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Adam and Eve (no escape)

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The snake curled it’s tail in a way that it flicked just the tip on her clit and she felt that laser shoot up inside her a little bit and she squirmed back away from it and the snake curled up into a ring and, sleeping, let the sun bathe on its skin. She closed her eyes and laid back, wanting to sleep or just at least dazed off and let her hand come down and gently touch on the hood of the clit and move over the soft flesh there up and down and it felt good and pure and the sun was just like a soft warm blanket that meant she could feel happy there. God killed a lamb and it was horrific, it was screaming and half dead and it’s stomach was open and her and the snake stood up and looked at that fluffy body writhing and crying and they had never seen that before and it wasn’t horrific because they hadn’t seen it before and it was just strange and confusing. The young naked man came back then at this time to see it all and saw the snake and stepped on the snake’s back and the snake flipped around and curled up and extended and bit the man on the leg but the man just watched it happen and looked over at the half-blood half-white wool mess that God had made and pressed down harder on the snake’s back, raising his other foot and really pushing down in a  half jumping way on the snake until the snake stopped squirming and the lamb was still and not crying and the woman looked up at the man and saw him changed, different, but the man was as blank as ever, smiling, holding out his hand to her.

In the afternoon he sat in the office kitchen, drinking his coffee, eating a biscuit and she comes in and she is wearing a tight skirt and an even tighter blouse, makes a green tea and looks over at him. He watches her eat the biscuit, watched her lipsticked lips close over the cookie and all but suck off the edge of the biscuit she takes into her mouth and then her closed small lips moving up and down slightly as her small teeth chew the small piece of hard biscuit she’s managed to pry of with those succulent, decorated lips. She almost looks over and he averts his eyes back to the table, finds a magazine there and pulls it closer, flicks it open and almost as quickly looks back at her body, the outline of her figure simplistically available, imagining her naked isn’t hard, her ass and legs, her waist, her breasts and neck and face all stand there and he looks back to the page again, mainly looking at words and reading them over and over. She finishing dipping the tea bag in the hot water, takes it and drops the finished tea bag in the bin, then a smile at him and leaves. He sips his coffee, tastes bad, looks back at the page, reads that line, over and over.

She was washing away the blood between her legs, she hadn’t ever had this happen before and she thought she was dying. For three days she washed away the blood, in the stream and each time he came close she told him to go away. She lay on the grass beside the stream and waiting for more blood to come, closing her eyes and listening to the water to soothe her mind. On the fifth day the blood stopped, she finished washing herself and cried out to God to save her life. God said that now that you have had the pleasure of the flesh, you will now know the changing of the season, and every month you will know this, like the changing of the seasons, you are now unto the Earth. She was happy because she felt closer to the world she loved, the dirt the grass the sun and the animals, she collapsed sighing and feeling all of nature now inside her and without. God became furious, and so condemned her to feel an unnatural pain in childbirth.

Her father comes home, closes the door, hasn’t seen them all sitting there together on the lounge room floor yet, her and her sisters and her mother, playing a card game and they were laughing and playing. They all watch him walk over to the table they have near the door and empty his pockets like he does every night and the mother says “your turn” to her little sister and they all look back at the game and are aware that they are pretending now, not playing like they were but playing now as an exhibition, as a way of telling the father that they are happy and have a life too. He walks over and kisses the mother and they all savour that smell, the smell of their father coming home, like wood and smoke and old clothes, sweat they don’t know about yet but it is his sweat and the three beers he had after work with his co-workers. They try not to stare too long at him kiss their mother’s cheek but they love seeing it and he smiles at them and silently disappears into the kitchen and the younger one throws down a card that matches the one underneath and the mother looks back from her husband and says “Snap!”.

In the beginning Lucifer Morning Star was the first Angel, with the unwitting power of a true God, and as such the ever loving God who created him became scared of his creation and cast him down to the world of the mortals and so then Lucifer taught the mortals fire, life, love and companionship and told them that one day they would be like God himself and when he was finished instructing them God in his anger made Lucifer King of Hell where he was told to punish all those who did not heed The Word and when hell was overwhelmed God came down himself in the flesh of a man named Yeshua and felt the painful sting of humanity and hence forth changed what it was to be saved or condemned and so Lucifer, now righteous, holds his place by Gods side as a saviour of human souls.

Around the table in this meeting we talked about how having these poor sales performance figures was most likely related to how our sales people were getting old and they kept having things happen to them like heart attacks or hip replacements or sick children and how we could directly see their ailments reflected in our figures and we decided really quickly that we needed newer younger sales people and we discussed how that having the younger ones coming in would yeah sure take them a while to catch up to the expertise and capability of the older ones that in the ling run we would as a company be better off by having these fumbling, learning, need-to-be-hand-held new ones come on would actually in the long run be way better to the bottom line because, hell, surely these older ones would get worse and worse, right, I mean, this is symptomatic of having an ageing sales team, I mean like what’s next, you know: cancer, Alzheimer’s, liver failure, you know, what else kinds of old age stuff would we have to deal with, I mean, they need to use a computer at least and Christ like osteoporosis would mean soon we’d need to give them , what, aides and things to help them do their job and we’re not a charity I mean we need to let them go right? A young bright executive discovered a good way we could legally pay them out.

Adam was so in love that he cut off all his hair and, crying, told God that he hated him and thought he was an insane lunatic who didn’t care for anything other than to be blindly worshipped. God asked Adam where he got his ideas from and Adam said “from you, you heartless monster!”. God knew it was the snake who had filled his mind with sick thoughts and so madeEdena horrible place to live which of course only made Adam hate him even more. God was confused and asked Adam after a thousand years why he did not hate the snake instead and Adam replied “what snake?” and God told him the story and Adam knew then it was hopeless: God created the snake.

He had her head in his hands, lying on top of her with both his hands under her head and she was crying and they hadn’t finished making love and he said “what’s wrong?” and she said nothing in that half true way women say it and she had her eyes shut tight from the crying and he let his penis slip out of her, losing the erection anyway. He stayed there like that holding her and kissing her cheek, feeling with his lips how hot her cheeks were and looking at her clenched eyes. He started massaging her hair and kissing her cheeks more but she shook her head to brush him off so he moves off her and lays beside her, both naked and she rolled into a ball and cried harder and harder. “What’s wrong?” he asked but she didn’t say anything, just lay there sobbing. He stood up and put his pants back on, walked into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. His face seemed wrong, not his. He wondered if he had raped that girl or did something wrong. He smiled at himself in the mirror, just to see if his own face was still there. He washed his hands and went back into the room. She had a blanket pulled over her and wasn’t moving.

