Whenever I asked for something that was extravagant, or just plain ridiculous, my mother used to say to me "Where do you think you are? Daddy's yacht?"
"Mum," I'd say, (Mostly because I didn't know my mother well enough to call her Phyllis) "Can we have ice cream and jelly for supper?"
"Where do you think you are? Daddy's yacht?" She'd reply.
For hours, and often days, after hearing my mother utter these words I would ponder why my dad hadn't told me that he had a yacht or where it was berthed. Another question I pondered on was, how did my dad pay for his yacht on only the salary of an electrician?
The worst thing was that in his younger years my dad was in the navy and I gave serious consideration to the idea that when you left the navy they gave you a boat. The higher up the chain of command you were the bigger the boat you got. Admirals got large flagships, Captains got smaller destroyer type boats and electricians got a nice little yacht. It seemed the most sensible way that my dad had managed to get his, oft mentioned, yacht.
Showing posts with label Memoirs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memoirs. Show all posts
9/22/2008
1/28/2008
The diary of a dream...
The TV was broadcasting static and the only sound in the room was the hissing white noise issuing from the speakers. I couldn't be sure how long I had been asleep as the numbers on the readout of my digital alarm clock kept changing, one second it was showing the time as 01:06 and the next it was showing 19:68.
I groped for the switch to the angle poise lamp at the side of my bed but found that it was missing. Not the lamp. Just the switch. “What the…” I thought, for a fraction of a second but it slid quickly from my mind. I was somewhat confused. The normal thought process was somehow liquid in its composition. My thoughts seemed to be like eels, hard to get a grip on.
My attention was dragged back to the digital readout of the alarm clock. The numbers were still unsure of what time it was supposed to be. Had I been drinking? I thought, looking around for an empty bottle. No evidence was immediately visible.
Drugs then? Once more nothing lead me to believe that I’d been on a chemical adventure. Sure, the bottle of apple juice spiked with codeine based pain killers was at my bedside where it always was but I could see I hadn’t drank any of it.
A cigarette was sitting smoking in the ashtray next to the small plastic bottle so I reached out and got a hold of it. I dragged the smoke deep into my lungs and wondered what was going on.
Had there been a power outage of some kind? A black out perhaps? Caused by the awful weather I could hear shaking the windows and buffeting the trees in the back of the house. That seemed logical, the high winds and driving rain had caused a substation somewhere to POP a fuse and the result was a TV jammed between channels and an alarm clock that didn’t know what time it was.
The walls looked strange. The flickering static beaming from the TV made them seem like they were having problems deciding what they were made of. I got the impression that if I were to reach out and try to touch them my hand would melt into the solid mass and become part of the bricks and mortar.
The TV suddenly stopped broadcasting static and instead filled the room with images of important political figures.
Jimmy Carter appeared saying something about change and progress. Maggie Thatcher appeared and said something about the future. Ronald Reagan replaced the picture of the Iron Lady and I laughed as he blew chunks onto the poor unfortunate soul at some lavish bash thrown in honour of some long forgotten cause he had been championing.
JFK appeared, with his winning smile, waving to a small crowd of onlookers, just before his head snapped backwards as a bullet smashed into his skull. The picture rewound in slow motion. The shot came again. JFK took the hit and I could smell cordite hanging in the air.
Nixon appeared chiming the word “Sacrifice” over and over and over again until I finally snapped and shouted “STOP IT!”
At which point the TV shut down with a flash of white and a phwoop noise.
The room was plunged into darkness and I reached for the lamp switch and found it was back in its usual place. I flicked it upwards and jumped as it illuminated a figure sitting on the small table in the opposite corner of the room.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.
The figure, a young looking man with a bald head, a Hawaiian shirt, Converse shoes and shorts made from an American flag, said nothing.
“I said who the fuck are you!” I questioned again.
The figure smiled a broad smile and said nothing. Reaching into a pocket he withdrew a pack of Dunhill’s, popped a cigarette into a small plastic holder and lit it with a Zippo.
“Answer me goddamn it.” I said.
The figure laughed. “Jesus man, you really ought to calm down. You’re safe enough. I’m not here to hurt you. If I was you’d be a rapidly cooling corpse on a blood soaked bed by now.” The figure said, still smiling.
“Answer me then, who are you?” I asked.
“That depends.” The figure replied.
“On what?” I asked.
“On whether you want my real name, my pseudonym or the name that most people liked to call me.” The figure replied, cryptically.
“Any and all would be good.” I said.
The figure laughed again. “Well, my real name was Hunter, my pseudonym was Duke but most people liked to call me Dr.” He said flicking his eyebrows upwards.
I realised what the figure was trying to claim. “Is that right?” I said.
“Sure is man.” The figure replied.
“I happen to know that the person you claim to be is dead.” I replied, wondering if I could find something to use as a weapon against the interloper.
“That’s true, to a certain extent.” The figure said. “But that’s not a problem in here.” He continued, motioning around with his hand.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You’re not too quick on the uptake are you? You’re dreaming. I may well be dead but dreams are different.” The figure said, matter of factly.
“And how can I be sure I’m dreaming?” I asked.
“Well, you could punch yourself in the face and see if it hurts.” The figure said with a chuckle. “Or easier still you could try to tell me what time it is.” He said pointing at the digital alarm clock.
The figures on the clock were still skipping around. 03:45, 20:06, 00:00, 09:18.
“The clock is fucked.” I said.
“This is harder than I thought it would be… OK, remember what you learned about lucid dreaming? Numbers are hard to read, things are slightly different to normal, light switches for example, thoughts are harder to grasp, reality is no longer a constant.” The figure said.
I closed my eyes and focused my mind. If this was a lucid dream I could concentrate and conjure up whatever I wanted. I felt my thoughts begin to become more solid. Opening my eyes I saw what it was I had focused my thoughts upon.
A sleek black MV Augusta F4 Senna sat where my TV was a second ago.
“Nice bike. It’s not a Vincent Black Shadow but it’s still nice.” He said.
“Man, that bike makes a Vincent look like a Vespa. That thing has more poke than a Vegas hooker, it’d leave a Vincent for dead.” I replied.
The bike popped out of existence and the figure spoke. “Listen kid, you’ve been given a chance to do something you love, grab the fucker by the throat and give it a shake. You’ll be surprised where it can take you. Don’t let them down.” He said, beginning to fade.
“Let who down?” I asked, as the figure faded totally.
“Them…” Said the disembodied voice.
I expected whomever they were to pop into existence but they didn’t.
They didn’t have to. I knew who he meant.
I groped for the switch to the angle poise lamp at the side of my bed but found that it was missing. Not the lamp. Just the switch. “What the…” I thought, for a fraction of a second but it slid quickly from my mind. I was somewhat confused. The normal thought process was somehow liquid in its composition. My thoughts seemed to be like eels, hard to get a grip on.
My attention was dragged back to the digital readout of the alarm clock. The numbers were still unsure of what time it was supposed to be. Had I been drinking? I thought, looking around for an empty bottle. No evidence was immediately visible.
Drugs then? Once more nothing lead me to believe that I’d been on a chemical adventure. Sure, the bottle of apple juice spiked with codeine based pain killers was at my bedside where it always was but I could see I hadn’t drank any of it.
A cigarette was sitting smoking in the ashtray next to the small plastic bottle so I reached out and got a hold of it. I dragged the smoke deep into my lungs and wondered what was going on.
Had there been a power outage of some kind? A black out perhaps? Caused by the awful weather I could hear shaking the windows and buffeting the trees in the back of the house. That seemed logical, the high winds and driving rain had caused a substation somewhere to POP a fuse and the result was a TV jammed between channels and an alarm clock that didn’t know what time it was.
The walls looked strange. The flickering static beaming from the TV made them seem like they were having problems deciding what they were made of. I got the impression that if I were to reach out and try to touch them my hand would melt into the solid mass and become part of the bricks and mortar.
The TV suddenly stopped broadcasting static and instead filled the room with images of important political figures.
Jimmy Carter appeared saying something about change and progress. Maggie Thatcher appeared and said something about the future. Ronald Reagan replaced the picture of the Iron Lady and I laughed as he blew chunks onto the poor unfortunate soul at some lavish bash thrown in honour of some long forgotten cause he had been championing.
JFK appeared, with his winning smile, waving to a small crowd of onlookers, just before his head snapped backwards as a bullet smashed into his skull. The picture rewound in slow motion. The shot came again. JFK took the hit and I could smell cordite hanging in the air.
Nixon appeared chiming the word “Sacrifice” over and over and over again until I finally snapped and shouted “STOP IT!”
At which point the TV shut down with a flash of white and a phwoop noise.
The room was plunged into darkness and I reached for the lamp switch and found it was back in its usual place. I flicked it upwards and jumped as it illuminated a figure sitting on the small table in the opposite corner of the room.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demanded.
The figure, a young looking man with a bald head, a Hawaiian shirt, Converse shoes and shorts made from an American flag, said nothing.
“I said who the fuck are you!” I questioned again.
The figure smiled a broad smile and said nothing. Reaching into a pocket he withdrew a pack of Dunhill’s, popped a cigarette into a small plastic holder and lit it with a Zippo.
“Answer me goddamn it.” I said.
The figure laughed. “Jesus man, you really ought to calm down. You’re safe enough. I’m not here to hurt you. If I was you’d be a rapidly cooling corpse on a blood soaked bed by now.” The figure said, still smiling.
“Answer me then, who are you?” I asked.
“That depends.” The figure replied.
“On what?” I asked.
“On whether you want my real name, my pseudonym or the name that most people liked to call me.” The figure replied, cryptically.
