Papa Shanghai´s Takeout

All-organic weirdness

Page 5 of 39

Pick axe.

It’s cold, my breath burns and my heart is quenched.

The journey I started has been so long that I cannot even remember the first day of my endeavour. Stones, ice, stones, clouds. On my way up on this godforsaken mountain I encounter things that were trendy once. Colourful back then, now just disregarded and slowly turned into trash. Of purpose once, now just a reminder of what I am searching for.

It is windy, my ears are reddish-blue cauliflowers.

I ram my pick axe into the ice and it cracks. I can hold onto it, not for long. Mercilessly I have to move to prevent my fall. There’s no way but up. I dream of the days in which I was standing at the bottom. Drunk on melancholic reminiscence, I wonder whether starting this quest is even something I could have chosen. I can’t remember the reason. Did someone tell me to?

It rains, my beard is frozen to a solid mess of hair and ice.

I long for the glittering, shiny things. I am a slave to marketing. I want more and better, like everyone else. But different. Ideas in my head of things I have never really encountered, made to be something that I must have. I am the collector of presumptions and desires.

The sun shows itself, I turn towards it and my eyes burn.

I make my way up this Sisyphean hill of nothingness. My mind paints illusions of what awaits me on top. I am sure I am on the right mountain, the path everyone has trotted along. I must be right, right? Right? Only a couple more times that I slam my pick axe into the ice, just a bit more. I am driven by my illusions. Higher and higher, I suffer, sweetly.

The clouds open up, my muscles are sore but I see the top.

Everything I have ever wanted. In front of me, like the others. Alone with everyone I celebrate my achievements.

A sign marks the top.

“Welcome to Mount Average”

Weekly state: toxic.

Before my head disappears in the clouds I will blow some smoke for the illusion of disappearing.

I am waiting in my carton, amongst equals but somehow special. Lust has brought us here, desire will deliver us to our final destination. I am a product of nature, yet unhealthy. At some point, I will disappear completely (luckily?).

Yet here I am, in your hands. It is up to you to pursue this habit.

It makes no sense but oh the sensation is pleasant. There’s no reason, it’s pure nonsense. Yet somehow we meet again and again.

For whatever reason you have brought me here, in this very moment it does not matter. Perhaps it’s what’s supposed to happen. Perhaps it is the culture. Maybe desire? Sadness? Peer pressure?

We will not find out, you and me.

I might just be a cigarette, but is our encounter not emblematic for something larger? Am I just delusional, making myself feel special among the thousands beside me?

Will you go through with it?

Weekly state: yearning.

I am devouring moldy cheese and no one can stop me.

While the cheese slowly untangles the endorphins I contemplate whether the longing for something attainable is more rewarding that the yearning for things never to be reached. As arrogant organisms on earth, humans have an unhealthy appetite for more, notwithstanding already being pampered.

Nutrition, worth in any sense, position. MORE.

As they do, Germans have expressed this sentiment and actively acknowledged the: seemingly intrinsic nature of humankind. Sehnsucht – the addiction to longing – yearning.

Shouldn’t they be taught a lesson by yearning for the unattainable?

Truly yearning for something involves the tragedy of not being able to achieve it. Yearning is a lesson in patience, in devotion and ultimately, acceptance.

While I am slowly being numbed by the unhealthy amounts of moldy cheese in my stomach I being to fall into a coma, a state of numbness that is a consequence of the fulfilment of my longing. No longing anymore, for the cheese, just a state of lethargy. Devoid of emotions I rethink why I was eating so much cheese.

The emotions that come and go with yearning are never the same, but always intense. Contemplating what could have happened, yearning for the moment that never was and most likely never will be. It hits, always intense but never the same.

So while my longing for cheese led me to this state of immobility, I continue to yearn. For the big things, the noble and tragic things. The small ideas and the big emotions. The alternate realities, the things I am not, the lightness of my being that sparkles somewhere.

Perhaps I should get some more cheese. I mean, who will stop me?

Symphony.

Lonely the cricket sits on a big leaf.

It’s a summer night and the incoming rain is blasting the heath, reviving the dried and almost dead blades. Grey sky battles the orange of the golden hour. A magnificent fight at the height of summer.

The cricket sits lonely on a big leaf.

Thunder rumbles, somewhere in the distance it hits its target. Unloading thousands of volts, too fast to even memorise its shape. A thunderbolt, leaving its mark on the ground for eternity, vanishing within the blink of an eye.

The cricket sits lonely, on its big leaf.

A gang of foxes roams the field, crying into the vastness of agricultural wasteland. Warning of the rain, promising a cosy hideout. The little foxes must learn. With beauty comes danger.

The cricket sits lonely on its leaf.

Thunder is getting closer, dark clouds cover the sun. Wind now flies over the field, announcing its incoming sister, rain. Rumbling, clouds build castles only to change shape. A shapeshifting symphony, the cricket sits.

Not lonely anymore. On its leaf, it feels the big clash. One last time, it sits up, angling its legs. Rubbing as fast as it can, joining the orchestra that will purge this summer day.

I will play, and may it be the last time. Well? Rain will be my judge.

Weekly state: green.

Hoping for a late weekly state to bring this week to an end? You’re in luck. Here it is.

As Dana is making her way through the jungle, she is regularly faced with an existential crisis. She has been crawling, climbing and walking. Staying, sleeping, staring into the void. Giving up, going on.

How long, she cannot even remember. The wise Raisin. has once told her that for every step forward, two new thoughts come to mind.

Is it better then, to just stay still? Choose a spot to settle down? How can she choose this ominous spot? Is this current one as good as any? Will she find a better or one did she already pass it? There’s three new thoughts and not even one step further. The thinking machine called brain has no downtime.

She pushes her thoughts back, at least she tries. Another climb just to come to the conclusion that what lies behind is more ground to cover.

It’s a green hell on bad days. A luscious jungle on good ones. Which of the two this last week was, you decide. She’s too tired.

And there she goes, Dana the beetle. I am wondering why she doesn’t just fly. I guess it’s all part of the adventure. As I stand up from my squat I try to calculate how long it will take for Dana to cross this meadow. How long it takes me to cross it.

Where’s my luscious jungle, is this my green hell? Another climb, another two thoughts. I guess me and Dana, we are on the way.

Somewhere Green.

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