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Goldilocks and the three Bears

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Her parents didn’t believe in schooling, proper schooling, because they knew that all those teachers and priests were rapist sodomites and when they read and reread those passages in Ezekiel they got so angry and started yelling at their eight year old child about how they wanted to put their penis in her asshole she got scared and cried and so during the day they told her to go out and live, and learn from the world, from nature and they let her run off and they went back into their field and toiled to make vegetables and feed cattle to slaughter.
She ran through the forest, testing what hurts her skin or tastes bad, poking sticks into dead poisoned fox carcasses and shitting into holes and wiping her ass with leaves and running along and drinking from creeks. This day she ran over a large hill and down into a valley and saw a house she’d never seen before and approached it like a curious dog, circling this way and that to see if anything was moving before inching closer, the learning her parents wanted taking hold, the natural curiosity and fear of anyone other than her parents.
She eventually made it to the window and looked in, no one inside, just a small house sitting there so still and empty. She tried the door but it was locked, she tried a window but it was locked and in her rampant enthusiasm took a rock and smashed in a window pane, opened the latch and climbed in. The house was empty except for a large chest of drawers, a dining table and a few wooden chairs arranged in a semi circle around a large metal pot. She smelt burnt hair and burnt wood, and looked around but saw nothing but for a pot sitting on the ground behind the chairs. She walked over, quietly, and peered into the pot, seeing a thick grey mash in there. She dipped her finger in and tasted the mixture, a warm if not too hot porridge that tasted like sugar and grain, the kind she has for breakfast but with a strong acidic aftertaste. She thought it was wonderful but needed to wait until it cooled a bit so she looked in the drawers first, thinking because of the hot food that whoever lives there must have just left and won’t be back for a while.
In the first drawer were a load of papers and candles, nothing in order just stacked in there, so she opened the second drawer and it was full of knives and tools and bits of rubber and leather and stuff like that. The third drawer had baby clothes and bonnets and little containers of powder and soaps and she stuffed some soap into her pocket and closed the drawer, not wanting to open the fourth one. She walked around the house, getting used to the dead smell of hair and wood and opened the door connected to these living areas to see a room with three single beds in it. She jumped onto the first one but it was as though it’s just a blanket covering wood panels and then the second one was like a pile of feathers lumped under a thin sheet but the last bed felt like her own so she ran back into the main room, piled a load of the grey meal into a bowl and took it back into the bedroom with her, eating it with her fingers and letting her body relax on the bed, trying to imagine what the people who live here look like or if she has seen them before in town and remembering how strange all the people in town look and how strange it would be to know any of them at all and the thoughts like this and eating the thick porridge and praying to god to bless her mother and father and keep her safe in his arms like she’s been taught sent her to sleep.

 
She woke to the sound of a door slamming shut, remembering where she was and that she was alone in someone’s house. She sat straight up in the bed and pulled the blankets up, panicking.

“Someone’s smashed in the window!” Mr Bear yells out.

“Someone’s had their gut full from the lunch pot” cries Mrs Bear.

“Someone gone and got in our house Pa” says kid Bear, going over his chest and flinging it open to see what’s missing. “They ain’t taken any of my stuff Pa!”

“Ma! Go check the bedroom will ya. I’m gonna get me rifle, go on now”

Goldilocks hears them moving about, hears what they say and hides herself under the bed, seeing there’s no windows in the room and the only way out is the door she came in. The door to the bedroom swings open and she hears the feet coming across the room.

“Pa! Someone’s been messin’ with Junior’s bed, look” and the Bears all pile into the room, walking over to the bed she was sleeping in. Pa Bear puts his hand on the mattress and feels it’s warm.

“Go damn there’s been someone in this bed” and his face appears under the bed, looking Goldilocks straight in the face.

“Well well, look at what we have here” and she squirms away but Ma Bear is on her, pulling her out from under the bed by her thin wrist and dragging her over into the corner of the room.

“What you doin’ in here little girl?” asks Pa Bear

“Nothing, I..I…I was just, exploring, ’cause, my mumma says, to…to, go out and…”

“You exploring in our house cutie pie?” says Ma Bear.

“I saw, that…no one was in her so I”

“You busted by damn wind-a that’s what” says Pa bear, resting the rifle on his hip.

“She’s pretty” says Junior, walking over to her.

“Now. Don’t you go touching her son, that there’s a devil woman” says Pa Bear, holding his son by the arm “see, we gotta get that devil outta her”

“Oh no Pa, nah we ain’t. She just a little thing with, look at her Pa, that golden hair, like, like an angel”

“Ain’t no angel son, you’ll see. Ma, pick her up”

And Ma Bear picks the girl up and places her on the bed, Pa Bear takes his pants off and moves over to her, Goldilocks stares at the man, stares at the boy and waits, terrified.

“See son, she just a lil rabbit, ain’t cha?” and Pa moves closer, gets to her, pulls her shorts down and opens her legs. Goldilocks, crying, thrashing, Ma holding her wrists down, Junior tugging at his father undershirt to let her go, crying too but Pa heaves into her and Ma laughs revealing her teeth and Pa grunting like a bear; “urgh urgh urgh eee-urgh” and Junior crying now and Goldilocks screaming out but soon Junior comes and puts his hand over Goldilocks’ mouth saying “sssshhhhh” and trying to get her to relax, soothing back her hair and she locks her eyes onto his and he says softly “it’s ok…it’s ok” and they stay like that her moving in that jolting way as Junior looks into her eyes and keeps saying “it’s okay it’s okay” and when it’s done they put her dress back on and she is crying and running into the forest hearing their laughter getting softer and softer.