“Any and all would be good.” I said.
The figure laughed again. “Well, my real name was Hunter, my pseudonym was Duke but most people liked to call me Dr.” He said flicking his eyebrows upwards.
I realised what the figure was trying to claim. “Is that right?” I said.
“Sure is man.” The figure replied.
“I happen to know that the person you claim to be is dead.” I replied, wondering if I could find something to use as a weapon against the interloper.
“That’s true, to a certain extent.” The figure said. “But that’s not a problem in here.” He continued, motioning around with his hand.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.
“You’re not too quick on the uptake are you? You’re dreaming. I may well be dead but dreams are different.” The figure said, matter of factly.
“And how can I be sure I’m dreaming?” I asked.
“Well, you could punch yourself in the face and see if it hurts.” The figure said with a chuckle. “Or easier still you could try to tell me what time it is.” He said pointing at the digital alarm clock.
The figures on the clock were still skipping around. 03:45, 20:06, 00:00, 09:18.
“The clock is fucked.” I said.
“This is harder than I thought it would be… OK, remember what you learned about lucid dreaming? Numbers are hard to read, things are slightly different to normal, light switches for example, thoughts are harder to grasp, reality is no longer a constant.” The figure said.
I closed my eyes and focused my mind. If this was a lucid dream I could concentrate and conjure up whatever I wanted. I felt my thoughts begin to become more solid. Opening my eyes I saw what it was I had focused my thoughts upon.
A sleek black MV Augusta F4 Senna sat where my TV was a second ago.
“Nice bike. It’s not a Vincent Black Shadow but it’s still nice.” He said.
“Man, that bike makes a Vincent look like a Vespa. That thing has more poke than a Vegas hooker, it’d leave a Vincent for dead.” I replied.
The bike popped out of existence and the figure spoke. “Listen kid, you’ve been given a chance to do something you love, grab the fucker by the throat and give it a shake. You’ll be surprised where it can take you. Don’t let them down.” He said, beginning to fade.
“Let who down?” I asked, as the figure faded totally.
“Them…” Said the disembodied voice.
I expected whomever they were to pop into existence but they didn’t.
They didn’t have to. I knew who he meant.
12/24/2007
T'was the day before Christmas...
And all through the house; Nothing was stirring; Not even a mouse.
What a crock of horse biscuits.
Which when I was younger, (When things were simpler, when summer days seemed to last a month, the sun always shone, the ice cream truck was never more than twenty yards away and kids from your neighbourhood were never in any danger of being snapped up by pedophile rings or eaten by insane Rottweilers lusting for human blood.) I ate up like a homeless person who is offered a half eaten McDonalds by a drunk who thinks that their generosity will far outweigh a life spent pissing into the wind when it comes to the day when they are balanced on the scales of life.
Seriously... I bought into all that "Be-good-boy-and-Santa-will-bring-you-nice-things, Misbehave-and-Santa-will-bring-you-a-lump-of-coal" bullshit and acted accordingly. [1]
I was so badly suckered into the whole Lies To Children thing I was even pulled into the Charles and Diana wedding affair.
Hey, whoa there Bubba, back that truck up a bit and don't be so damn hasty in your judgement of a young lad getting involved in the one-day-a-princess-will-come-along story, I was after all only ten years old at the time, my parents were going through the early stage motions of divorce proceedings by killing each other with words and I was desperate for a happy ending of some kind.
So, having established that it wasn't my fault that I fell for all the lies that are told to children we'll move on. I won't mention the fact that for about a year I had pictures of Charles and Diana on my bedroom wall and you won't take the piss out of me for being so gullible.
(I'm serious. Don't even think about taking the piss or I'll hunt you down and exact revenge on you in as many horrible ways as I can think of... Wiring your reproductive organs to the mains, pulling your fingernails out with pliers, taking an industrial sander to your knees, having your eyelids held open while I squeeze lemon juice into them or making you watch the Spice Girls reunion tour concerts on a permanent loop; Need I go on? No. Good...)
In fact I fell for the whole lies to children thing so much so that to this day I still wonder "What would my mum say if she knew I was about to do this?" just before I get into any kind of high jinks. (Generally involving booze, drugs and on occasion fireworks.) I don't think too long though. Should the thought linger for more than a few seconds I end up going home, putting my feet up and reading the Scriptures instead.
Yeah, sure. The Scriptures. My fingers burn upon contact with any holy text and I'm overcome by the Devils tongue and begin screaming horrible, vicious things about Jeebus being nothing more than a gifted magician and Moses being an evil beardy cunt who had plans on enslaving the world...
Now though, I realise that my parents told me these lies in order to help them fashion me into the upstanding pillar of the community I am today. (How long do you think anyone will believe that one?)
They told me that if I was good Santa would bring me nice things to instill the belief that if I do nice things nice things will happen to me, they told me that God was omnipotent to make me heedful of the possible consequences of being caught doing something I shouldn't to teach me... I dunno. The only possible thing that I can think of right now that that lesson was meant to instill was; If you're gonna do something bad make sure you don't get caught.
It is my firm belief that generally people don't need these lessons beaten into them at such a young age. We're a clever race of beings [2] and most of us realise that there is a difference between right and wrong and we generally know which is which.
Foisting the whole Santa bit on kids isn't nearly as bad in my eyes as the whole GOD thing.
What kind of a person puts that kind of shit into a mind that can't fathom the idea that goldfish die easily if you overfeed them? I'll tell you what kind. The kind that seeks mindless conformity and unearned respect, the kind that seeks to control you from afar, the kind that insists you OBEY unquestioningly the demands of your elders, the kind that makes you say nice things when you really want to be honest and let loose. In short... Parents.
To end I would like to say this. Please pay no heed to this rambling screed denouncing parents and their strange ways. They do it because they love you and want you to be a good person.
Either that or they're an alien race bent on the overthrow of the human race one soul at a time...
You decide.
Oh, yeah. One last thing... Happy Christmas and all that guff.
[1] (At least until I figured out that Santa didn't actually exist and the whole gig was a fable made up by parents so that they could get peace in the months approaching Christmas.)
[2] (Occasionally we do fuck up. For an example see WW1 WW2 and every other conflict since man first stumbled out of the cave and decided to see what was out there.)
*******************
What a crock of horse biscuits.
Which when I was younger, (When things were simpler, when summer days seemed to last a month, the sun always shone, the ice cream truck was never more than twenty yards away and kids from your neighbourhood were never in any danger of being snapped up by pedophile rings or eaten by insane Rottweilers lusting for human blood.) I ate up like a homeless person who is offered a half eaten McDonalds by a drunk who thinks that their generosity will far outweigh a life spent pissing into the wind when it comes to the day when they are balanced on the scales of life.
Seriously... I bought into all that "Be-good-boy-and-Santa-will-bring-you-nice-things, Misbehave-and-Santa-will-bring-you-a-lump-of-coal" bullshit and acted accordingly. [1]
I was so badly suckered into the whole Lies To Children thing I was even pulled into the Charles and Diana wedding affair.
Hey, whoa there Bubba, back that truck up a bit and don't be so damn hasty in your judgement of a young lad getting involved in the one-day-a-princess-will-come-along story, I was after all only ten years old at the time, my parents were going through the early stage motions of divorce proceedings by killing each other with words and I was desperate for a happy ending of some kind.
So, having established that it wasn't my fault that I fell for all the lies that are told to children we'll move on. I won't mention the fact that for about a year I had pictures of Charles and Diana on my bedroom wall and you won't take the piss out of me for being so gullible.
(I'm serious. Don't even think about taking the piss or I'll hunt you down and exact revenge on you in as many horrible ways as I can think of... Wiring your reproductive organs to the mains, pulling your fingernails out with pliers, taking an industrial sander to your knees, having your eyelids held open while I squeeze lemon juice into them or making you watch the Spice Girls reunion tour concerts on a permanent loop; Need I go on? No. Good...)
In fact I fell for the whole lies to children thing so much so that to this day I still wonder "What would my mum say if she knew I was about to do this?" just before I get into any kind of high jinks. (Generally involving booze, drugs and on occasion fireworks.) I don't think too long though. Should the thought linger for more than a few seconds I end up going home, putting my feet up and reading the Scriptures instead.
Yeah, sure. The Scriptures. My fingers burn upon contact with any holy text and I'm overcome by the Devils tongue and begin screaming horrible, vicious things about Jeebus being nothing more than a gifted magician and Moses being an evil beardy cunt who had plans on enslaving the world...
Now though, I realise that my parents told me these lies in order to help them fashion me into the upstanding pillar of the community I am today. (How long do you think anyone will believe that one?)
They told me that if I was good Santa would bring me nice things to instill the belief that if I do nice things nice things will happen to me, they told me that God was omnipotent to make me heedful of the possible consequences of being caught doing something I shouldn't to teach me... I dunno. The only possible thing that I can think of right now that that lesson was meant to instill was; If you're gonna do something bad make sure you don't get caught.
It is my firm belief that generally people don't need these lessons beaten into them at such a young age. We're a clever race of beings [2] and most of us realise that there is a difference between right and wrong and we generally know which is which.
Foisting the whole Santa bit on kids isn't nearly as bad in my eyes as the whole GOD thing.
What kind of a person puts that kind of shit into a mind that can't fathom the idea that goldfish die easily if you overfeed them? I'll tell you what kind. The kind that seeks mindless conformity and unearned respect, the kind that seeks to control you from afar, the kind that insists you OBEY unquestioningly the demands of your elders, the kind that makes you say nice things when you really want to be honest and let loose. In short... Parents.
