my friend dan has a penchant for rubbing people up the wrong way, he gets off on upsetting people, he particuarly likes upsetting old people, which i think is a bit mean
it was greg who suggested we should all refer to each other as cunt, and we went along with it because, well it was kind of fun
greg called me once, mama was milling round supervising floral arrangements, a maid passed me the phone....hello u cunt he sed..........but he really stretched the syllables as in ccccccccccuuuuuuuuuuuunnnnnnnnnntttttttt
naturally the phone was on speaker and mama nearly went ballistic, she turned purple, i was nothing if not indifferent to her increduality, and replied as in kind......hello you cunt
must you talk like that she expostulated, and i swear a puff of steam came from an ear
yes i sed its his name
I once read that everything a writer jots down, somehow leads back to one single person. When the focus of my writing shifted from a monster, to a lover, then to myself, I really didn't understand this concept. After a few months of writing about countless things on end, I finally saw the strange connection. Although these stories and paragraphs and poems were all written for different people, they were ultimately written for a single person. Over the course of a lifetime, or even a few years, we often create people in our minds. These people that we create are all different, but every person has their very own. In every person's mind, lies a person created from all of the people they've ever loved; an idea of what they are supposed to be. This is the person we write for. I write for the person that broke my heart, but also the person who made it strong again. The reason I write these words is because I am writing for every person who ever meant anything to me. And I am writing for me because I see myself in the small cracks and pieces of the people I once so dearly loved. I write for my recovery and my past.
Remember the moment just after you've stumbled out of a waking dream. The odd realisation that the vivid reality you're in and the one you just left are like twin sisters dressing up looking at one other in a room full of mirrors; sounds excessive but it's true. Its never the dream itself that shocks you, its the awakening following the experience. The rude interruption of what may be just be a better existence; or it may be the much await exit from the harrowing haunting truths that usually lurks in some deep trench in your head, lunging when the moment is both ripe and unfortunate..for you! So the question now looms do we remember our dreams or do we remember to forget them?
The machines are fattening us up for the slaughter. I eat so much my skin aches. I eat so much I'm afraid to burp. I'm trying to rise to my feet, but my balance is wanky. I step left and wobble, I step right and wobble. One more strip of turkey, gobble gobble. I widen my stance. I rest against the post. My girth challenges me to re-learn how to handle myself. The machines are beating me. I'm far less mobile than I ought to be. The drones swoop in and offer me pecan pie with whip cream. I shouldn't, but I do. One small bite at a time and that pie is mine. It is a part of me. The machines send out their clones. They pour me creamy beverages with alcohol and caramel. I tell them no! But then they pour it over perfect ice in clinking glasses, and a good stiff creamy drink is just what I think I need. The machines are crushing me. I try to run to the forest, but can't run without hurting my knees. So I amble out through the cold November air, past the streets and through the trees. I see no machine, or treat, but it is too late for me. My spirit is weak. All that remains is hunger pangs.
We stood alone in a group. We felt lonely. We were the ones that kept on going even when life kept coming. Its the truth. We are survivors. In this day and age we have no noble cause to champion, no grand ideal to enforce, no over-reaching dictator to dispose. We fight for our identity. As a person, as a child, as a parent, as a son, as a daughter. We fight for ourselves. To be seen, heard and understood. Its the perverse penetrative scheme set in motion because we are tired of our lot. Tired of being hopeless, subject to the pity and scorn of those just a thread above us on the loom of fate. We're spun a tale as old as time; about the nature of luck, but this time we fight back, we rise, we live.