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Red Riding Hood

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She was on her way somewhere, had a bag stuffed with bread and cheese and these cliché elements of French/Italian life are enough to see you live through all kinds of atrocities; starvation, sudden snow, and when the moon comes out and you are barely clothed in the forest. The food of both world wars in your pack, the smell of the earth rising up between the curling ferns, the young ferns, growing now just months after the Great Fire, their soft furry brown tendrils barely unravelled, pornographic, easy to touch and she forces them to unravel, teases them out to fulfil their plan, ‘come on’ she teases, but they aren’t ready and curl back. Her fingers have the moist dew on them and some of the red-brown hairs. She brushes them off and runs deeper into the forest, letting the leaves touch her bare arms with their collected water. Fresh and cold but with a warm torso, she breathes out into the empty quiet space in a two metre by two metre clearing, her breath steam filling up the air. Sitting down there she takes the loaf of bread she stole from the middle of her family table and bites right into it, her favourite part, the hard crust on the end, no actual bread just the taste of vinegar and coal and then the crunch of the hard crust. She is smiling and she can feel it. She puts the bread back into her bag and takes out some cheese. It’s a hard block of parmesan, the wrong kind of cheese, her favourite. She takes a bite, half cheese half rind. Her father will be furious when he notices it’s gone. It costs him half a day’s wages to buy it. It tastes better than she remembers, sitting there on old firm pine needles and feeling the ants nosing under her skirt. She gets up and runs, blandly, into the bushes, leaping over rocks and trunks, falling at times, sometimes breaking her knees or hands open on the crisp bare naked elements, letting the dirt in, rubbing it into herself – the mix of blood and dew and earth – and running some more, feeling those open wounds sting but stinging properly, like she is alive and cold and warm all at once. It isn’t long until she sees the house over in the next clearing. Out of the woods now, running through plain soft grass to her grandmother’s house. She can see the delicious thick grey smoke pouring from the chimney, which means it will be warm and sweet inside, knowing there will be a cake or some pancakes ready when she gets though the door. The field is long and sloping, about twenty metres down and another thirteen metres back up again, she does it so swiftly that the animals barely notice her passing, the cows have their faces down and the old pony she used to ride is standing still, looking out across the field remembering what it was like to be young and playful and be ridden by little girls. She lets herself in with no announcement, and indeed the house is warm and fragrant, but it smells more of meat and potato stew and a harsh burnt wood she hasn’t smelt before. Her grandmother is under a pile of blankets in her bed, her body only moving with the in and out of her breath. ‘Grandmamma, I’ve brought you some bread and cheese’ she says, throwing her bag on the ground and opening the lid of the pot on the hearth ‘what is this you are cooking?’. She looks over and the heap still heaves in and out. ‘Grandmamma can I have some?’ Her grandma makes a sound like ‘eeee?…oohhrr’ and she thinks that the poor old lady is so exhausted today, like she can get, so she takes her bread from her bag and dips it in the stew. It is a dark red-brown gravy, and there are little vegetables in it, just large chucks of meat that haven’t really been cooked properly for a goulash ‘grandmamma is it ready yet?’ but no answer, so she tastes the gravy from the bread and finds it bitter and very much too salty. ‘Grandmamma this is terrible! What are you cooking?’. Again no answer from the breathing pile. ‘Grandmamma what is it? Are you ok? Are you happy to see me?’ ‘Yessssss’ she hears ‘oh grandmamma…’ says the girl, kicking of her dirty boots and climbing into bed, burying under the many covers until she reaches the warm centre. Her grandmother is covered in a soft fur, warm and beating with a strong heart, the girl cuddles in and begins talking about how she escaped from her house and took some delicious bread and parmesan cheese and wants to share it and as she is talking the furry mass turns over, pushing the girl over onto her back and envelopes her, now they are one warm mess and breathing together, her grandmother smelling unusually of meat and earth. ‘Grandmamma are you ok?” asks the girl, but she gets no answer, only a fur covered arm over the top that pulls her in closer. ‘Hurrmmmm’ says the furry pile and holds the girl tighter, moving all of its force closer and closer to the girl. Now she feels it rubbing between her legs, lifting her dress up slowly as it begins to caress her body with that warm moist fur, starting to drift off to sleep under the power of the soft slow movements, the fur caressing her legs and back and buttocks, the girl relaxing and pressing her body back into it, moving as one as the girl feels the pleasure roll over her, spreading her legs to let more fur touch her skin. Soon they are rocking together and she can hear a soft growl-like ‘huurrrmmmhurrrm’ from the pile, and with her eyes closed she forgets everything, why she is hear, the bread, the goulash and lets her mind wander. Soon she feels a sharp pain in her vagina, something is trying to get inside and she tries to close her legs but it keeps pushing and pushing and she feels her arms pinned down and the fun surrounding her head and she is pressed down into her face and the thing is pushing deeper into her and she tries to scream but she is covered in the furry rug and the thing pushes in and out in and out inside of her and after a while she feels a hot stream fill her inside and she is crying and the thing gets out of her and she struggles away, tangled in the fur and blankets and after she throws them all off sees a man standing near the fire, opening the lid and dipping some bread into the stew. ‘Wh-wh-who are you?” “No one. I hunt around here, that’s all. I came across this cabin this morning and I thought, I thought I’d stop in and say hello” “Where’s my grandma?” “Your grandma? Well, darling, your grandma is…” and he laughs and takes some of the bread and gravy into his mouth, the juice staying on most of his thick beard “your grandma is right here in this pot”.

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There is only a viscousness left

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I had her by the cunt you could say because we didn’t fuck anymore but she wouldn’t leave me because I got the money, I went out at 8 ah em and I came back there 7 pee em and that suited her just fine. I come home to her half pissed, half naked in clothes as impossible as that sounds:

“Did you leave the house today” I yell, first thing, spitting.

“No I didn’t fucking leave the house why the fuck would I leave the house, nothing out there nothing in her it’s all shit”

“You wouldn’t leave the house because where the fuck would you go. There is no place for you to go. Where you gonna go?”

“I’m not going anywhere. You get some smokes?”

And I did and I throw them at her and I take a cigarette from my own pack and we are in the place we live moving around smoking and not talking. I get a beer from the fridge, the last one and I open it a drink half of it and I open the fridge looking for another one that isn’t there.

“You can’t keep some fucking beer in here at least!” I yell across our home.

“What?” she yells back.

I walk back into the room, she is exhaling a plume into the open space.

“You are fucking useless”

“And who the fuck are you, huh? You walk in, throw my some cigarettes at me, now you’re gonna call me a piece of shit. Go get your own fucking beer you piece of shit”

“And what the fuck have you been drinking huh? You’re pissed already”

“Yeah well I’ve been drinking with Tommy today”

“Tommy is another fucking loser. You fuckers know how to get your hands on alcohol, right. You know what? Fuck this. Get the fuck out of there. Get your skanky ass clothes, shove them in a bunch of plastic bags and fuck off!”

“Yeah? Yeah? You want me to go? I will go if you want me to go”

“Get the fuck out!”

 

x                              x                              x

 

He was trying to get some work done after work, you know, real work. The stuff that keeps him going; to know He is still a person who has something beautiful to give that’s not bought and paid for by a bunch of moronic assholes (etc etc). Staring at the computer screen and the keyboard, screaming at him to create, make something, do something. The fucking world wide web has all of this shit on there come on and add to it. And then he added to it and it’s just some more shit into the pool.

 

x                              x                              x

 

There is no advertisement that can persuade you to purchase anything anymore. They all have the evil stink of self-interest. Worse; the advertising industry know this and have employed teams to get you to recommend products to your real-true-friends so that they buy what you have been convinced (by some means) to buy already. The fact that you genuinely tell someone about a product or service these days has been carefully calculated by ad agencies so that you are equipped to deliver the one line benefits straight to your nearest and dearest so that they too become purchasers (read: lifelong customers) of a particular brand or product (synonymous).

 

x                              x                              x

 

“Ah fuck you know I’m sixty now, sixty! and you know what I did love this girl, this one girl and she married my best friend, you know, what forty, fuck, forty years ago and, christ I was their first born’s godfather. And I still loved her. And I went there and did the thing in the church and I helped them paint their first house and still, still I loved her and I just wanted to be near her so I said ‘yes’ to being their kids godfather and I bought him presents and I was there on his birthdays and, and when he was a child they put him to bed so we stayed up drinking and it was always so close, the more I got drunk, so close to me telling her I loved her but that husband, my best friend, was there and it was so strange because I loved them both and I didn’t know how to say it and after more drinks it went away and it came to that thing again where I just talked about my life and how shit it was and they laughed because it was funny, really, and I made it all a joke but what I was really saying was how bad my life is because I was in love with a woman who was married and had kids and how fucking strange it is that I am one of those kids’ godfather, I mean go damn what the fuck happened to my life that this kind of shit would happen?”

 

x                              x                              x

 

I shouldn’t have given her my number, fuck, so I hang the phone up thinking thank fuck I have a phone you can hang up hard a proper with a handle not just a button. It rings again, so lovely to know someone wants you, or wants to tell you something that they have burning in their belly. I do it, I do, I pick it up.

“Fuck you don’t you fucking hang up on me”

“Sorry, ok? Sorry. But man you were talking all kings of made up imaginary bullshit there”

“What?! Yeah because you’ve worked it all out right, you already now what I’m gong to say”

“No, no I don’t but guess what I can probably work out why you’re bothering to say it”

“Oh fuck you”

“And, so, what’s up then? Hm?”

“I can’t event talk to you anymore”

“Really…really? And here we are on the phone. You know what I’m doing? Hm? I’m staring at a plain white wall, a cigarette in hand waiting to go outside and smoke it. That’s all. That’s what I can see and feel and I have a voice, you, on this thing. Okay? Too literal?”

“Christ you’re annoying”

“And you still aren’t saying anything interesting”

“I…I don’t want to see you this weekend. And…” long pause, me sitting there staring, holding back the urge to say anything, impatient, sure, “and I don’t want….this, anymore, this, thing we do, over the phone, this bullshit, text and call and…” and she exhales in an ‘urgh’ like that

“I get it ok, I get it. Guess what? That’s why we don’t talk. What are you bothering for?”