To end I would like to say this. Please pay no heed to this rambling screed denouncing parents and their strange ways. They do it because they love you and want you to be a good person.
Either that or they're an alien race bent on the overthrow of the human race one soul at a time...
You decide.
Oh, yeah. One last thing... Happy Christmas and all that guff.
[1] (At least until I figured out that Santa didn't actually exist and the whole gig was a fable made up by parents so that they could get peace in the months approaching Christmas.)
[2] (Occasionally we do fuck up. For an example see WW1 WW2 and every other conflict since man first stumbled out of the cave and decided to see what was out there.)
12/18/2007
How I got barred from Starbucks.
Normally I don’t go into those coffeehouses that seem to be on the corner of every street these days, but as I couldn't find a greasy spoon within staggering distance of the cinema I gave into my desire for a cup of coffee and wandered into the nearest Starbucks.I made my way to the counter and was greeted in that wonderfully Americanised way by the uniformed gimp who stood with the most glaringly obvious smile that reeks of falsity.
“Welcome to Starbucks, how can I be of assistance?” She asked.
“Just a coffee please sweetheart.” I said affably.
“Would you like Cappuccino, Double Cappuccino, Espresso, Double Espresso, Americano, Caffe latte, cafe au lait, Mochacchino, Macchiato, Espresso Macchiato, Café Crème, Espresso Con Panna, frapuchino. Or maybe you’d like to sample one of our famous iced coffees?” Said the gimp.
“Just a coffee.” I said totally baffled at the list of things that she had just rattled off in one breath. There was an audible groan from behind me in the queue.
I heard someone call me an uncultured oaf but when I turned around to see who had muttered the insult there was a distinct lack of admittance from the responsible party.
“That’s called an Americano sir.” Said the assistant.
“Ok then, I'll have an Americano.” I said slowly, trying desperately not to lose my head.
“Regular, large or super size?” Asked the assistant.
“Regular please.” I replied.
“Would you like creamer in that?”
“What’s that?” I enquired.
“Whitener.” Declared the assistant.
“I'm still not with you.” I said, confused.
“Milk.” said the girl, looking at me like I was some poor animal that had been mauled by her cat and had then been dumped onto her lap as she ate her dinner.
“Oh, well why didn't you just say so?” I stated, sarcastically “Yes please, with milk.”
“And sweetener?” She enquired.
“Would that be what normal people call sugar?” I asked, slowly losing my patience.
“Yes sir, that would be sugar.” She replied, with a look of disdain on her face.
“Two sugars please.” I said, still trying to be affable about it all even though I was slowly bubbling away inside like a geyser that’s about to throw superheated water hundreds of feet into the air.
A long queue had formed and I heard a voice chime up “Today would be good.” It said.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I felt the bile rise in my throat and the blood started to course through my veins. I snapped and spun around on my heel.“ALL RIGHT, WHICH ONE OF YOU FUCKERS SAID THAT?” I bellowed. “COME ON! WHO WAS IT?”
I must have look a terrifying sight as the poor woman directly behind me jumped so far backwards that she bumped into the person behind her and very nearly caused a domino effect all the way down the queue.
“WHO SAID THAT?” I yelled at the first person whose eyes met mine.
“It came from behind me, It wasn’t me, I'm sorry, please don’t hit me.” The owner of the eyes said meekly.
A suit-wearing guy stepped forward and proudly said, “I did.”
I pointed my finger at him and let loose.
“What the fuck is your problem pal?” I said, with venom in my voice, “It’s because of soulless, ball-less, suit wearing, money grabbing, yuppie shitholes like you I have to go through five minutes of questioning and interrogation in order to get a cup of fucking coffee... Don’t even think about giving me attitude just because I don’t buy into all this crap... Shut the fuck up before I wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your small, insignificant, pea sized, one track mind pops out your ocular sockets.... If you don’t mind I'd like to get my coffee and get the fuck outta this place before I lose my mind and do what the rest of the herd seem to be doing and start thinking I'm a fucking American.”
I never got to hear his reply, if he had one, as I was grabbed suddenly from behind and was muscled out of the door by two burly security guards.
“Welcome to Starbucks, how can I be of assistance?” She asked.
“Just a coffee please sweetheart.” I said affably.
“Would you like Cappuccino, Double Cappuccino, Espresso, Double Espresso, Americano, Caffe latte, cafe au lait, Mochacchino, Macchiato, Espresso Macchiato, Café Crème, Espresso Con Panna, frapuchino. Or maybe you’d like to sample one of our famous iced coffees?” Said the gimp.
“Just a coffee.” I said totally baffled at the list of things that she had just rattled off in one breath. There was an audible groan from behind me in the queue.
I heard someone call me an uncultured oaf but when I turned around to see who had muttered the insult there was a distinct lack of admittance from the responsible party.
“That’s called an Americano sir.” Said the assistant.
“Ok then, I'll have an Americano.” I said slowly, trying desperately not to lose my head.
“Regular, large or super size?” Asked the assistant.
“Regular please.” I replied.
“Would you like creamer in that?”
“What’s that?” I enquired.
“Whitener.” Declared the assistant.
“I'm still not with you.” I said, confused.
“Milk.” said the girl, looking at me like I was some poor animal that had been mauled by her cat and had then been dumped onto her lap as she ate her dinner.
“Oh, well why didn't you just say so?” I stated, sarcastically “Yes please, with milk.”
“And sweetener?” She enquired.
“Would that be what normal people call sugar?” I asked, slowly losing my patience.
“Yes sir, that would be sugar.” She replied, with a look of disdain on her face.
“Two sugars please.” I said, still trying to be affable about it all even though I was slowly bubbling away inside like a geyser that’s about to throw superheated water hundreds of feet into the air.
A long queue had formed and I heard a voice chime up “Today would be good.” It said.
That was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I felt the bile rise in my throat and the blood started to course through my veins. I snapped and spun around on my heel.“ALL RIGHT, WHICH ONE OF YOU FUCKERS SAID THAT?” I bellowed. “COME ON! WHO WAS IT?”
I must have look a terrifying sight as the poor woman directly behind me jumped so far backwards that she bumped into the person behind her and very nearly caused a domino effect all the way down the queue.
“WHO SAID THAT?” I yelled at the first person whose eyes met mine.
“It came from behind me, It wasn’t me, I'm sorry, please don’t hit me.” The owner of the eyes said meekly.
A suit-wearing guy stepped forward and proudly said, “I did.”
I pointed my finger at him and let loose.
“What the fuck is your problem pal?” I said, with venom in my voice, “It’s because of soulless, ball-less, suit wearing, money grabbing, yuppie shitholes like you I have to go through five minutes of questioning and interrogation in order to get a cup of fucking coffee... Don’t even think about giving me attitude just because I don’t buy into all this crap... Shut the fuck up before I wrap my hands around your throat and squeeze until your small, insignificant, pea sized, one track mind pops out your ocular sockets.... If you don’t mind I'd like to get my coffee and get the fuck outta this place before I lose my mind and do what the rest of the herd seem to be doing and start thinking I'm a fucking American.”
I never got to hear his reply, if he had one, as I was grabbed suddenly from behind and was muscled out of the door by two burly security guards.
11/30/2007
Dear future Self...
Hello Fucko,
How goes it? All well and good I hope. If not; It's probably your fault for being a fucking layabout for the majority of your life. Does that sound harsh? If so, fuck ya, it's supposed to. I'm hoping that by the time you re-read this you've put yourself to some kind of good use and achieved something in your life. If not then you should be fucking ashamed.
Perhaps I should have taken a little time to refresh your memory of what is happening in your life at the time you are writing this...
You're currently single, unemployed and in a deep funk with regards to the state of the world. You're spending way too much time locked in your own little insular world. Your bed has become a refuge to hide from the world and you've got less direction in your life than a Satellite Navigation System that was won at a Gypsy fairground. You've been unemployed for almost a year following all that hoo-hah with the bowling club and you're struggling to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
To cut a long story short, you're fucking sinking son...
There is every possibility that the drugs ain't helping much either. I know, I know... You want to squeegee your third eye and see but even I can see that you should slow down. I mean, for fucks sake you're writing a letter to your future self and are referring to yourself in the third person.
That can't be good. Seriously, can it? (That's a sentence that could have such a different meaning by changing the punctuation. "That can't be good. Seriously. Can it.")
Can it. Knock it on the head. Pack it in and fucking grow up. Get some direction in your life, find something to keep you occupied, get off the dope and set about life with the same vim and vigour as you are currently putting into ripping the piss out of yourself.
Who knows, you may just surprise yourself.
How goes it? All well and good I hope. If not; It's probably your fault for being a fucking layabout for the majority of your life. Does that sound harsh? If so, fuck ya, it's supposed to. I'm hoping that by the time you re-read this you've put yourself to some kind of good use and achieved something in your life. If not then you should be fucking ashamed.
Perhaps I should have taken a little time to refresh your memory of what is happening in your life at the time you are writing this...
You're currently single, unemployed and in a deep funk with regards to the state of the world. You're spending way too much time locked in your own little insular world. Your bed has become a refuge to hide from the world and you've got less direction in your life than a Satellite Navigation System that was won at a Gypsy fairground. You've been unemployed for almost a year following all that hoo-hah with the bowling club and you're struggling to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning.
To cut a long story short, you're fucking sinking son...
There is every possibility that the drugs ain't helping much either. I know, I know... You want to squeegee your third eye and see but even I can see that you should slow down. I mean, for fucks sake you're writing a letter to your future self and are referring to yourself in the third person.
That can't be good. Seriously, can it? (That's a sentence that could have such a different meaning by changing the punctuation. "That can't be good. Seriously. Can it.")
