MY PERSONAL HEROES - NIETZSCHE

Friedrich Nietzsche (1844 -1900), the famous German gangster philosopher who had God murdered the moment he found out that although his elderly mother and his ugly sister were both going to Heaven someday (his greedy shameless sister was probably going straight to Hell for posing as a paid nurse to her brother when, in truth, she had been doing it all along for free), his cute cat wasn't and that really made him snap.
Not that he petted a cat. Actually he hated the damned parasites and was severely allergic to them.

In a paradoxical sense, I also have a cat which is not really mine (it's my neighbours), but insists on crawling surreptitiously and uninvited into my house most of the time so I feel obliged to feed him (cats adopt people nowadays or, at least in my experience, me). My charming and observant neighbours have, on occasion, called the police on me to retrieve the cat from my house (after it had been gone for a week…). Therefore, I understand Nietzsche's divine homicidal tendencies in a very profound and alternative manner.

Well, but to Nietzsche this prejudice against cats (or any form of life that doesn't have a soul, i.e., unable to contribute very generously with land or gold to the Church) disturbed him gravely. If this great western thinker did ever decide to get a cat (and call it "Timmy"), it just wasn't fair that God wouldn't stubbornly allow fluffy Timmy to do its thing in the Gardens of Eden (instead of the expensive 19th century couch). This was a matter of principle (and wasted cat food) and that's what I admire him for. If I ever grow up, I'll pet my own cat and name him "Timmy".

This respect for animals also reoccurred by the end of his life. Dramatically, Nietzsche's sickness got progressively worse in his last eleven years and madness crept into his mind. During this late period, rumour has it he was once seen in an Italian public square protecting a horse from being whipped by embracing it around the neck; and, with tears in his eyes, he begged the horse to forgive the crimes of Humanity (and certain politicians) against their enslaved brothers: the animals.
Apparently the disease also affected his eyesight as some onlookers also report him embracing the two policemen, who came to take him away, with the same sort of speech.

To this day, however, it is unknown if the domesticated quadruped (i.e. the animal, also known simply as "horse", or "Mr. Ed") bothered to answer him. Some eminent members of the philosophical community have argued that asking a question while gripping the throat of our interlocutor to the point of strangulation may prove difficult for him to answer.
Other renowned scholars, however, strongly disagree and think that he could have asked nicely while discreetly waving a bag of sweets.

Furthermore, experts couldn't gather a consensus on whether he should have posed this important symbolic question to a different animal instead, and popular academic suggestions include "to one that wasn't being whipped at that exact moment". This controversy promises to endure for many years as it so often happens with much of Nietzsche's work for its ambiguous nature tends to frustrate serious attempts of analysis.

A few days after this episode, he wrote a couple of short letters to some of his friends - known as "Madness Letters" - in a desperate attempt to spread the disease that plagued him and thus have some card-playing company at the mental clinic's playground, but to no avail. The director of the Clinic, Dr. Otto Binswanger, and conservative art historian Julius Langbehn (who was attempting to cure Nietzsche's illness with crayons), got hold of the notes and sent some of them as a replacement for their huge gambling bills.

Despite a tremendous difficult life, he managed to create, among other beautiful tributes to the lost art of thinking, the ambiguous and poetic "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" which is by far my favourite book; the most inspiring of them all and the most unreachable.

I'm usually a fast reader in what concerns much more light weighted material, such as novels (and comic books), but while reading this one I just had to go back three pages or so on a regular basis and pause to ponder on the new dense ideas it gave me (and how unfair it was that I didn't got to write them first). I would frequently just hold the book, let my fuelled mind wander into the deep space of amazing thoughts and dwell there for a while (some, like me, say I never came back).

Zarathustra is the book's extraordinary central figure who makes brave philosophical speeches (when he's sure that either no one can hear him or are just way too far to catch him).

Nietzsche stole the character of Zarathustra from that of the prophet of Zoroastrianism, better known as "Zoroaster", dated around the 10th century BCE. "The copyright had expired…" he later confessed to Richard Wagner with whom he maintained a close friendship that ended abruptly with the argument of who's time it was to pay for the dinner as both thought it was their own turn. The manager at the restaurant was happy to be paid twice for the same meal.