“Goodnight then”

“Okay”

And I hang up and get to feel horrible and cruel for the rest of the evening.

 

x                              x                              x

 

We, I, well we, I mean. Okay. It was one in the night and there was only that orange light that the council set up two weeks ago to stop all those junkies breaking into cars but what it did was give them all night to work and bathe our apartment in a sick glow that made us mad and crazy and awake too long. The baby was crying. We had a baby, we did that. We had a baby and it was weird. We didn’t really want a baby but we wanted a kid and we talked about how good it would be to have a good one, like, have a good kid that would grow up and be better than what we were and could be the best person ever and we talked about it and talked about what type and all of that and started having sex where I’d have to come inside of her to make a kid. It was funny because I’d say “what if I didn’t like it” or she’d say “what if it didn’t like us” and in these ways we’d laugh but now she was full of the thing and it was six months going and you could see it kicking and see its footprints pushing against her stomach skin and it’s like ‘whoa’ and I go back to my job and miss all those things and come home and want to watch TV but she wants a back rub and holy fuck of course there’s a thing inside you. I need to stop talking about it sooner or later. Can I skip ahead? We had the baby out of her and into our life and we did so well for so long, I mean we had a room next to ours, fuck the ‘lounge room” we never had a lounge anyway.

 

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Reunion Voices Sing

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I can tell you that I didn’t ever think I’d see her again and if I did I would have to talk to her instantly, away, by ourselves and tell her who I am and how sorry I am for what I did even though it wasn’t so bad and evil and all of that but still so wrong and stupid and that I know it now and that I am so very sorry and I would want her to talk, say whatever, say everything she thinks. I mean, Christ I have no idea who she is now or what she’d say or anything or even if she thinks the same or even needs me to say all of it out loud like I want to but as soon as I saw her, dressed in a nice proper dress and with her combed back and held back hair, walking into that room with a man on her arm I can tell you all of that and more came straight though me and I was transfixed and heard someone talking to me right next to me and that was the only thing that snapped my out of it and I answered and slurped down some beer and looked back at her but she was talking to someone and I thought “later”.

 

Look if I tell you now it’s going to sound…no, really, I wasn’t there for the high school reunion, and, as bullshity and improbable as it sounds YES I was there seeing a friend, yes also from high school, but it was coincidentally the time when he was moving interstate ok? So we had lunch and oh god what a bunch of unknown weirdos were congregated there that I had to sit near and because I was late I was at the crap ass end of the table where all the loser people who got pity invites were sat so I knew I was in for a bad hour or so but luckily being late meant lunch stuff was over and these morons where leaving. I only had to endure a few conversations like “what do you do” and I lied and they told me what they did and I said “that must be so boring” and like that until me and my friend and his now ex-girlfriend (thank god) were alone-ish to do the goodbye stuff you do but the real story lies ahead in that I was the same damn town that my high school reunion was in and for fucks sake the same old people I went to school with filed into the pub I was meeting my friend at so there we all were, me from the city back where I grew up and all of them touching me and drinking and being friendly so yeah sure I got caught up in it and yeah sure so I agreed to follow them down the road to the reunion.

 

High school reunions have all those people who come from your misty history and have maybe appeared as weird representations in your dreams where you forgot a whole bunch of information and you thought “I should have prepared, god damn it!” but of course you wake up and think fuck that I am glad I am not there anymore. That’s a reunion, being awake inside a dream and seeing pretty much the worst apparitions or reflections of your past because they are real and more horrific than you could have imagined. I walk around in the fog and every person I bump into has a big smile and so do I I feel and we say three lines and each one I can feel makes me seem so callous and theirs are so honest as if they are real people who actually live lives and believe the things they say. It happens so often that I end up sitting with those I have known for long time/were friends with in high school and they say “what’s wrong” and I answer “what the fuck is going on” and we laugh together.

It’s bad, straight away it’s bad, I mean the venue is bad to begin with, as if the pensioners have left because bingo is finished and there’s one middle aged woman behind the bar not knowing what the fuck is going on because there are people there after seven pee em and we want drinks. Oh god do we want drinks and after I’ve had maybe five glasses of wine she shows up. Oh man fuck I say in my head and I knew her and I can see what she looks like now and I think oh fuck that better not be my fault. She walks over and we see each other but she is hugged by some massively overweight ‘friend’ who I sort of remember but I guess they know each other since those days and I finish my drink and finish talking to this muscle bound moron who I used to know was ridiculed by everyone for being basically feeble and ugly so he pretty much found hid place bulking up and joining the army and I can only say over and over “you’re fucking HUGE” to my detriment.

 

She comes and sits with us because we are from the same clique, that’s how we met and in the most natural of implanted-in-our-psyche way we end up sitting next to each other, not listening to anyone else and talking. It is so lovely and we are smiling and it is as if the decade meant nothing. She had three kids and I have none. This doesn’t matter, I touch her knee and tell her she is so thin (we used to like being incredibly thin) and she says my face is chubby and I say ‘hey, I am healthy…fat and happy!’ but she reassures me in her way that I am not chubby and we laugh at ourselves now and how we used to be so incredibly insensitive to fat people. And we look over together at a fat woman we went to school with grotesquely kissing a much older beared male she brought with her and we screw up our faces and like “ewww gross” or similar and laugh and I light a cigarette and when she says ‘oh you still smoke’ I feel stupid. I try to make her see me as independent (i.e. different to her) so I say “Yeah” casually, blow out smoke and take another sip of wine.

 

Making my way though the idiots, trying to reminisce over things I could hardly care about anymore and some are really trying to sell me the idea of moving back and I can only say “Back? Doesn’t that sound bad to you? ‘Back’?” but they laugh because I have always been strange to them. I am next to her and she eventually finishes up the jargon to some other stranger and I say “Hey” and she says “Wow, you’re here. I didn’t think you’d come” “Why? Because I’ve always said reunions are stupid and weird and that I’d never come to my own?” “Well pretty much and also because why would you bother?” “Well that’s pretty complimentary, I mean, thinking I’d have way better things to do or even that I would b so occupied with my life that I wouldn’t even know about it or something” and she laughs dismissively remembering she knows what I’m like and all that so it goes on. I tell her I think about her every day and I can tell my her reaction that I need to finish off the sentiment by telling her “no not like that I mean you come up, you pass through, you are a thing that happens and, here’s the funny thing, as soon as you pop in I am forced to think of all the others, so funny, like a conga line, ha ha…her and then her and her, you know…it’s funny”.

 

It’s a weird moment, the end. We’re all getting up, finished reminiscing, finished watching and looking one another over. I am just looking at her. To girl I first loved. She is looking at me and we are smiling. I tell her I want to talk to her again and she promises me we will. I get an email address and I giver her my mobile phone number. It’s so terrible because we both know I will never write and she will never call. She has her family and her life and I have so much to write. I compose hundreds of emails every day, but to write her is something different. In the age of paperless transmissions, where we can communicate every five minutes or less, still there is something powerful in writing to someone who you used to love, and have seen them again, and have had that ting again where you remember what you had, and the beauty in knowing that you had to exchange something in order to let yourself go again, this time to a fate much different when you stupidly broke up over childish reasons twelve years before.