Can it. Knock it on the head. Pack it in and fucking grow up. Get some direction in your life, find something to keep you occupied, get off the dope and set about life with the same vim and vigour as you are currently putting into ripping the piss out of yourself.
Who knows, you may just surprise yourself.
10/18/2007
Ladies and gentlemen,
I've came to the conclusion that the reason the world is so fucked up is that there is not enough honesty in it. And it’s about time that changed.
So, in order to get the ball rolling I'm going to tell you my most shameful secret in order that we may be able to finally rid ourselves of the anchor that is preventing us all from taking our next evolutionary step.
Do you remember when you were younger and you had a crush on your teacher, your best friends’ mother or maybe even your Nanny? I'm sure you do.
I had a crush on my mates mother and I always dreamed of her introducing me to the (then) unknown world of sex. My fantasy was that one day I would pop around to my friends house and that his mum would answer the door in a dressing gown and tell me that he wasn’t in but would I like to come in for a cup of tea or something.
Due to my young age and utter lack of experience when it came to women the only benchmark I had was from porn movies and the line “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” was a line I had heard and I thought that was how women came onto you.
(The answer that followed in the porno was “I'd love something...” and within seconds the "actors" were naked and screwing each other like rabbits on Viagra.)
I went around to my friends’ house one day and low and behold who answers the door wearing a dressing gown? Yup, you guessed it, his mother. She informed me that my friend wasn’t in and that I could come in and wait if I wanted. Seeing this woman wearing a flimsy dressing gown was enough to convince me that waiting wasn't a very good idea. What if I lost control and made a lunge for her?
Needless to say, I accepted.
We walked into the lounge and I sat down on the couch. Being the houseproud type she began tidying. At one point she bent over to pick up a magazine that had dropped onto the floor at the side of a chair. As she bent over all kinds of thoughts were racing through my mind. (I'll spare you the details, I'm pretty sure you can guess what kind of thoughts they were.)
When she bent over to retrieve the wayward magazine I was astounded to glimpse her breasts swaying from side to side beneath the thinnest material I had ever seen anyone wearing.
My head nearly exploded with thoughts of what would happen if one of them accidentally rid itself of her dressing gown. Would she blush, apologise and pop it back in or would she let it hang out and ask me if I wanted to play with it?
As my mind whirled and spun with all kinds of porno fantasies, the kind that only a teenager with an overactive imagination and a possibly fatal amount of testosterone blasting around his system can produce, she turned and asked me if I would “Like a cup of tea or something?”
I felt like all my dreams were coming true. I wondered if I should try the line I had heard in that porn movie but I had temporarily lost the power of speech.
“Yes please” I eventually managed to croak.
“What would you like?” She asked.
My mind started threshing like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Was she hitting on me? Was I about to be seduced by my dream woman? Was I going to live out my fantasy of shooting my young, virile, splooge all over her face?
“Tea please.” I said as I tried my best not to have a Freudian slip and accidentally say something like; “Yes, I'd love to cum all over your tits while you massage my balls and call me your big studmuffin.”
“Are you feeling ok? You look flush” She said and placed her hand on my forehead.
I damn near passed out. I groaned at her touch. She went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water. She returned and offered me the glass. Once more I could see her breasts swinging and swaying like a hypnotists watch and I'm pretty sure I even seen her nipple. “I need to go to the bathroom.” I said and stood up so quickly that I nearly knocked her over.
And this, folks, is where my shameful secret comes in.
I ran to her bathroom, locked the door, dropped my trousers quicker than an explorer who can feel something climbing up his leg and wanked off like a monkey in a cage.
Before you start thinking; "That isn’t a very shameful thing, we've all jacked off at some point in our lives." I ask you to withhold your judgement for a moment or two.
As I said earlier I held a deep craving to shoot my wad all over her and out the corner of my eye I spotted a jar of Nivea face cream...
I know I shouldn't have but I did...
I shot my load, and quite a sufficient load it was, into the jar of face cream.
(For some reason that seemed the most prudent thing to do. It made sense to my twisted, perverted adolescent mind. A facialising by proxy as it were.)
And that is my shameful secret and if I can tell you that maybe you all can get over your hang ups about telling someone that the trousers they are wearing make them look fat or that you disagree with them on a touchy subject.
*Originally posted on my old site.*
So, in order to get the ball rolling I'm going to tell you my most shameful secret in order that we may be able to finally rid ourselves of the anchor that is preventing us all from taking our next evolutionary step.
Do you remember when you were younger and you had a crush on your teacher, your best friends’ mother or maybe even your Nanny? I'm sure you do.
I had a crush on my mates mother and I always dreamed of her introducing me to the (then) unknown world of sex. My fantasy was that one day I would pop around to my friends house and that his mum would answer the door in a dressing gown and tell me that he wasn’t in but would I like to come in for a cup of tea or something.
Due to my young age and utter lack of experience when it came to women the only benchmark I had was from porn movies and the line “Do you want a cup of tea or something?” was a line I had heard and I thought that was how women came onto you.
(The answer that followed in the porno was “I'd love something...” and within seconds the "actors" were naked and screwing each other like rabbits on Viagra.)
I went around to my friends’ house one day and low and behold who answers the door wearing a dressing gown? Yup, you guessed it, his mother. She informed me that my friend wasn’t in and that I could come in and wait if I wanted. Seeing this woman wearing a flimsy dressing gown was enough to convince me that waiting wasn't a very good idea. What if I lost control and made a lunge for her?
Needless to say, I accepted.
We walked into the lounge and I sat down on the couch. Being the houseproud type she began tidying. At one point she bent over to pick up a magazine that had dropped onto the floor at the side of a chair. As she bent over all kinds of thoughts were racing through my mind. (I'll spare you the details, I'm pretty sure you can guess what kind of thoughts they were.)
When she bent over to retrieve the wayward magazine I was astounded to glimpse her breasts swaying from side to side beneath the thinnest material I had ever seen anyone wearing.
My head nearly exploded with thoughts of what would happen if one of them accidentally rid itself of her dressing gown. Would she blush, apologise and pop it back in or would she let it hang out and ask me if I wanted to play with it?
As my mind whirled and spun with all kinds of porno fantasies, the kind that only a teenager with an overactive imagination and a possibly fatal amount of testosterone blasting around his system can produce, she turned and asked me if I would “Like a cup of tea or something?”
I felt like all my dreams were coming true. I wondered if I should try the line I had heard in that porn movie but I had temporarily lost the power of speech.
“Yes please” I eventually managed to croak.
“What would you like?” She asked.
My mind started threshing like a shark in a feeding frenzy. Was she hitting on me? Was I about to be seduced by my dream woman? Was I going to live out my fantasy of shooting my young, virile, splooge all over her face?
“Tea please.” I said as I tried my best not to have a Freudian slip and accidentally say something like; “Yes, I'd love to cum all over your tits while you massage my balls and call me your big studmuffin.”
“Are you feeling ok? You look flush” She said and placed her hand on my forehead.
I damn near passed out. I groaned at her touch. She went to the kitchen to get me a glass of water. She returned and offered me the glass. Once more I could see her breasts swinging and swaying like a hypnotists watch and I'm pretty sure I even seen her nipple. “I need to go to the bathroom.” I said and stood up so quickly that I nearly knocked her over.
And this, folks, is where my shameful secret comes in.
I ran to her bathroom, locked the door, dropped my trousers quicker than an explorer who can feel something climbing up his leg and wanked off like a monkey in a cage.
Before you start thinking; "That isn’t a very shameful thing, we've all jacked off at some point in our lives." I ask you to withhold your judgement for a moment or two.
As I said earlier I held a deep craving to shoot my wad all over her and out the corner of my eye I spotted a jar of Nivea face cream...
I know I shouldn't have but I did...
I shot my load, and quite a sufficient load it was, into the jar of face cream.
(For some reason that seemed the most prudent thing to do. It made sense to my twisted, perverted adolescent mind. A facialising by proxy as it were.)
And that is my shameful secret and if I can tell you that maybe you all can get over your hang ups about telling someone that the trousers they are wearing make them look fat or that you disagree with them on a touchy subject.
*Originally posted on my old site.*
10/17/2007
School Daze...
I'm going to ask you to cast your minds back to the year 1984. A year that amongst other things saw the summer Olympics take place in the USA and you weren't cool unless you had a Frankie says relax t-shirt or a VW badge around your neck on an impossibly thick gold chain.
I was cool for a day in 1984 and I'll remember the looks on everyone's faces until the day I die.
The thing was I never had a Frankie t-shirt until my big brother had grown sick of his one and gave it to me (three years too late) so the only way I could have ever have become cool was to get the best VW badge possible. My mission was set.
The day I crossed the line from honesty to criminality was much like any other but the rush of living life on the edge was beyond my wildest dreams. At ten o'clock at night out my bedroom window I slunk trying desperately not to arouse the suspicions of my mum (who although being deaf in one ear could hear a gnat's fart in the next town) who was watching TV in the room next to mine.
As I climbed down the drainpipe with a screwdriver in my pocket I felt like I was about to commit the crime of the century even though I was only going to try to steal a VW badge.
I walked for at least 5 hours trying to find a VW that still had a badge on it, due to all the kids in my school having nicked them all.
I couldn't find one, so I started to make my way toward home taking a shortcut through the local industrial estate when I saw the holy grail not ten feet away from where I stood, parked at the side of the road was a delivery truck for a Dutch haulage company and there right at the front of it was a VW badge that must have been a foot and a half in size, my mouth ran dry and my pulse quickened at the thought of the biggest VW badge I had ever seen in my life.