One of the book's most impressive key ideas is the "Eternal Recurrence" or "Eternal Return" concept which put into abstract terms means that I'll be beaten up again by a certain 5th grade classmate forever. I find this odd idea of circular time very reassuring and to give me some comfort during difficult times (especially because I had gotten taller by the 7th grade and knew precisely where he lived).

I was first drawn to the obsessive reading of Nietzsche, because he has such a brilliant name. I particularly love the "TZSCH" consonant cluster and once tried to change my name to "Aletzschandre" (notice its intellectual shine now) and made official arrangements for it to happen. The shallow people at the register office however, failed to take me seriously and replied something - which I can't exactly recall - around the subtle and intricate concepts of "get lost" followed immediately by "next, please".

As I'm not one who easily shuns from hopeless lost causes (unless I'm invited to a party), I was further introduced to the ever so popular bureaucratic concept of "call security" when, on the very next day, I chained myself to the office plant (a bonsai-like palm tree) and swallowed the key. I was forced to give up a week later because I could no longer afford that ridiculous rent.
I brought the plant as a souvenir and now carry it everywhere I go as I'm still waiting for the key to end her troubled relationship with my digestive system.

You can never get anything done in this country, unless you do it yourself. So I decided to forge my ID card (with a correction pen) and only answer by the name I'd chosen. I abandoned the whole idea while crossing a street. It's funny how the simple crossing of a street can make you change your mind on certain issues, especially if you got run over by a small truck. And also if your friends tried to warn you about the approaching menace by shouting: "Look out! Aletzschandre!". Unfortunately, I thought they were calling someone else and paid no attention to them.

I had plenty of time to reflect about this at the Hospital where I learned that I had made it into next year's edition of Guinness World Records ("Most Broken Bones Survivor" category). I am also now a case study for the medical science of Osteology for some mysterious reason.

I wish to take this opportunity to acknowledge the kind doctors who helped me with undying and unconditional love by breaking the remainder of the bones I needed to get the record.

Thank you all! I'll never forget you guys (or where you live...).

THE MUTANT CONTACT LENS FROM HELL

There's a slightly new different version of me nowadays.

You see, I used to wear glasses until very recently. I'm now trying out these cool water-based contact lenses and I'm actually feeling terrific with them. They give you the illusion that there's nothing wrong with your eyes, your natural face comes back to you and, above all, (this was obviously my primal motivation) you can once again make fun of people who do have glasses.

All is well, except for a minuscule… minor detail… nothing really… you can almost just pretend it isn't there. Yet, I must confess that I felt a bit challenged by the fact that it was pure hell to put them on. At this time, I only had to do it once. These specific lenses are the cool modern type you can sleep with for days (I call them "promiscuous lenses").

This morning, however, immediately after realizing that the expiration date on them was almost over (they're turning green and smelly), I took it like a man (a very coward man) and got into a panic state that made me run in circles for a few hours (screaming a few selected vowels) until I was lucky enough to slip on the kitchen carpet and hit my head against the fridge. It made me think. Life is fleeting and I hated that carpet. It was ugly, had stains on it that could make a grown man burst into tears and the day after I bought it, they lowered the price more than half.

While still on the floor and lacking the ability to move, my concussion further made me remember how, after I was miraculously able to get the first lens to finally stick to my right eye, I lost the second one and had to be on all fours looking for the damn thing with only one eye. Twenty minutes later, when it was no longer funny to pretend I was a one-eyed pirate, I eventually gave up and initiated the process of figuring out how to take it off (which I'm yet to find out). And there it was, that slimy blue bastard looking at me, laughing and making faces, glued to the mirror of the bathroom wall.

An hour later, after what can only be described as the single most traumatic experience of my past hour, I had won the "War on Lens" only to find out (nearly five minutes later) that I had somehow managed to put both lenses on the same eye and that indeed I wasn't even capable of seeing well enough to cross the bathroom door (and had been in fact bumping repeatedly into the sidewall that whole time). A disturbing episode I will most certainly recall an unhealthy number of times in my old age and perhaps also following that.

After cleaning some of the drops of blood from the wall (and throwing the carpet away) I immediately perceived this whole event as so daunting that I just had to write a few lines telling the entire world about it (and a few random strangers on the street therefore saving myself from the claws of professional therapy). The volumes that compose the trilogy on this painful subject should be out in less than two years.

I am currently looking for support groups in order to share my pain and thus help me surpass this horrible experience.

I am very confident I can defeat this.

I wonder, though, if taking them out will be any easier…