September 4. Murky waters.

This is the land of the Great Alexander (356BC-323BC) and we feel like visiting some tombs. Not his of course, since his remains were lost after his death somewhere in India, but the tomb of his father Philip of Macedonia and it is a very impressive structure. A round hill contains several tombs of the royal family. The tombs are made of huge bricks and buried deep underground in order to protect them from looters. The same difficulties those looters experienced were felt by the people that excavated the tombs and discovered the golden jewelery to their absolute amazement. From crown to greaves ornamental attire is on display. We like it a lot, also because it is hot inside the burial mound.
Back in Thessaloniki (the tombs were about an hour driving away) we have a quick lunch in the park before I set out with my laptop to work in a well-known coffee chain. I see protesters on the way: there is some big event going on here and the prime minister will visit the city. I am too tired and detached to care about what’s going on. At least get my writing done.
Writing. Wanted to pen down some notes about my Achilles heel. My dictionary dubs this “a seemingly small but actually mortal weakness”. To kick in the door, it’s mismanagement of auto-erotic equilibrium and symptoms of alledged pathological frugality. Others say lust and avarice and that lines’em up neatly with the other deadly sins. A mortal weakness? To me, it appears just like most other things as we are crawling in the mud and hugh the grey-brownish slackery slickery clay wherein we lay and lay and frantically sway our arms even yes even the index fingers are spoiled, there we lie nakeder shivering nipple before us, behind us, receptors of what gave us life but died away clumsy repetition in unendly discordance with superimposed laws of hygiene since are not all laws laws of hygiene? So we confinue on still murky waters, the myths remains that the drains are clogged by particles of severance the Platonic ur-mammal split apart by ur-sin, and no-body survives the blunt shearing knowledge of its absurdity.

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Kamiel Choi

Dutch philosopher and poet, sometimes sharing thoughts on the internet.

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