I walked toward the truck with all the guile of a thirteen year old on a crime spree, trying to be nonchalant about it but looking like as suspicious as was humanly possible, I took the screwdriver from my pocket and slid it between the badge and the grille of the truck taking great care not to damage it (not the truck, fuck the truck I wanted the badge) and when it finally came loose I pried it from the grille like I was prying a jewel from a dead Pharaoh's hand.
The next day I walked to school having serious trouble trying to stay upright because of the weight what with it around my neck on a chain that my brother used to secure his pushbike.
In assembly that morning while all the kids were trying to out do each other I knew my moment had arrived, so I wandered over to the crowd of popular kids and said "Alright folks what's happening?"
"Fuck off Ross." Said John McDonald, one of the most feared kids in my class at school.
"Nah." I said with false bravado "Why don't you fuck off, piss head."
"Feeling brave are we?" He replied.
"Not particularly, but I thought you all might want to see my new VW badge that I got last night." I said to him, thinking that my new badge would somehow protect me from a savage beating from a thirteen year old who had stabbed his own father and was a sure fire prison inmate as soon as he left school. If not sooner.
"Let’s see it then tosser." Said Ian Hartley, another tough kid.
Having accumulated a crowd of thirty kids around me by this time I saw my moment of fame approaching rapidly, "CHECK OUT THIS BAD ASS MOTHERFUCKA!" I yelled and pulled the zipper down on my jacket revealing what to the normal adult eye was a quite blatantly stolen VW truck badge but to thirteen year old kids was a symbol of coolness that was unbeatable.
The next day I was given a lesson that I'll always remember... If you are going to steal then do not wander around at any social interaction with the pilfered goods wrapped around your neck.
I was sitting in my English class staring blankly into space when the dreaded Mr Mackenzie, Assistant Headmaster and known about the school as FILMSTAR, due to the fact he wore sunglasses everyday and was never seen without a clipboard in his hand.
He walked straight toward me with a look of Disdain on his bland and humourless excuse for a face and said (in a proud and happy voice) "Ross Douglas, come with me this instant the police are here to see you."
I nearly shit my pants, all the time looking like someone who does not care that the police have just arrived at school for them.
Mr Mackenzie escorted me to the headmaster's office prattling some shit about "Letting the school down" and "Setting an example" I felt like telling him I had set an example to all the other kids in school (i.e don't get caught) but kept quiet and readied myself for the forthcoming attraction of criminal investigation, my plan was simple DENY, DENY, DENY.
The headmaster was a kindly old guy who had went to school with my mother and liked to hear how she was keeping. This had in the past saved me from many forced visits to his office on the instructions of other teachers, going into his outer office and telling his secretary I was sent by Mr/Mrs/Miss whoever for whatever reason and going into his office and telling him my mum was asking how he and his wife were keeping, then returning to class and telling the teachers that I had seen him like they had told me and that if they didn't believe me then call his secretary.
But that day was not an alleged social visit, it was a police visit and one that if I wasn't careful my parents would be summoned and then I'd really be paddling down shit creek in an upturned boat, I knocked on the door of his office and was instructed to enter.
Right there in front of me was the police in all their uniformed glory waiting anxiously for what I thought was the bust to end all busts (I have always had delusions of grandeur). My headmaster explained that they were here to question me about the theft of a Volkswagen badge from a Dutch truck, and that someone in school had reported to a teacher that I was seen with it, he also went on to give me a glowing report to the policemen that I was a model pupil and that I had never been to his office for anything other than a visit to say hello (as far as he knew all my visits to him were social) I felt ashamed.
The policeman said something along the lines of "Having taken into account your exemplary record of behaviour we have decided to take no further action on this matter, but if we meet again under similar circumstances I shall be forced into taking steps."
The relief that washed over me and I told all present that I would be a good student and would never again walk that path, Which lasted about a day when I was sent to the headmaster's office for beating up a sixth former. I got away with that one by pulling my tried and tested "My mother is asking how you are..." Routine.
I was cool for a day in 1984 and I'll remember the looks on everyone's faces until the day I die.
The thing was I never had a Frankie t-shirt until my big brother had grown sick of his one and gave it to me (three years too late) so the only way I could have ever have become cool was to get the best VW badge possible. My mission was set.
The day I crossed the line from honesty to criminality was much like any other but the rush of living life on the edge was beyond my wildest dreams. At ten o'clock at night out my bedroom window I slunk trying desperately not to arouse the suspicions of my mum (who although being deaf in one ear could hear a gnat's fart in the next town) who was watching TV in the room next to mine.
As I climbed down the drainpipe with a screwdriver in my pocket I felt like I was about to commit the crime of the century even though I was only going to try to steal a VW badge.
I walked for at least 5 hours trying to find a VW that still had a badge on it, due to all the kids in my school having nicked them all.
I couldn't find one, so I started to make my way toward home taking a shortcut through the local industrial estate when I saw the holy grail not ten feet away from where I stood, parked at the side of the road was a delivery truck for a Dutch haulage company and there right at the front of it was a VW badge that must have been a foot and a half in size, my mouth ran dry and my pulse quickened at the thought of the biggest VW badge I had ever seen in my life.
I walked toward the truck with all the guile of a thirteen year old on a crime spree, trying to be nonchalant about it but looking like as suspicious as was humanly possible, I took the screwdriver from my pocket and slid it between the badge and the grille of the truck taking great care not to damage it (not the truck, fuck the truck I wanted the badge) and when it finally came loose I pried it from the grille like I was prying a jewel from a dead Pharaoh's hand.
The next day I walked to school having serious trouble trying to stay upright because of the weight what with it around my neck on a chain that my brother used to secure his pushbike.
In assembly that morning while all the kids were trying to out do each other I knew my moment had arrived, so I wandered over to the crowd of popular kids and said "Alright folks what's happening?"
"Fuck off Ross." Said John McDonald, one of the most feared kids in my class at school.
"Nah." I said with false bravado "Why don't you fuck off, piss head."
"Feeling brave are we?" He replied.
"Not particularly, but I thought you all might want to see my new VW badge that I got last night." I said to him, thinking that my new badge would somehow protect me from a savage beating from a thirteen year old who had stabbed his own father and was a sure fire prison inmate as soon as he left school. If not sooner.
"Let’s see it then tosser." Said Ian Hartley, another tough kid.
Having accumulated a crowd of thirty kids around me by this time I saw my moment of fame approaching rapidly, "CHECK OUT THIS BAD ASS MOTHERFUCKA!" I yelled and pulled the zipper down on my jacket revealing what to the normal adult eye was a quite blatantly stolen VW truck badge but to thirteen year old kids was a symbol of coolness that was unbeatable.
The next day I was given a lesson that I'll always remember... If you are going to steal then do not wander around at any social interaction with the pilfered goods wrapped around your neck.
I was sitting in my English class staring blankly into space when the dreaded Mr Mackenzie, Assistant Headmaster and known about the school as FILMSTAR, due to the fact he wore sunglasses everyday and was never seen without a clipboard in his hand.
He walked straight toward me with a look of Disdain on his bland and humourless excuse for a face and said (in a proud and happy voice) "Ross Douglas, come with me this instant the police are here to see you."
I nearly shit my pants, all the time looking like someone who does not care that the police have just arrived at school for them.
Mr Mackenzie escorted me to the headmaster's office prattling some shit about "Letting the school down" and "Setting an example" I felt like telling him I had set an example to all the other kids in school (i.e don't get caught) but kept quiet and readied myself for the forthcoming attraction of criminal investigation, my plan was simple DENY, DENY, DENY.
The headmaster was a kindly old guy who had went to school with my mother and liked to hear how she was keeping. This had in the past saved me from many forced visits to his office on the instructions of other teachers, going into his outer office and telling his secretary I was sent by Mr/Mrs/Miss whoever for whatever reason and going into his office and telling him my mum was asking how he and his wife were keeping, then returning to class and telling the teachers that I had seen him like they had told me and that if they didn't believe me then call his secretary.
But that day was not an alleged social visit, it was a police visit and one that if I wasn't careful my parents would be summoned and then I'd really be paddling down shit creek in an upturned boat, I knocked on the door of his office and was instructed to enter.
Right there in front of me was the police in all their uniformed glory waiting anxiously for what I thought was the bust to end all busts (I have always had delusions of grandeur). My headmaster explained that they were here to question me about the theft of a Volkswagen badge from a Dutch truck, and that someone in school had reported to a teacher that I was seen with it, he also went on to give me a glowing report to the policemen that I was a model pupil and that I had never been to his office for anything other than a visit to say hello (as far as he knew all my visits to him were social) I felt ashamed.
The policeman said something along the lines of "Having taken into account your exemplary record of behaviour we have decided to take no further action on this matter, but if we meet again under similar circumstances I shall be forced into taking steps."
The relief that washed over me and I told all present that I would be a good student and would never again walk that path, Which lasted about a day when I was sent to the headmaster's office for beating up a sixth former. I got away with that one by pulling my tried and tested "My mother is asking how you are..." Routine.
8/16/2007
"Report for duty independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46...
who shall be known during life cycle by the name Ross Douglas."
Sssssccchhhheeed the disembodied voice from the speakerbox in the corner. (Until the voice crackled into existence the speakerbox had been playing standard elevator Muzak.)
The room itself was like a padded cell minus the padding. A blank white floor (12' by 12') was framed by blank white walls and a blank white ceiling. The speakerbox in the top left hand corner of the room and the small raised platform that I was sitting on were the only things that prevented the room from being a perfect cube.
