When you approach a snowman, or snowwoman, with fire, or passion, they don’t warm up – they simply melt, and disappear.* *

So I’ve found it with Germans. When they feel warmth, or passion, they don’t defrost, but rather panic from the unknown, and the fear of disappearing.

I still haven’t found a local who remotely embodies the subtle, vulnerable warmth of, say, Beethoven’s Piano Sonatas. Were they all internally cleansed in the wars? Or has all emotion been intimidated away, just in case the murderous strains resurface? I genuinely don’t know…

Isn’t that racist?

No! Since who’s to say that fire is better than ice?

Nietzsche claimed the opposite, but I’m on another level of complexity and nuance, and, thus, would never do the same.  

So anyway, one night I decided to fuck some ice, and my cock got stuck, literally, frozen to the cunt… So I used some of my warmth to defrost it, and it actually worked for a few secs, but the shock of heat triggered a chain reaction that quickly melted her to a puddle, which was soon brought to a boil, singeing my cock before I could fully pull out, and scarring me forever. (There I was in Berlin, with my cock in a boiling puddle of former German pussy…)

I can no longer see Germanic pussy, or any ice for that matter, without throbbing groinal flashbacks.

Pray for me,*** my brothers and sisters, that I quickly get a ticket the fuck outta here!

*Written while living in Berlin in 38.

**The same is true with bringing fire to a mannequin.

***Your prayers worked, and I thank you all dearly for them! I managed to escape, relatively intact, although forever scarred…

BIRDS: ‘Why so many self-portraits, Sir Po?
Why so many self-analyses?

‘Who the fuck do you think cares about all your inner-workings,
And doubts,
And rejoicings?’

STP: ‘I have no idea.

But all I can see from the inside, is myself…

And I can only assume that it mirrors vaster,
Grander,
More universal,
All-encompassing truths…

But I can never be sure of it!

The only thing I can truly paint,
And articulate in detail,
Better than anyone else,
Are my own inner-workings…

These are not self-portraits that I see through mirrors,
But rather portraits I see through inner-gazing,
A perspective that no one else can share…

If through that process,
I touch upon,
And stumble upon,
Some shapes,
Colors,
Ideas,
That then ring true to others,
And perhaps touch a similar chord
With others,
And perhaps inspire them,
And help them,
And guide them,
Provide them with useful hints,
And tips,
And clues,
Along their own journeys of internal-gazing,
Then they will have served a worthy purpose…

Worst case scenario,
I’m just conveying,
A couple hours worth of
Useless reading material…

Best case scenario,
I’m providing inimitable,
Irreplaceable,
Tools for others to use,
For all eternity…

So when you do all the math,
I think the choice become pretty obvious.’

BIRDS: ‘You keep talking about all this Uber shit, beyond-humanity shit, etc.
Yet you’re so base, and perverse…
That doesn’t seem to betray any special intelligence,
Sensitivity,
Or refinement!’

STP: ‘Quite the contrary!

The suppression of our libidos came out of weakness,
But the ability to embrace the subtlest details,
Just as you would embrace the subtlest details of cooking,
The slightest little nuance of a recipe,
The slightest little finesse,
Combination of condiments,
Their freshness, color, aroma, taste, origin, etc.

Just as you would embrace the subtlest little detail in music,
A new tone,
A new harmony,
The exact shape,
Weight,
Color,
And sound
Of an instrument,
String,
Reed,
Etc.

Different ways of singing,
The exact position of the mouth,
Stomach,
Tongue,
Etc.

And this is true in all areas of life,
Where people dig into the smallest details,
And variations…

And I just see it the same with sexuality!

Every little detail
Is of greatest importance to the true connoisseur!

The subtlest details of fetishes,
Activities,
Services,
Paraphernalia,
Etc.
Are in no way ugly,
Or inferior,
And certainly not dirty,
Or perverse!

Provided you have the strength to embrace it all,
Including your own limitations,
And ever-unsatiated appetite(s).