 

I get four more glasses of wine from the bar because I don’t want to go back there and I am sitting with them in front of me and she takes one and says “thanks” and I say “they’re all yours…”. She drinks half the glass down and says “Don’t worry. It’s ok.” “What?” “What you did to me” “Christ fuck, yes I know. That’s just so, oh man so fucking gross you know, I don’t mean you I mean me like, what the fuck kind of asshole juvenile dick was I?…thank you, thank you though for understanding…Christ I mean what has it been like, twelve years? Oh god its so,…I think about it every day. Really…every…day. I can’t even kiss a woman without thinking about it. And I wasn’t even drunk or anything!” “Okay okay calm down, geez. You’re acting all crazy” “Yeah? Ffff God okay I’m sorry. I guess, I’ve just been thinking about it, you know, in isolation, like, just my ideas and stuff. Can I say…I am so sorry for that, I mean, it was stupid and weird and wrong and…” “I get it, okay?…I was there you know, I was…pffft well, we were kids right, stupid little kids. I know, no.. I mean, I’ve been with a bunch of guys and you know, it’s always fucking weird, you know? It’s a fucking rape game this sex shit I tell you” and we laugh and chink glasses (plastic cups at this shit place) and we are smiling so it’s all good and I just needed to day it all out loud to her and it fades away; this sick feelings I’ve had.

 

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The War

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The witch lifted up her gown to reveal a horrid stench the likes of which I’d never smelt and it wasn’t what was under her skirt, she released a little creature hunched over, like a half baby thing with a thin white skin and she said “so now you see what there is” and I had my hand to my mouth, or more, I had my shirt over my mouth and nose. “I wanted you to give me what I wanted not give me this, thing”. The thing as it was fell over and hugged itself, like it was dying and I moved over to it but the witch hissed at me and said “don’t you dare touch it!” and I stopped there and asked “what is it?” and she said “This thing came from me because of you”. I moved back, put my clothes back in place, looked at the thing and then back to the witch. “Do I need to do anything with it?”. “No” she answered. “You gave me nothing”. “I can only give you what they give”. “They?” There is nothing for me here, only waste and disease. I give her the five hundred dollars, collect the little dying thing in my arms, against her screams for me to leave it alone, I push her over onto her bed and get the hell out of there.
 

Antoine calls and tells me a name. I barely get to say anything back, really, I say ‘ok’ and that’s it. The thing squirms next to me in the passenger seat. I don’t know whether to clothe it or kill it. It has the face of a man but the body of an infant platypus, that’s the best way to describe it. It has the essence of wings and the legs of a chicken. Perhaps it is a child angel? Who knows what she is capable of producing. She brought Angela back to life, her rotten corpse giving me a few more lines from her dead carcass, her jaw barely able to make the sounds needed to tell me who her killer was. She was yelling for most part, screaming about how the afterlife is so horrible and all that hate inside coming out in a gross guttural blathering until she gave up a name and we could let her soul rest and her body went limp as soon as I called it off and snuffed the blood candles. Fucking witchcraft.

 

I don’t know why but I wake up and have to vomit. I can only get as far as the sink and it comes out, it’s yellow and black and blood. Christ what the fuck is happening, these black magic arseholes getting inside me. I go back to bed and the thing is there, already bigger, about two feet now, its wings growing and its face more beautiful than you could imagine, I start crying and holding my stomach, something is wrong. I move it over and there is mucus or whatever it is on the mattress. I try to pick it up but it starts to beat around like a wounded bird so I leave it. I get my phone and call the witch that gave it to me but she doesn’t pick up so I call Damien instead. He answers straight away and I tell him what I’ve got. He laughs and tells me to feed it fruit and I ask him what to do and he tells me to wait until it’s bigger and moving and I ask “then what” and he says “just call me”.

 

Days pass, I leave strawberries near its face and watch it grow and shed its soft early feathers and grow proper limbs and more and more it smells of flowers and not the gross death smell the witch had. I decide to leave it in my apartment and go out. It’s not five minutes after I get a coffee that an old man in a brown suit stops me and says “Do you know of the Christ Saviour” and I tell him I do and he says “He knows about you too” and I say “I know” and he holds my arm and says “He wants to love you” and I let him go and know that he is both right and assuredly has no idea what he is talking about. I have a new born angel of god in my bed. If I told him that he would try and give it to a priest or someone or else he’d have a half alive child thing in his hands and he would be killed by a demon as soon as he left his domicile. The people do not know about the war but some of them can feel it.

 

It’s a child now, what looks like a ten year old boy but it’s not a boy, it has large wings and thin legs and a face that looks like a Botticelli painting and makes a soft lyrical sound like a woodwind instrument coming from a soprano. It hums a faint melody that makes me cry again. I cry as I make a pot of coffee and roll a cigarette and finish my coffee and pour myself a scotch and want it to stop this crying/singing/soulful lament thing but I go back in the room and see it’s even bigger and I put a few apples and half a watermelon near its face and it looks at me and I cry harder. I leave and smoke my cigarette in the kitchen. As I finish my cigarette, dousing it under the tap and throwing it into the trash it appears in the door frame, full, glowing, looking right at me with its soft wings loosely spread. “Hello” I say and it sings again and I can do nothing but cry.

 

“It’s here” I tell Antoine and he tells me “Ok good. Did you call Damien?” “Yes I called him, maybe two weeks ago”. “And?” “And? What do you mean…um, yeah, he told me to feed it fruit”. “Ok good. And you did and now you need to call him again”. “Christ Antoine, this thing, I…I can’t fucking look at it….every time it’s like…fuck”. “Ok ok calm down. Call Damien right now ok?”. “Sure”. I call Damien of course and he tells me to wait, that it’s not the time yet and that he doesn’t know what he wants to do yet. I tell him “Great! What the fuck do I do in the meantime?” and he tells me to put handcuffs on it and I explain there are no hands anymore and he says “well lock it the fuck up somehow” and I say I will. I walk into the room and it is perched on my lounge and I gesture for it to move but it actually speaks now and says “you are a child of Yeshua” and I know what it is saying and I rush over to it but it moves so softly and quietly that I am crying again as if its movements sung to me and it says “Your soul wants love, not this” and it moves again, this time next to me and it lets me know it is okay for me to lock it in the basement so it follows me down and lets me close the door on it.

 

It is the morning and I open the door to the basement and bring Damien down with me and his eyes roll back and his fingers become like daggers and his voice, deeper than always tells me “is this the place Jeremy” and I am scared and say “yes” and he moves past me into the darkness and I scramble back up the stairs and turn on the lights and he is on the bird creature and they are struggling and its feathers are coming off and Damien’s claws are going into it but it looks like the white creature moving under him rises over him and it’s singing a soft song and now it has its feet on Damien’s neck and is standing over him and breaking his body into two pieces and when it is done it rushes up from the basement and past me and out through the front door and as it does it changes into something I have never seen and it disappears so fast, leaving me with a warmth I’ve never felt and the heat becomes hotter and hotter and in my chest I feel it hard until I can’t stand up anymore.