I was naked, I was completely bald, I had neither nipples nor belly button and, most disturbing of all, I had no genitalia.
"What the fu..." I began to say, but was interrupted by the voice from the speakerbox again.
"Report for duty independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46." Repeated the speakerbox.
I looked up at the speakerbox and wondered who independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 was. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I was independent consciousness 3-7-23-46. "Who me?" I said, pointing at my chest.
"Yes you." Said the voice from the speakerbox.
I stood up and took the posture of someone at attention. "Erm... Independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 reporting for duty." I said.
The speakerbox spoke again. "You are to report to initial programing."
"Ok." I said. "How do I get there?"
The speakerbox voice spoke again. "Bloody tech guys, why can't they remember to program a door into the shell." The voice said, a tone of disbelief apparent. A doorway appeared in the wall ahead of me. I walked towards it and it swooshed open with a noise exactly like that of a door on the Starship Enterprise.
The room in front of me was about the size of an average elevator and had been decorated by the same people responsible for the room I was about to leave. The only differences between the two being the size and the lack of anywhere to sit. I stepped into the room and the door closed behind me with the same Enterprise swoosh.
The speakerbox in the corner of the room spoke again. "See, that's the kind of thing I mean; They can't remember to program a door but they always program the doors so they sound like you're about to enter the turbolift in Star Trek. I hate those guys." The voice said.
"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?" I asked.
"Whoops. Sorry about that independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46, I didn't realise I'd left the microphone on." Said the voice.
"No problem." I said.
Time passed.
The door swooshed open and I stepped out.
I stood in a room roughly the same size as the room I had first found myself in. A white chair sat in front of a desk, also white, which lay in the middle of the, yes you guessed it, white, room. On top of the desk was a large bundle of folders stuffed with paperwork. Behind the paperwork sat a man in blue coveralls. "Good life to you independent consciousness 3-7-23-46." Said the man, who's voice I recognised from the speakerbox.
"Yeah. Errm. Hi." I said.
"The folders on this table contain every piece of information you need to know in order to live your life according to the scheme of The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity; You are to read and remember them." The man said.
"Excuse me? The Grand Whozoo?" I asked.
"The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity." The man said.
"And who, may I ask, is The Grand Whazoo?"
"May he giggle for all eternity..." Added the man, as though to indicate that the saying of the name The Grand Whazoo should immediately be followed by the words "May he giggle for all eternity.
"Yeah, that cat. Who is he?" I asked.
"He is The Supreme Being... The Creator, The Architect, He is Jesus, He is Bhudda, He is Allah, He is Yahweh, He is Jah Rastafari, He is Brahman, He is Shiva... He is The Grand Whazoo, may he giggle for all eternity."
"So far as I can see, "He" is The Great and Powerful Oz." I said, making it clear to the man behind the desk I wasn't going to fall for any of that mumbo jumbo. "Now who's in charge?"
"You fail to understand." Said the man behind the desk.
"No, dipshit. You fail to understand. You fail to understand that if I'm not talking to your supervisor in as soon as possible I'm going to give your interior designer a fucking heart attack."
The man behind the desk blinked out of existence and was replaced by an elderly gentleman. "Hello Ross." He said.
"And who the fuck are you?" I asked.
"I am whom you seek." The elderly gentleman said.
"So you're The Grand Whazoo then?" I questioned.
"Indeed I am." The Whazoo replied.
"Got any ID?" I asked.
The Grand Whazoo laughed and clicked his fingers. The white room blinked out of existence and the whole of the universe was laid out in front of me. "Good enough?" The Grand Whazoo said with a grand sweeping gesture of his arms.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a driving license or a utilities bill but I'm willing to let you off." I said, even though I was almost dumbstruck with the view.
"Trust me, you wouldn't want to see the utilities bill for this place and my drivers license picture makes me look like I should be on the sex offenders register." The Grand Whazoo said, with a detectable hint of humour in his voice.
"So Ross, what seems to be the problem?" He asked.
"I've got a few questions." I said, still looking around at the magnificent view all around us.
"Fire away." He said.
"Why am I here?" I asked.
"For many reasons. The details are in the files if you'd care to read them." He said.
The Grand Whazoo clicked his fingers and the universe blinked out of existence to be replaced by the sterile room with the file filled desk.
"As the attendant said, the files contain all the information needed to live life your life according to the grand scheme." He said.
"And what if I don't want to live by your grand scheme?" I asked, wondering what I was doing questioning the supreme being and also pondering exactly how much wrath and vengeance I was about to experience. The Grand Whazoo tipped his head slightly to one side, like a dog who's just been shown a card trick.
"Strange." He said.
"What's strange?" I questioned.
"As with all other creatures of your type your first instinct was to challenge the authority of the grand scheme; This is basic programming; But when faced with The Ultimate Being, having been shown the entire Universe in the blink of an eye most of them choose to develop a passion for reading." The Grand Whazoo said. "It would seem that you are... Different. Unique even."
"Well, that's me. So what now?" I asked.
"Now you will become the Independent Consciousness known as, erm, oh bugger I've forgotten it... Sorry." Said The Grand Whazoo. With a click of his fingers a shining steel clipboard appeared in his hand. "Ross Douglas." He read.
The Grand Whazoo clicked his fingers and the lights went out. It was pitch black. In fact it was darker than that. Imagine you built a torch that instead of emitting light, emitted dark. Now imagine you put a bulb in it with the power of a billion suns. Now imagine switching it on. It was that dark.
Time passed.
Like a small single star above, a light eventually appeared high above me.
Time passed.
Muffled sounds began to filter their way into my still, dark, world.
Time passed again. So I attempted to trip it up, but failed miserably as Time doesn't have a leg.
Slowly the small pinprick of light that had appeared above me grew in size.
Time passed once again. I apologised for attempting to stop its forward progress and hoped it wouldn't be to hard on me.
Without warning a klaxon sounded. A klaxonish sound reverberated through my dark world, hurting my ears and causing me to cover them with my hands. The klaxon stopped as suddenly as it had started and was replaced by someone speaking in some kind of jargon.
"Tea miner win minwin tent ant mountain" Said a voice. I thought for a second I'd developed some kind of hearing disability after spending so much time alone without anything to listen to when I realised that the reason I couldn't hear properly was that I still hand my hands over my ears.
"T-minus one minute and counting" Said a female voice. Her words were clear and had a consonance so perfect that if the best songbird of the world were to hear it they would explode in a fit of jealousy, feathers and innards.
"Independent Consciousness number 3-7-23-46 ready to disengage universal consciousness, prepare endorphin assistance for host carrier." Said a male voice. The male voice was so dissonant that if the worst songbird in the world were to hear it it would explode into a bloody cloud of feathers and innards through the sheer joy of knowing it was not the worst thing to listen to on the earth. (The Grand Whazoo likes there to be balance in all things.)
"T-minus Fifty seconds and counting." Said the angelic female voice.
"Endorphin injectors charged and ready to fire." Said the opposing male voice.
"You men are all the same, it's all about the injection isn't it." Said the female voice.
"You love it." Said the male voice, suggestively.
"T-minus Forty seconds and counting." Said the female voice.
"Awaiting order to discharge Independent Consciousness." The male voice said.
"You see, it's always "inject" this and "discharge" that with you lot. Is it any wonder women prefer the company of other women?" Said the female voice.
"Admit it, you love it when I talk dirty." Said the male voice, with enough suggestiveness in his voice to make a nun become a cock-hungry whore overnight.
"T-minus Thirty seconds and counting..." Began the female voice. "And for your information I happen to find the way you talk abhorrent. It is degrading and disgusting to say the least. It may be OK to talk to your male counterparts like that but I assure you it is not OK to speak to me like that. I have a good mind to report you to The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity... T-minus erm, Sixteen and a half seconds and counting." The female voice continued.
"At least I can talk and do my job at the same time love." Said the male voice, sarcastically.
"You absolute bast... T-minus Ten seconds and counting... ard. Said the female voice, as though to make a mockery of the male voices previous statement.
"Fancy a shag?" Said the male voice.
"T-minus five." Said the female voice.
"Pull your coveralls off." Said the male voice, commandingly.
"T-minus Four." Said the female voice, accompanied by the sounds of clothing being hurriedly ripped off.
"Yeah, that's it." Said the male voice, a tone of pleasure in his voice.
"Tea miner dree." Said the female voice, making me check to see if I had my hands over my ears. I didn't.
"Prepare for injection." Said the male voice, his tone wavering.
"T-minus Two-Oooooo." Said the female voice, her pitch increasing.
"Release imminent." Said the male voice, straining.
"T-minus wu-u-u-u-ONE" Screamed the female voice.
"FIRE THE MOTHERLOAD!" Shouted the male voice.
The small pinprick of light exploded. It was bright. Very bright. Remember the torch that gives off dark? Imagine its opposite. Imagine it being switched on. It was that bright. I kept having to close my eyes for the next minute or so until they got used to the light.
The next thing really freaked me out.
The first thing I noticed was that I had suddenly developed nipples, a belly button and, most importantly, a penis. The second thing I noticed was that I was very small and very slimy. The third thing I noticed was that I'd just been smacked on the ass by some guy wearing a surgical gown and glasses for no reason. (I'm pretty sure the glasses were for a reason, it was hitting me that felt unnecessary.)
"Who the fuck do you think you're hitting ya specky cunt!" I yelled. Instead of the words travelling from my brain to my mouth, and being relayed to the person I'm talking to via a perfectly good voicebox, they travelled from my mouth to the ears of anyone within earshot as a loud and prolonged "Wahhhhhhhhhh, Wahhhhhhhhh, Wahhhhhhhhh."
