The others (my so-called friends, the pack of comfort companions, where, if we are talking about Pooh and company, Alwilda is Tigger, I’m Eeyore, with a stick of dynamite in my mouth, argh, the rest of them I can’t place, oh yes, the always-kind Edward must be Pooh, but still no little Roo in our midst) don’t know, and they are not going to know either, no, of course they are not – I have accepted the consequence of wanting to make a difference in our raving world, but am rooted to the spot, more about that later maybe. It would take a very loud bang before the others (airy-fairies arseholes sods maggots) would so much as raise an eyebrow, let alone raise their head above their teacups, has it always been like that, that they were completely indifferent to the world that surrounds us, apart from Alwilda of course, but the closest thing to compare her to is a blind force, she plunges headfirst into anything, for her it is simply a matter of using her many strengths, her restless energy.
Once upon a time we planned a series of meetings to talk about what was happening to our society, and what we could do, it was back in 2001 2002 2003 when we had Anders Fogh Rasmussen and the Danish People’s Party and the war in Iraq, as big a shock as bin Laden, almost, and much of what we had assumed was solid began to collapse; Alma tried writing essays, about Danishness for example, something that was discussed to the point of vomiting, but thinking has never been one of her strengths (what actually is? And she could also have taken better care of her bikini line), it became a kind of third-rate column; we ended up sitting around talking about Iraq and genetically modified crops and Afghanistan and milk-no-milk and opium fields and the corruption of the financial markets, all kinds of crap was swept onto the same dustpan – or the other way round, like the other day in Camilla’s stable, the shovel under a pile of horse apples, a cluster of shit that divides into countless turds upon contact, and what I was thinking is that I would blow myself up, not to compare it with anything other than a giant fart, hello I would like to direct your attention to the fact that we have a problem, several problems; a lot of people blowing stuff up, let off without providing a reason, the surroundings are forced to conjecture, that is how I leave it (to others to find the reason, for example to the soft toys).
But before that I ought to have hung up a sign in the gateway, for my neighbours, a proclamation, about sorting their rubbish better: I hope you burn in hell if you keep putting things in the wrong place!
Now we have containers for hard plastic and metal and one more I can’t remember at this raging moment, as well as the classics, paper and cardboard and glass respectively, but what does that matter if someone is not sorting properly. I understood it as such, that if just one object ends up in the wrong container, the entire contents of the container are burnt as normal rubbish. It is insanely frustrating, when I take the time to sort mine properly, that someone goes and ruins everything. The idiocy the indifference knows no bounds: some people even throw normal rubbish bags in with the hard plastic. Maybe I should set my banger off in a container, in the courtyard, then it would not be difficult to find the cause, no guesswork necessary. On the other hand it would scatter the entire mess. Everything that had been laboriously collected & sorted. But wasn’t that the very point? Yes, it was, just hop up in the cardboard and light the fuse, teeth-gritting hand-wringing. First I get undressed, so I can meet the jury of houris in puris, they might as well see what they are getting straight away. (I see myself climbing out of the cardboard like a wet dog if it is a dud.)