 

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Westbury Academy Boy’s School Murders

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The Westbury Academy Boys School (or WABS as it’s known) is like Hogwarts if you replaced wizards with cunts and it’s where I teach English to a bunch of boyishly haircutted, ugly smirking, future banker types whose fathers are all assholes and whose mothers are all whores. There is no exception, there is no scholarship student with redeeming qualities who over the years gains the respect and admiration of his peers. Just a school full of lucky pricks with huge flat screen HD LCD TVs in their rooms. Perhaps the worst subject to teach is the one I’m paid ridiculously large amounts to teach to these seething pubescent furious masturbators because deep within their brainwashed mind they have come to understand that ‘English’; words, poems, or more accurately made up fiction is (a) beneath them (b) of no consequence and (c) cannot possible make you ‘big’ money. While they may be right in all three cases, i.e. (a) not accessible to them (b) philosophically arguable but not in the context they mean and (c) 100% true, and that this explains their general moronic behaviour when attending my lectures, it still does not excuse them from inciting me to slit each and every one of their throats during the night and in doing so know that I have made the future I plan on living in marginally better. The first ‘house boy’ I killed was a fifteen your old podge-faced red head, a crown to sole freckled little asshole. Nothing worse than an ugly chubby ginger scoffing at Kafka, so naturally I made the clever, life affirming move to mix in some/a lot of granulated sulfuric acid in with his white sugar the fat fuck heaped liberally on his wheat bix every morning. He actually managed to get through Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday like that, coughing and spluttering and otherwise woofing those bix down, not really caring that his insides were disintegrating and, god be praised, was too ashamed to tell anyone about the blood he was shitting out. Thursday was different, he didn’t feel like eating but, you know, the combination of peer pressure and general gluttony made him take that fourth and final bowl. Oh he got through it, sure, but lets just say I didn’t see him in fourth period English.
 

I just realised how horrible and animalistic and simple I must sound. Instead of going back and editing and perhaps all together deleting all of that I think it more pertinent to describe my situation more clearly. And again, no, I wasn’t harassed or had eggs thrown at me or whatever other horribly devastating things these low-level leaders of tomorrow could imagine would actually hurt a person, no, nothing like that. This is more of a…a…correction, to the world. I would be remiss in my duties as a teacher, a leader, a guide to these young men if I was to simply release these creatures into the world unschooled, unaware, unwittingly free to become the people we despise tens of years on throughout existence. And lets face it, if WABS, given its heritage, is in fact the breeding ground for future Ministers and Kings and CEOs then, yes, there should be some kind of test, some kind of conditions in which they are allowed to progress to such integral positions that affect all of everyone else. Right?

 

The term super hero has been, I mean, really misused and pretty much claimed by both the comic book kingdom and Neitzsche. Oh and god no I am not pretending I am a super hero, a regular hero? No not even. Let’s forget I opened with that. What I want you to understand is that, okay, imagine if there was a way to prevent the horrors of tomorrow’s bad decisions from every happening? Okay? And that’s what I’m doing. I’m stopping the worst people from progressing to their falsely pre-ordained if-the-shoe-fits roles that, ultimately, will end in the destruction of everyone/thing. Some part inside of you is agreeing I know, I know. I don’t like it either, hell, I strangled a thirteen year old down in the laundry room! How do you think I feel! It’s not about that though and I know, all you have to do is nod a tiny little bit and we can move on. Can I get a little nod? Not to killing children god no. I’m not about that at all. I just think you and I can agree that, hey, perhaps some of these undeserving close minded ‘borne to be leaders’ types, perhaps, maybe, actually don’t deserve to and worse shouldn’t ever be leaders.

 

Examples. Of course. Bradley McPherson (no relation to Elle). Oh my god you should have seen him (yes dead now). He looked forty five already, a nice round paunch, receding hairline, double chin! Really, a more suitable candidate for General Manager I have never seen. And he was sixteen! And this appearance, this sluggish gait and general under-qualified-but-a-prick-anyway demeanour wasn’t scolded, it was respected and (get ready to vomit) celebrated! He was awarded ‘most likely to succeed’, ‘leader of the debating team’, ‘executive on the student council’, ‘advisor to the bursar on excessive spending’ (after his year eleven ‘thesis’ on profitable school management). I mean, he cut off about 65% off gratuitous spending for students and was applauded. Now I mean, these are the people I am dealing with here, knowingly serving the body corporate, instinctually forgoing services in aid of revenue, approving negligent cut backs for the sake of shareholder (namely, their parents’) investments. I mean, to deliberately cut off your own amusement for the good of the insular economy of one (namely WABS) is existentially insane. He had to go.

 

Now as a teacher this one students’ contributions to the school did not disadvantage me at all, in fact, they actually heightened the luxury spending for the faculty because of the un-forecasted profits returned to the school. We have the most comfortable staff room in the country, replate with leather bound armoires, fully stocked libraries with many first editions, state of the art technology and 18 hour access to a fully stocked kitchen with a full time staff of eight. No, the exorbitance is not (or never) the problem in such regimes. It’s the complex balance between haves and have nots, the blatant disregard for your fellow man which results in a gluttonous over compensation for the ‘overlords’ coupled with the fact that this ingenious thinking is welcomed by those meagre individuals who (a) have been deprived and (b) see there depravation as directly enhancing their superiors, and worst (c) applaud and respect this outcome because in their mind they are working their way up to become the fat pigs in the upper echelons who will be rewarded in the end from cutting off and depriving the ‘lower class’ from receiving what they deserve or even what they had as a necessity.

 

Can I let you in on a secret? I really enjoyed this one way I dispatched this little bucktoothed capitalist prim-and-proper kid. I know it’s horrible to say but hear me out. In my position I was able to use the god-tool of grades to persuade this Bradley (no, it was not abbreviated to Brad for his friends, well, no one really had friends here, associates…yes they say that) that he needed help to up his English grade so that he could get into Harvard Business School. Almost instantly and without questioning (even though several of his housemates have died mysteriously) he agreed to meet me at seven pm in my office to negotiate a way to increase his grade. He arrived at seven on the dot, plonked a briefcase on my desk and opened it, clearly having watched too many movies, unclasped the locks and revealed, I don’t know maybe twenty or thirty thousand dollars in cash (all fifties…what the fuck is wrong with these kids?).

“Ah Brad., that’s…”

“Bradley”

“Yes, Brad, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. You know that you, and several of your classmates, aren’t really doing well in my class and…”

“Who else?”

“Brad, it’s not about that”

“Bradley. And maybe you’re a shit teacher then? Maybe I should report you to the board?”

“The board? There’s no board Brad. It’s the faculty. You’re not in business yet son”

“I’m not your…”

“Shut up I knew you’d say that, that’s way I said ‘son’. That’s why I keep saying Brad. Do you get it?”

“No…I…”

“Of course not. I’ll tell you why, Brad. Subtlety. Subtlety. One word, very simple, but completely lost on all of you. You see Brad, you don’t care what you look or sound like, you just want results, is that true?”

“Well…yes…I came here with, this bag and…”

“Yes I know, and this the point Brad. Ahhhh let me think”

And after that I went to my drawer, and pulled out a long knife and was trying to pretend to explain something about life and fear and culture but was really just trying to get closer to him and when I was close enough I just sank it into his heart. Funny really, it just goes in. He actually looked up at me and then looked down at the knife and then died. There was blood everywhere and I rolled him up in the rug and dragged him into my en-suite. I didn’t know what to do so I went back to my room. Here’s the good part, the very god damned next day the police came and I, naturally was panicked out of my mind, I mean, there was a dead fat boy in my bathroom but what happened next was they shut down the school, all the boys returned to their rooms and the announcement was made to staff that Henry Thompson, Religious Instructor and Pastor, was being arrested for child sex offences and that he was responsible for the missing boys of late and that investigations were ongoing. Yay!

