his ex-wife. It was pure torture. Here he was, doing his best to get over the whole thing. He had left
his wife and children several weeks ago, and he had had very good reasons. Three or four years ago she had told him that she
didn't love him anymore. But she had still desired him in bed. Two years ago those pleasures had started diminishing, the
occasions had gotten less and less, until they were down to once a week, which was really no more than a bad joke. Their love
play had become a farce, a neverending repetition of the same old boring game. Still sort of enjoyable, but unnerving because
of lack of imagination or creativity. It was like going to church: You get up when the priest says so. Phil got down when
Gina said so. He licked the pre-determined time. You fold your hands when the priest says so. Phil put the stupid condom on
when Gina said so. He is on top, and she is on her back. She hardly did anything, he did all the work... And he was supposed
to enjoy it? It had not always been like that. She used to get on top of him and ride him into oblivion. They used to get
themselves into utter ecstasy and wouldn't stop until he'd emtied himself completely into her. They thouroughly enjoyed it.
They used to have the best sex in the world. Sometimes she would go down on him and suck him until he came into her mouth,
and she didn't mind it at all. All the fun was gone now. The last three years she had tolerated him around the house, which
was HERS. It didn't matter that the deposit for the house had come from his money, she had arranged to have it put into her
name. He was so "easy-going" that he didn't care. After all, he was a good help with the kids. They loved him, and
it gave HER more time. During those last three years, she had treated him successively worse. She used to lock HER bedroom
with the big waterbed in it to keep the kids out. For the first two years he still had a key. Then she took it off him. She
told him that she wasn't his wife anymore. What was she? His fuck-mate? Recently she had started a Tafe-Course to learn hair-dressing.
The other people taking the same course were mostly arrogant assholes, people who were up themselves because of their "looks".
They behaved as if the values of "society" were their very own values. They were as judgemental as society itself.
They went along with just about any prejudice. . Every weekend she went out to meet up with them on their pubcrawl. He was
not welcome, since he really was on the dole and officially lived in a small house in the bush and just came around on weekends
to look after the kids. Every Friday and Saturday night she went out, while he minded the kids. He had to sleep like a dog
on a mattress in the living room, because HER room was locked. One time some relatives came for a surprise visit, her cousin
plus hubby and kids. She wasn't there and only arrived later, from a "party". Quite drunk, she sat in front of her
cousin's husband and wanted to ask him a favour: To stay for a while at their house in the city to do another course. She
sat there, drunken smile and probably thought she was seductive. Her skirt had slipped upwards, exposing a messy slip. Her
vagina smiled invitingly at her cousin's husband, someone's sperm still running out of it. Her favour was denied. The cousin's
husband said later, that she would probably try to seduce him and then tell his wife he had raped her, and that would be THE
END OF HIS FAMILY. She stayed away more often, ignored his complaints, ignored whatever he said or wanted. Every night when
she stayed away, he got more drunk. But soon the drinks wouldn't put him to sleep anymore. The doctor perscribed him Valium,
and he started using it. First two at a time, then four, then six. Then eight. He could see that soon he would take a whole
pack. The last day: He had to leave to "do" a fleamarket at 5am, she had just come home at 4. The day on the market
was very hot, business was bad, and his hangover was killing him. He could not take this life anymore. He came back at 3 in
the afternoon, said that he had had enough and would leave know. He packed all his personal belongings within one hour, left
all the stuff that they had bought together. The kids tried to calm him down and begged him to stay. But this was it. He had
stayed around the house because he loved them so much. However, he wouldn't be of any help to them when he was dead. And he
could see that happening soon, very soon. He gave both kids a kiss on the forehead, sort of ceremonial and cold. His anger
was too strong for him to feel any other emotion. Then he left, to his little house in the bush. He phoned her the next day,
she still ignored him and was busy learning the mindless, useless stuff for her course ("You have to use Wella-X for
the best perm..." and so on.) The next day he left the little house, and drove almost 2000 kilometres northwards. After
three weeks of looking for the right place, he found a job as a steward in a big hotel. Oh, he had lots of experience for
this job: He had been washing dishes for Gina for the last three years, and still had to pay rent to her. She had her seperate
income, he did all the work in the house, and still had to pay for it. Now he really enjoyed his work, because he got paid
for it. Still, while he was flushing and brushing pots and pans and plates and saucers and cups and whatever, his mind wouldn't
settle. It was repeating over and over discussions with Gina. "He" was always making his point, and couldn't understand
why "she" wouldn't agree. He could do nothing to stop his "inner dialogue". It pained him: The more he
thought about her and how she was so ignorant and treated him like shit, the more he felt wounded. For her the values of society
were more important than he was. For her, just about everything was more important than he was. Sometimes he wanted to hit
his head against the wall to stop the repetition of never-ending arguments inside his head. Nothing helped. Whenever his mind
slipped into automatic, when he was working and his mind was not very occupied, here was the dialogue again: "Gina, if
you would only stop being a slut and stop going out with this idiots, I'd take you back...." HELL,NO, he didn't want
that. He wanted to be rid of her, wanted a new life, a new woman. He had been quite good-looking and sexy ten years ago. Now
he was 44 and had put on some fat from heavy drinking. The more he drank, the more she had put him down. The more she had
put him down, the more he would drink. An endless downward spiral. All over, his situation was quite hopeless. He began to
think of suicide. Anyway, he had lived his life, had had many women, but he had also experienced "Real Love"...?