It is only the most enlightened
Who realizes that all details of his libido,
All impulses,
Are equally natural!

And it is only he,
Who can delve into the depths of his intellect,
Emotions,
And libido,
With equal peace,
And zest,
And articulation,
And celebration!’

BIRD: ‘Why do you enjoy talking to us so much? Why did you choose us, why not other animals?’

STP: ‘I don’t know… You’re everywhere, you’re elegant, you’re diverse, you’re good listeners, you make good music, your flight is most inspiring… But no real reason other than that.’

BIRD: ‘Cool…’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘Sir Tijn, why are you consistently so degrading towards women and their genitals? You seem too intelligent to be misogynistic, so what’s up with all the female bashing?’

STP: ‘Sticking up for your sex, are you?’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘Indeed.’

STP: ‘Well, as you assumed, I am too intelligent to be misogynistic. But it isn’t the females that I deride or disrespect. I have absolutely equal respect for females and males – some, of both, are cool, and some, of both, deserve death. But it is purely my sexual attraction to women, and their subsequent sexual power over me, that I deride and try to humiliate into submission. If I were gay, or a female hetero, I’d probably speak as irreverently about cock and balls. If I liked animals, statues or robots, I’d speak as irreverently about them.

Society places quite a premium on sex, and makes it something to be respected, earned, etc. But I disagree. Sex is my toy. Pussy is my toy. Female ass is my toy. But the rest of the woman that happens to be connected to said pussy and ass is as respected by me as any other group. Thus, I would never lie to a woman or hurt her just to get to her alluring body parts. And you’ll certainly never hear me denigrate women post-sexual-attractiveness.’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘I see. Thanks so much for the clarification!’

STP: ‘You’re most welcome!’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘Do any of my parts attract you?’

STP: ‘Not in the slightest.’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘So full respect?’

STP: ‘Absolutely! Down to the last feather.’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘Thank you!’

STP: ‘Thank you, for the stimulating conversation and for the chance to clarify myself.’

FEMALE BIRD: ‘Bye!’

STP: ‘See you around!’

BIRD: ‘You sound quite racist sometimes.’

STP: ‘I am racist.’

BIRD: ‘So how can you complain about other racists, bigots, homophobes, antisemites, sexists…?’

STP: ‘Hold it right there! I never complain about any of those people, or any haters for that matter.

You can’t control your hate. You can’t choose it. Only fear will stop you from acting on it. And only numbers, strength, and good strategy will will ever effectively induce fear.

All talk of changing your hate is a product of fear – spoken by those who wish nature were different. But it isn’t. Hate is a product of nature, like flatulence, stench, pain and illness. All part of the deal. I can’t hate the hater any more than the farter.

Education often eliminates hate, since you sometimes learn that what you thought you hate is really elsewhere. But not all hate can be eliminated through education, or any other means. And no one can choose what to hate and what to love.

The fear of this reality makes humans wish it weren’t so. But this reality can’t be wished away.

It’s a sick, fucked-up design.’

BIRD: ‘Would you have designed it differently?’

STP: ‘Absofuckinlutely!’

BIRD: ‘What would you have done?’

STP: ‘I would have designed all beings to derive pleasure from giving me pleasure.’

BIRD: ‘What pushes you towards success? Are you truly indifferent?’

STP: ‘As far as future generations are concerned, I’m absolutely indifferent. In our time, it can help with sex.’

BIRD: ‘But you’ve already found your big love!’

STP: ‘Indeed, but there are things, like ass-licking, that I would never ask her to do, nor would she agree to do. At least I don’t think so…’

BIRD: ‘And your groupies do it?’

STP: ‘Three at a time.’

BIRD: ‘Gotcha.’

STP (screaming into the open, at the top of his lungs):
‘I made a film!
Arguably one of the best ever!’

BIRDS (to each other, with pity):
‘Poor guy’s gotta sing his own praise…
He must be hard of hearing,
If he can’t hear the thunderous applause,
Of future mobs…’