 

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MENTAL HYPERTENSION, AGAIN, IN WHICH SOME THINGS FALL APART BUT YOU REMEMBER, THEY ARE APART

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If she said anything, I know it would be a whole bunch of things that I’d have to respond to in more and more intricate ways, things I’d have to remember and recall not only during my long winded explanation and examination but much later, as in, two or three weeks later when this type of yell/fight/conversation thing whatever it’s called comes back again. She’d say “you said this ‘line’” like its an affidavit and I’d have to again go into the intricate reasons and realities to justify a single line out of context for a moment, so I am careful now[1]. I asked her ‘do you want me to be careful from now on, like, do you want me to only deliver fully fledged finished complete sentences you can use tat have been so thought out and carefully matriculated so as to be all encompassing and so finished that really there is no room for argument and are intelligently thought out to a degree that even my momentary feelings have been packaged and presented in such as way that can be taken and processed with minimal if no rebuttal/confusion/refutation/confusion?”[2].

 

I didn’t say any of that, I thought that after saying these really horrible ridiculous things. Like how ‘I need to keep drinking in order to deal with this world’ OR ‘How terrible it is to live though all this shit and not drink a lot of wine very day’ OR ‘How I can’t possibly live with all these humans doing all the disgusting slash beautiful things that they do and NOT have a bottle of wine every night to handle it all’[3]. That’s, in the end, what she hates: The Bottle of Wine. I switched to a cask and that helped (because there were less empty glass bottles left over and it was harder for her to count). I can keep talking until the cows come home about how important it is for me to drink wine every night and I am hard pressed to get any resolution or intervention from this. The only way out is to be loved and supported and feel safe, that my world is crumbling and that people are useless and stupid and that I am dying in vain and that I have a future in which I am alone[4]… Ironically it seems that this low level drinking thing could cause the latter lonely life yet I have no evidence from the rest of the writing world to substantiate this analogy, only the tale of morons who had nothing to contribute in the first place[5]. Sorry for the arrogance, but…[6]

 

I forgive myself every morning, only when dressed of course. In the mirror I see a person I am becoming and it’s refreshing, better and better, not worse and worse as before (although to be honest in some sick world ‘worse and worse’ was also doing so damned well as well…). Dying is not scary, dying is in some ways honest and proper. I’m not scared of dying, sickness yes, it sucks but dying itself is somehow loving and proper. Inevitable. Now for me its dying in the most humane way and with a certain level of accomplishment. That’s all it is…if I can touch a large population with the things I know and feel and have seen then guess what? Bye Bye. Lovely and finished and done. I will be heartbroken to see her go but I will know that my love is real and true and even though I have said so many bad things and been so horribly manipulative and false and leading a multi-faceted more than double life, I will know deep down that I gave what I could, now, knowing all I do. We’re worms[7].

[1] The delicate word play and emotional management, we think, is so important when in reality, truthful emotional response to every and any thing is the most desired, true and cared for result. We don’t do this often enough…we want the other person to smile and then as a result we can smile again as well like we have achieved something, like we have made the world better but what have we done rally but continue pretending, behind our own backs this time. As if sweeping emotion under the rug is the cure for cancer.

[2] Disgusting, but, if you can do this well (to your soul’s detriment) then there will be no more nights like this, but of course, then you will be watching a movie with actors and you are a director or at least the lead actor with a his or hers trailer.

[3] Lies, falsehoods, justifications…how easily we fool ourselves and how funny they are in hindsight. Like ‘oh my god did you seriously say that? You didn’t even believe yourself, let alone convincing someone else. You are an idiot. Don’t pretend you don’t wake up somewhat hungover and thing ‘no more please god no more, please help me I can’t stop, I know it now and I don’t want this anymore’

[4] No comment…it sounds worse than it is. I am happy.

[5] More justification for my behaviour. Like posting Wikipedia links or telling long winded stories about how pretty much every good writer was a borderline or fully fledged alcoholic…Kafka, Carver, Dostoyevsky etc. I can’t do that right now, I am not a fully fledged published writer…sure I wasn’t born in the renaissance of creative fiction, I was born in the grey goo of modern blog/self publishing/video log days. No editors, no publishers, no reason to listen to anyone anymore.

[6] Not really…have you been reading/writing?

[7] http://www.minion.co/short-stories/worms-a-love-story

 

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Lego Manifesto

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When I was a boy my bedroom wall was an evolving visual statement of who was at the moment. At maybe twelve or thirteen, when I was most interested in Lego, I had meticulously used all the available wall space to display every facet of the space Lego realm I could. That meant posters, cutting out images from the box the Lego came in (to the point of orientating various logo cut outs from the box to fill empty spaces), shelving and grandly displaying finished pieces, at varying times in stasis acts of war or invasion or even (in my egalitarian moments) functional cooperation[1]. My desire for achieving perfection in my representation of the wall paled in comparison to my actual ownership of Lego, or in fact my actual communication with fellow children of my love of Lego. It was a private thing that I had and a desire to show myself (and my family) the shame I felt in not creating a perfect homage to Lego. This guilt (I guess) spurred me on because even though I and my parents could not afford to buy the complete set of anything, I felt in this absence of ownership a resulting obligation in that I should create something that transcended the mere ownership of the objects, that the desire and single-mined earnestness to complete the collection, complete Lego™’s own desired “full” set, was meaningless compared to my desire to use my other Lego collections to as closely as possible emulate the dream-like scapes that they envisioned on their larger scale marketing inserts (when you buy a large piece they give you an extra brochure that outlays the entire scope of the world they desire for the complete interaction of their Lego army (for that ‘series’), a plan you do not get when you buy the smaller, ancillary pieces that most people get as presents from Aunts and Uncles who don’t really care about you that much, they are usually about $20[2]).

 

Invariably (and in a way attempting to destroying any reverence I had for Lego) every other child I knew had a mother fucking huge BAG of the stuff (which I found out was Lego approved, a common way of storing massive collections). They cared little for the dissemination of pieces and distinction between genres I had come to self-teach[3] was the proper way to control ones Lego collection (using various boxes and cataloguing systems, carful to archive the manuals and partition the pieces into their correct “brand” grouping. I was not insane after all). The large bag exalted a way of treated Lego as a pile of garbage, as a toy, as a thing you ‘got out, messed with and then collapsed into a incoherent mess’ with no deep value other than perhaps an aggrandised ownership. I felt no guilt in stealing amazing pieces from these heathens. They did not appreciate what they had, I appreciated it far more, they would not notice any losses for they were fools with gold (or swines with pearls, whatever analogy you want). So I left their houses with my pockets full with reward. My only disgust came when these ill-gotten pieces from incomplete collections did not fit in with my carefully matriculated collections. They stood out like sore thumbs, they were singular and abhorrent[4].