"Real Orgasmic Heights" which could only be reached through a state of emotional togetherness, so-called LOVE. Or
so he thought, but he was probably wrong. He would not forgot those moments. There was nothing much life had to offer now.
Sure, for $100 he could have a prostitute for half an hour. The next bloke would already be waiting. NO THANKS. He couldn't
get along with people in pubs and discos, they were just too...single-minded and boastful and just not his wavelenght. He
had had enough. Slut, booody slut, get out of my mind. But- if she gave up being a slut, she could come back to him- couldn't
she? NO-FUCK! He had had enough. He thought of Kurt Cobain, singer and guitarist of rock band Nirvana. He was popular, earning
heaps of money, could have had millions of groupies. Yet he shot himself. With a shotgun right into the mouth. Why? He must
have experienced the same thing he did now. THE NEVER-ENDING INTERNAL DIALOGUE THAT CANNOT BE STOPPED!. The TV- or Radio-Show
in your mind that you cannot switch off. He remembered the .22 rifle he had in his wardrobe. Sure, only a .22, but it would
do the job. He had lived his life, was finished now. He would never fall in love again. He was too old and ugly. There was
nothing more to be experienced. "Slut, goddamn slut." "I would take you back if you'd stop being a slut."
ENOUGH. Thinking of Kurt Cobain, he got the rifle. Bullets and magazine were missing. Where were they? "If only you wouldn't
go out with these people, I'd still love you...." The Hell with it. Soon all would be finished. He just didn't want to
think these thoughts anymore. At times in his life, he had experienced REAL ECSTASY.: He had made love with his first wife,
Martha, in a caravan somewhere in the hills of a remote countryside. At the time he was obsessed with the Idea of tantric
sex. He had tried it with her, but she didn't like it much. She preferred orgasms. That night, however he had coaxed her into
doing it the tantric way again. Just insert the penis into the vagina, and move as little as possible. Most of the time, in
the end, he always came, but sometimes he didn't. "It" would take half an hour, or longer. In the end she would
always "force" him to finish by moving switly. This time had been very long and enjoyable. He had gone outside,
for a piss. While he was pissing, NATURE, THE TREES, THE SHRUBS, THE NIGHT SKY, GOD talked to him: WE LOVE YOU. WE ARE HERE
WITH YOU, WE EMBRACE YOU. And all electrons and protons and positrons and whatever-trons which we was aware of at this moment,
inside and outside his body, swung in harmony, in unison, in joy. "Slut, goddamn Slut, I don't want to think about you
anymore." He had had two wives, one 12 years, the other one eight years, Four children with them. And here he was-by
himself. No wife loved him. The children did- or did they? Thinking of Kurt again, he loaded the rifle with th bullets he
had found. Only one bullet, that was all he needed. He wouldn't shoot himself into the mouth. Too messy. Deep inside his heart,
he was not a punk. His heart. He felt for it. Where was it exactly? "Slut-goddamn slut. If you only could become your
former self again, I'd take you back. Slut, goddamn slut." Enough! He would never hear that again, never feel that again.
No more pain, just ONE LAST PAIN. KURT, HERE I COME. The rifle was too long for him to reach the trigger while he pointed
it at his heart. He soon found a solution for that. In one corner of his room, there was a long, strong nail in the wall.
He coaxed the trigger of the rifle onto it. Pointing the rifle at his chest, he searched with his hand for the exact location
of his heart. "Slut, goddamn slut, If only I could forget you." He could feel many vibrations in his body, every
organ seemed to send out different waves of energy. Finally, he located the heart. He pointed the nozzle directly at his heart,
touching his skin. Slut, goddamn slut. HE PULLED. STARS EXPLODED, EVERY CELL IN HIS BODY REVOLTED, ALL TURNED RED. He was
floating through clouds. There was SILENCE-endlessness. He floated and floated, and lost himself. He floated for an unthinkable
time. Until, suddenly, he touched down. Lay on a cloud like on a cushion. Just lay there, naked, like a child. And the sun
was there, like life. There was an endless cover of clouds up to the horizon. And from the horizon a figure came walking.
Hard to recognize at first, because he was so far away, but as he came closer, he seemed familiar. Young, slim, half-lenght
blonde hair, an impressive face: Kurt Cobain. Walking over the layer of clouds. Approaching, he said: "how are ya, mate?"
Feeling sort of alive, Phil said: "I just arrived here. You must have been here for quite a while. I know you. You are
Kurt Cobain." "Sure," Kurt said, "I'm Kurt. So what's new? Do you think you are in Nirvana?" "I
don't know where I am." "I must be dead." "Dead you are, mate. That's for sure. No doubt about it."
"So this is the afterlife?" "I wouldn't really call it life, mate," Kurt said. "Why's that?"
"The women here have no pussies...." Silence. "Kurt, why did you kill yourself?" Kurt's face turns red,
even in death. Why? Why? Because of... ...that... "Slut, goddamn Slut, can't get her out of my mind, even here..."
"Slut, goddamn slut...." Copyright Gomaos 1996. Copyright Gomaos and Shaman Australis 2001
life is like a bean stalk isn't it?
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