"It's a healthy baby boy." Said the voice of the swine that had just assaulted me in front of several witnesses, as I was handed to a surgical gown wearing bystander and was plonked down onto a towel covered set of old fashioned metal scales.
Several faces appeared above me. Fingers poked and prodded at me, lights were shone in my eyes and things were put into the holes at both ends of my body. I protested by letting loose a volley of verbal assaults at my torturers but once again all the words I tried to say came out as loud Wahhhhhh's.
I was lifted from the scales, along with the towel that had protected me from the cold steel, and
was carried across the room to almost exactly the same place as I had been so recently assaulted at. "Thank fuck for that, they're gonna put me back." I thought.
I was handed to a person who was, for some strange reason, lying down while everyone else, myself not included, stood. The person was warm and smelled beautiful. Small beads of sweat ran off her damp hairline and her eyes shone like the stars that The Grand Whazoo had shown me.
"Holy Fuck!" I yelled. (To everyone else in attendance it sounded like "Wahhhhhhhh," [deep breath] "Wahhhhhhh!" but to me it was "Holy Fuck!" believe me.) Deep in the eyes of this person who now held me in her arms I, once again saw the universe laid out.
"Mother?" I said...
This story is true. Certain details have been fleshed out for dramatic effect and I'm not quite sure if the guy who assaulted me wore glasses for health and safety reasons or if he needed them for medical purposes
(Medical purposes as in he needs them to see better, not medical purposes such as delivering babies. I'm no surgeon but I'm betting you wouldn't want to go delivering babies if you couldn't see exactly what you were doing.)
And when did all this take place?
Exactly 36 years ago today.
Happy birthday to me.
Sssssccchhhheeed the disembodied voice from the speakerbox in the corner. (Until the voice crackled into existence the speakerbox had been playing standard elevator Muzak.)
The room itself was like a padded cell minus the padding. A blank white floor (12' by 12') was framed by blank white walls and a blank white ceiling. The speakerbox in the top left hand corner of the room and the small raised platform that I was sitting on were the only things that prevented the room from being a perfect cube.
I was naked, I was completely bald, I had neither nipples nor belly button and, most disturbing of all, I had no genitalia.
"What the fu..." I began to say, but was interrupted by the voice from the speakerbox again.
"Report for duty independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46." Repeated the speakerbox.
I looked up at the speakerbox and wondered who independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 was. The thought occurred to me that perhaps I was independent consciousness 3-7-23-46. "Who me?" I said, pointing at my chest.
"Yes you." Said the voice from the speakerbox.
I stood up and took the posture of someone at attention. "Erm... Independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46 reporting for duty." I said.
The speakerbox spoke again. "You are to report to initial programing."
"Ok." I said. "How do I get there?"
The speakerbox voice spoke again. "Bloody tech guys, why can't they remember to program a door into the shell." The voice said, a tone of disbelief apparent. A doorway appeared in the wall ahead of me. I walked towards it and it swooshed open with a noise exactly like that of a door on the Starship Enterprise.
The room in front of me was about the size of an average elevator and had been decorated by the same people responsible for the room I was about to leave. The only differences between the two being the size and the lack of anywhere to sit. I stepped into the room and the door closed behind me with the same Enterprise swoosh.
The speakerbox in the corner of the room spoke again. "See, that's the kind of thing I mean; They can't remember to program a door but they always program the doors so they sound like you're about to enter the turbolift in Star Trek. I hate those guys." The voice said.
"I'm sorry, are you talking to me?" I asked.
"Whoops. Sorry about that independent consciousness number 3-7-23-46, I didn't realise I'd left the microphone on." Said the voice.
"No problem." I said.
Time passed.
The door swooshed open and I stepped out.
I stood in a room roughly the same size as the room I had first found myself in. A white chair sat in front of a desk, also white, which lay in the middle of the, yes you guessed it, white, room. On top of the desk was a large bundle of folders stuffed with paperwork. Behind the paperwork sat a man in blue coveralls. "Good life to you independent consciousness 3-7-23-46." Said the man, who's voice I recognised from the speakerbox.
"Yeah. Errm. Hi." I said.
"The folders on this table contain every piece of information you need to know in order to live your life according to the scheme of The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity; You are to read and remember them." The man said.
"Excuse me? The Grand Whozoo?" I asked.
"The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity." The man said.
"And who, may I ask, is The Grand Whazoo?"
"May he giggle for all eternity..." Added the man, as though to indicate that the saying of the name The Grand Whazoo should immediately be followed by the words "May he giggle for all eternity.
"Yeah, that cat. Who is he?" I asked.
"He is The Supreme Being... The Creator, The Architect, He is Jesus, He is Bhudda, He is Allah, He is Yahweh, He is Jah Rastafari, He is Brahman, He is Shiva... He is The Grand Whazoo, may he giggle for all eternity."
"So far as I can see, "He" is The Great and Powerful Oz." I said, making it clear to the man behind the desk I wasn't going to fall for any of that mumbo jumbo. "Now who's in charge?"
"You fail to understand." Said the man behind the desk.
"No, dipshit. You fail to understand. You fail to understand that if I'm not talking to your supervisor in as soon as possible I'm going to give your interior designer a fucking heart attack."
The man behind the desk blinked out of existence and was replaced by an elderly gentleman. "Hello Ross." He said.
"And who the fuck are you?" I asked.
"I am whom you seek." The elderly gentleman said.
"So you're The Grand Whazoo then?" I questioned.
"Indeed I am." The Whazoo replied.
"Got any ID?" I asked.
The Grand Whazoo laughed and clicked his fingers. The white room blinked out of existence and the whole of the universe was laid out in front of me. "Good enough?" The Grand Whazoo said with a grand sweeping gesture of his arms.
"I was thinking more along the lines of a driving license or a utilities bill but I'm willing to let you off." I said, even though I was almost dumbstruck with the view.
"Trust me, you wouldn't want to see the utilities bill for this place and my drivers license picture makes me look like I should be on the sex offenders register." The Grand Whazoo said, with a detectable hint of humour in his voice.
"So Ross, what seems to be the problem?" He asked.
"I've got a few questions." I said, still looking around at the magnificent view all around us.
"Fire away." He said.
"Why am I here?" I asked.
"For many reasons. The details are in the files if you'd care to read them." He said.
The Grand Whazoo clicked his fingers and the universe blinked out of existence to be replaced by the sterile room with the file filled desk.
"As the attendant said, the files contain all the information needed to live life your life according to the grand scheme." He said.
"And what if I don't want to live by your grand scheme?" I asked, wondering what I was doing questioning the supreme being and also pondering exactly how much wrath and vengeance I was about to experience. The Grand Whazoo tipped his head slightly to one side, like a dog who's just been shown a card trick.
"Strange." He said.
"What's strange?" I questioned.
"As with all other creatures of your type your first instinct was to challenge the authority of the grand scheme; This is basic programming; But when faced with The Ultimate Being, having been shown the entire Universe in the blink of an eye most of them choose to develop a passion for reading." The Grand Whazoo said. "It would seem that you are... Different. Unique even."
"Well, that's me. So what now?" I asked.
"Now you will become the Independent Consciousness known as, erm, oh bugger I've forgotten it... Sorry." Said The Grand Whazoo. With a click of his fingers a shining steel clipboard appeared in his hand. "Ross Douglas." He read.
The Grand Whazoo clicked his fingers and the lights went out. It was pitch black. In fact it was darker than that. Imagine you built a torch that instead of emitting light, emitted dark. Now imagine you put a bulb in it with the power of a billion suns. Now imagine switching it on. It was that dark.
Time passed.
Like a small single star above, a light eventually appeared high above me.
Time passed.
Muffled sounds began to filter their way into my still, dark, world.
Time passed again. So I attempted to trip it up, but failed miserably as Time doesn't have a leg.
Slowly the small pinprick of light that had appeared above me grew in size.
Time passed once again. I apologised for attempting to stop its forward progress and hoped it wouldn't be to hard on me.
Without warning a klaxon sounded. A klaxonish sound reverberated through my dark world, hurting my ears and causing me to cover them with my hands. The klaxon stopped as suddenly as it had started and was replaced by someone speaking in some kind of jargon.
"Tea miner win minwin tent ant mountain" Said a voice. I thought for a second I'd developed some kind of hearing disability after spending so much time alone without anything to listen to when I realised that the reason I couldn't hear properly was that I still hand my hands over my ears.
"T-minus one minute and counting" Said a female voice. Her words were clear and had a consonance so perfect that if the best songbird of the world were to hear it they would explode in a fit of jealousy, feathers and innards.
"Independent Consciousness number 3-7-23-46 ready to disengage universal consciousness, prepare endorphin assistance for host carrier." Said a male voice. The male voice was so dissonant that if the worst songbird in the world were to hear it it would explode into a bloody cloud of feathers and innards through the sheer joy of knowing it was not the worst thing to listen to on the earth. (The Grand Whazoo likes there to be balance in all things.)
"T-minus Fifty seconds and counting." Said the angelic female voice.
"Endorphin injectors charged and ready to fire." Said the opposing male voice.
"You men are all the same, it's all about the injection isn't it." Said the female voice.
"You love it." Said the male voice, suggestively.
"T-minus Forty seconds and counting." Said the female voice.
"Awaiting order to discharge Independent Consciousness." The male voice said.
"You see, it's always "inject" this and "discharge" that with you lot. Is it any wonder women prefer the company of other women?" Said the female voice.
"Admit it, you love it when I talk dirty." Said the male voice, with enough suggestiveness in his voice to make a nun become a cock-hungry whore overnight.