 

Back in my bedroom, sitting over my modest yet superior Lego collection, I stared at it, processing the confusing mix of anger, disgust and admiration I felt toward those with grossly overpopulated übercollections. I stared at the pieces before me and felt love for every piece (except for maybe the two-ers[5] which, let’s face it, are pretty perfunctory and not very stable). I began to build, using colour matched pieces which a Lego perfectionist would know is the key to creating master works, a working industrial complex replete with security and staff quarters, an open plan building mimicking a cross between Die Hard (the movie) infrastructure and neo-terrorist capabilities (for the infiltrating party…this is ‘space’ Lego after all, they need advanced clever tools). It quickly became clear that my ability to creating fully fledged finished Lego-company quality pieces out mastered the kids with massively ambiguous grey-goo collections. They had no attention to detail. They had no idea of how to get the most out of every piece. They had no idea even of colour matching! They built like imbeciles seeking to create the tower of Babel. Red, yellow, blue (colours foreign to me for I had sets of pristine mainly white space Lego) were used indiscriminately…they made pieces that needed explanation, they made pieces that were abhorrent to nature and architecture. “Where do you see buildings like that?” I’d say. And they would answer feebly and without heart: “In the future”. Like that was a blanket rule that allowed them to create ludicrous monstrous-cities (sorry), as if human evolution would do away with aesthetics. Bah! I knew what they were doing. Quantity over quality. Having my refined collection meant I had to be smarter, more aware. My impoverished collection forced me to become much cleverer, less like a blundering buffoon who used Lego as a way to fill in time, avoid boredom, to luckily connect pieces like an ape.

 

Imagine them, opening their big bag and hearing the pieces settling, but not hearing it in a loving sense, in a noise sense, white noise, or worse even suffering it as an annoyance. The sit and draw their hnds through the pieces, inspiration-less, trying to find a base to begin with. Finding a landscape plate that inspires them! I’ll build a house! And hey build an ugly house. That will do, they think. Even with this sea of potential they crate a stock standard replication of their surroundings, enough for the inhabitants of this brief existence. In their exuberant living conditions they managed to fashion a cold dead ugly reflection of themselves. No awareness of a desire to create beauty, to produce a version outside of the current world, to give value, to offer a better version of life. These are the privileged children who go into government, make the rules they think we al can live by. Devoid of choice, value, appreciation and worst of all awareness that these things mater at all. My understanding of the preciousness of a single piece sets me apart from these conglomerate spoilt for choice moguls who, with it all, instead chose to develop ill-formed, visually disgusting normalities. And we wonder why things turn out like they do.

 

Mainly, Lego built in disdain is built for destruction. The pieces are built without any longevity, almost deliberately brittle and hollow, only visually useful, but mainly, once boredom has been replaced by a need to build with Lego (which is the reason/purpose/point of Lego) the next level (only ten or maybe twenty minutes later) was to smash their creation back to noting, back to a pile. There’s more fun in the destruction for these unimaginative irreverent gluttonous humans. Joy in destruction. Satisfaction in wreaking their crappy inventions. And here’s the clincher, the fat that they knew it was crappy, that it was always destined for the junk pile, that their eagerness to create was underpinned by the eventual desire to destroy. This is the real reason why they didn’t care about their huge collections, or the attention to detail in creating something everlasting. They wanted a quick dirty build followed by a triumphant suicide. The joy in killing what they made outweighed their joy in creating.

 

 

THE END

[1] That’s the great thing about Lego, it actually promotes a level of excitement in mundane cooperative actions, like setting up a moon base, like sharing resources, like fixing a vehicle et al. The greatest socialist tool is not killing all of the upper-class, its aggrandising common perfunctory interactions. Socialist propaganda? Space exploration as a tool for global supremacy? Want to be a town planner?

[2] Further, and the horror again, you realise that the I-don’t-give-a-fuck-about-you present you received from a somewhat distant and let’s face it probably poor adult you used to think were interesting and ‘big’ were those cheap as hell Chinese made rip-offs (fake crappy transformers) that I, now, would never consider giving to a friend’s child, or even as a gift to a acquaintances child let alone a true blood family member! These things happen over the years and you correct your history with them. The fact that you can add detail to historical events is bizarre, and it usually leads you to even further disgust for the moments you in your (youthful) gut knew were distasteful in the first place. You just couldn’t articulate them back then, beyond things like ‘this toy is CRAP!’.

[3] Thus creating a higher ideal I would hold all Lego owners unto.

[4] Not because they were stolen, no! Because they were orphans. Symbolic of the destiny I had rescued them from and juts didn’t fit in with the rest of the collected kits (mainly because I could visualise the finished kit just by seeing a single piece, hence the conceot of belonging).

[5] If you don’t know what this is either you are not versed enough in Lego or (being nice now) for some more or less common terminology start here http://www.themorningnews.org/archives/opinions/a_common_nomenclature_for_lego_families.php

 

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Teens have a thing inside that isn’t broken yet

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Sara(Sarah no h)’s mother made her break up with Alec because he wasn’t Jewish. She said “you’re not going to marry him so why bother?” and it wasn’t because she said it or the Jewish thing or anything but it was the sentiment of ‘why bother if you’re not going to marry him’. After that it seemed like she was just getting fucked and that felt wrong, even though she did like fucking before that sentence. Damn him & damn mum.

They were all kissing and drinking and vomiting and they said ‘have a drink!’ loud but he didn’t want to and he was skating out on the street and could hear the party going on and three guys came over, drunk and told him how cool he was and how they thought he was so cool all the stuff he said in class and he was weird and cool and like that (drunk style) and he thought you are fucking idiots and skated home.

What they do is everyday after school go to the small town of Lambert because they live in an interconnected line of small towns and hang out under the footbridge to the train station and eat hot chips with gravy and smoke cigarettes.

“Fuck you mother fucking cunt!” Mike yells out to a maybe sixty year old woman who kept looking over to us for being so loud and it’s hilarious; she just gets up and leaves and we’re laughing and Mike says “man, should I go and say sorry to that dried up whore?” and Ken says “fuck that old ass wrinkly whore man” and we keep going on and man Ken throws his coke on me and I leap up and punch him in the face and he tries to wrestle me and Kate says, “hey guy this is Newtown” and we get off the train because we are going to smoke joints in the cemetery.

I take the stem out of the bong and use a pencil to push all the resin out form the stem into a bowl and chop some tobacco into it to get it dry and smokable. We couldn’t get on again and it’s ten thirty so shit we have to smoke this shit and its funny, its funny kind of thing and it tastes like crap. I pack myself a nice soggy cone and smoke it down and I actually like it, sick fuck that I am. I give Brendan the bowl and he makes himself one and I feel good and relaxed and it’s all for free. Then my turn again.

They’re all standing around outside the hall waiting to see some bands and they don’t realise that they all look the same, all these individuals looking the same trying to be different and it’s beautiful like that.

Odd Future Wolf Gang Kill Them All www.oddfuture.com SWAG

Years later:
I got a job because I could talk the talk, I know what it’s like, I’ve been there and done that and now I am the best equipped to sell product to these teenagers. They’re actually really easy because (a) they are driven by pack mentality (b) their non-conformity is easily adapted (Christ its 2011 and still they wear Nirvana and worse Ramones t-shirts) (c) they have no purpose other than what is presented and available (what I mean by presented is discovered, they have to think they discover it, and it’s east to ‘hide’ stuff online) (d) it is amazingly clear what they love and hate (as opposed to the general public who are more or less fickle and unencumbered by a role they need to design and live my, i.e. quasi-moral code).

DISCLAIMER: I have always been a fascinated observer. I just do not believe that I am alone in realising that actions are at their core fake and are a (loving) re-enactment. Also, to solidify my case, when pressed people have little depth so in that sense the cause and effect is one and the same; their reasons for living that way are irrelevant and the outcome is to achieve a version of a desired repetition (read: morose) that they know they want and so press to achieve. This is the way of death. The other way: honesty, indifference, soulfulness, depth, individuality…authenticity…keeps alluding us.

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