"T-minus Thirty seconds and counting..." Began the female voice. "And for your information I happen to find the way you talk abhorrent. It is degrading and disgusting to say the least. It may be OK to talk to your male counterparts like that but I assure you it is not OK to speak to me like that. I have a good mind to report you to The Grand Whazoo; May he giggle for all eternity... T-minus erm, Sixteen and a half seconds and counting." The female voice continued.
"At least I can talk and do my job at the same time love." Said the male voice, sarcastically.
"You absolute bast... T-minus Ten seconds and counting... ard. Said the female voice, as though to make a mockery of the male voices previous statement.
"Fancy a shag?" Said the male voice.
"T-minus five." Said the female voice.
"Pull your coveralls off." Said the male voice, commandingly.
"T-minus Four." Said the female voice, accompanied by the sounds of clothing being hurriedly ripped off.
"Yeah, that's it." Said the male voice, a tone of pleasure in his voice.
"Tea miner dree." Said the female voice, making me check to see if I had my hands over my ears. I didn't.
"Prepare for injection." Said the male voice, his tone wavering.
"T-minus Two-Oooooo." Said the female voice, her pitch increasing.
"Release imminent." Said the male voice, straining.
"T-minus wu-u-u-u-ONE" Screamed the female voice.
"FIRE THE MOTHERLOAD!" Shouted the male voice.
The small pinprick of light exploded. It was bright. Very bright. Remember the torch that gives off dark? Imagine its opposite. Imagine it being switched on. It was that bright. I kept having to close my eyes for the next minute or so until they got used to the light.
The next thing really freaked me out.
The first thing I noticed was that I had suddenly developed nipples, a belly button and, most importantly, a penis. The second thing I noticed was that I was very small and very slimy. The third thing I noticed was that I'd just been smacked on the ass by some guy wearing a surgical gown and glasses for no reason. (I'm pretty sure the glasses were for a reason, it was hitting me that felt unnecessary.)
"Who the fuck do you think you're hitting ya specky cunt!" I yelled. Instead of the words travelling from my brain to my mouth, and being relayed to the person I'm talking to via a perfectly good voicebox, they travelled from my mouth to the ears of anyone within earshot as a loud and prolonged "Wahhhhhhhhhh, Wahhhhhhhhh, Wahhhhhhhhh."
"It's a healthy baby boy." Said the voice of the swine that had just assaulted me in front of several witnesses, as I was handed to a surgical gown wearing bystander and was plonked down onto a towel covered set of old fashioned metal scales.
Several faces appeared above me. Fingers poked and prodded at me, lights were shone in my eyes and things were put into the holes at both ends of my body. I protested by letting loose a volley of verbal assaults at my torturers but once again all the words I tried to say came out as loud Wahhhhhh's.
I was lifted from the scales, along with the towel that had protected me from the cold steel, and
was carried across the room to almost exactly the same place as I had been so recently assaulted at. "Thank fuck for that, they're gonna put me back." I thought.
I was handed to a person who was, for some strange reason, lying down while everyone else, myself not included, stood. The person was warm and smelled beautiful. Small beads of sweat ran off her damp hairline and her eyes shone like the stars that The Grand Whazoo had shown me.
"Holy Fuck!" I yelled. (To everyone else in attendance it sounded like "Wahhhhhhhh," [deep breath] "Wahhhhhhh!" but to me it was "Holy Fuck!" believe me.) Deep in the eyes of this person who now held me in her arms I, once again saw the universe laid out.
"Mother?" I said...
************************************
This story is true. Certain details have been fleshed out for dramatic effect and I'm not quite sure if the guy who assaulted me wore glasses for health and safety reasons or if he needed them for medical purposes
(Medical purposes as in he needs them to see better, not medical purposes such as delivering babies. I'm no surgeon but I'm betting you wouldn't want to go delivering babies if you couldn't see exactly what you were doing.)
And when did all this take place?
Exactly 36 years ago today.
Happy birthday to me.
7/27/2007
While searching my bookshelf yesterday,,,
I stumbled across a book I thought I'd lost.
If my memory serves me correctly, which it usually does, I'm sure I was given it by a woman named Kari who drank in the same pub I did many years ago as she thought I should read it. The book is called The Mentor Book of Major British Poets
and contains a veritable cornucopia of works by major British poets. (You probably guessed that from the title. You lot are clever like that.)
Anyhoo... I stumbled across this book while looking for something to read in the bath last night and was absolutely over the moon when I saw it's tattered and frayed cover poking out from behind a copy of Ten Thousand Sorrows by Elizabeth Kim
.
Is it just me or does that last paragraph make me sound a bit gay? If it does please ignore it. Or I'll come round to your house and punch you in the head. (Unless you're a woman, in which case I'll use my amazing powers of seduction and have your pants off and be swinging from your light fixings in a heartbeat. Goatboy rises...)
As I was saying. I found this book last night and turned to the only poem in the whole damned thing that I like. The poem itself is named Down by the Salley Gardens and was written by William Butler Yeats.
Reading this poem, after many years of it being nothing more than a fragmented memory in my mind, had a strange effect on me. It was either that or the very strong joint I'd chonged just previous to getting in the bath. (I'm leaning towards a combination of both.)
As I read the words memories of happy times in my past floated to the surface and I found myself smiling. Smiling? Yes, dear reader, smiling. I smiled as I remembered the great loves of my life. Claire, Katy, Karen and Jen.
Talk about surprised? I nearly dropped my joint...
The usual state of affairs for me when I think of any of these four women is that it sends me into a deep funk and I'm fucked for a few days/weeks/months until the blues pass and I'm back to normal. But not this time. This time I was uplifted and buoyed by my memories.
After laying in the bath for an hour or so I got out and headed into the living room where I hopped onto the Internet to find some of my poetry I posted a long time ago. To compare, you understand.
Hold it. Hang on. Back up a tad... That last sentence could lead you to think I was comparing my poetry with William Butler Yeats. I wasn't. I was comparing my memories triggered by Salley Gardens to memories triggered by my own poetry.
And what did I find? Were the memories pleasant? Did I sink into a deep funk? A surprise; Yes & No; In that order. I found that my memories of past loves and the associated heartache is no longer. Mostly I wondered what the fuck I'd been on when I had written them. *
Should you like to read them (And try to guess what drink/drug I'd been on at the time**) do the clicky linky thing here.
*This is not meant to detract from anything these four women gave me in the love game. I loved you all more than a poem could say and I know it wasn't easy for you.
**No prizes, just bragging rights.
If my memory serves me correctly, which it usually does, I'm sure I was given it by a woman named Kari who drank in the same pub I did many years ago as she thought I should read it. The book is called The Mentor Book of Major British Poets
and contains a veritable cornucopia of works by major British poets. (You probably guessed that from the title. You lot are clever like that.)Anyhoo... I stumbled across this book while looking for something to read in the bath last night and was absolutely over the moon when I saw it's tattered and frayed cover poking out from behind a copy of Ten Thousand Sorrows by Elizabeth Kim
.Is it just me or does that last paragraph make me sound a bit gay? If it does please ignore it. Or I'll come round to your house and punch you in the head. (Unless you're a woman, in which case I'll use my amazing powers of seduction and have your pants off and be swinging from your light fixings in a heartbeat. Goatboy rises...)
As I was saying. I found this book last night and turned to the only poem in the whole damned thing that I like. The poem itself is named Down by the Salley Gardens and was written by William Butler Yeats.
It was down by the Sally Gardens my love and I did meet
She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet
She bid me take love easy as the leaves grow on the tree
But I was young and foolish and with her did not agree
In a field down by the river my love and I did stand
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand
She bid me take life easy as the grass grows on the weirs
But I was young and foolish and now am full of tears.
She crossed the Sally Gardens with little snow-white feet
She bid me take love easy as the leaves grow on the tree
But I was young and foolish and with her did not agree
In a field down by the river my love and I did stand
And on my leaning shoulder she laid her snow-white hand
She bid me take life easy as the grass grows on the weirs
But I was young and foolish and now am full of tears.
Reading this poem, after many years of it being nothing more than a fragmented memory in my mind, had a strange effect on me. It was either that or the very strong joint I'd chonged just previous to getting in the bath. (I'm leaning towards a combination of both.)
As I read the words memories of happy times in my past floated to the surface and I found myself smiling. Smiling? Yes, dear reader, smiling. I smiled as I remembered the great loves of my life. Claire, Katy, Karen and Jen.
Talk about surprised? I nearly dropped my joint...
The usual state of affairs for me when I think of any of these four women is that it sends me into a deep funk and I'm fucked for a few days/weeks/months until the blues pass and I'm back to normal. But not this time. This time I was uplifted and buoyed by my memories.
After laying in the bath for an hour or so I got out and headed into the living room where I hopped onto the Internet to find some of my poetry I posted a long time ago. To compare, you understand.
Hold it. Hang on. Back up a tad... That last sentence could lead you to think I was comparing my poetry with William Butler Yeats. I wasn't. I was comparing my memories triggered by Salley Gardens to memories triggered by my own poetry.
And what did I find? Were the memories pleasant? Did I sink into a deep funk? A surprise; Yes & No; In that order. I found that my memories of past loves and the associated heartache is no longer. Mostly I wondered what the fuck I'd been on when I had written them. *
Should you like to read them (And try to guess what drink/drug I'd been on at the time**) do the clicky linky thing here.
*This is not meant to detract from anything these four women gave me in the love game. I loved you all more than a poem could say and I know it wasn't easy for you.
**No prizes, just bragging rights.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)