wreckedgreg-blog

[wreckedgreg-blog]

the anti-hero's journey (5)

An unwanted mystery guest: Killing John Gee

The welcome speech was boring, tedious and prone to technical difficulties. After the 15 minutes of stuttering, mumbling, microphone feedback and utter niceties, the profusely sweating fat man, who apparently organized the whole thing, lumbers of stage.  When it ended most people got up and went to the talks in the small rooms. I stayed. They were putting more chairs, more microphones and some tables on stage. I moved a couple of rows to the front, still looking around in wonder at all these strange people. Some people with cameras are sitting in the front seats. Apparently there was some media interest for this literary freak show.

Some intern with a great ass puts down name cards. It looks like the photocopier, or printer, was broke, even from a few yards I can hardly read the names on the cards. There are going to be seven speakers.

I look in the program.

Chair: Richard Olafson- Publisher

panel:

Craig Cresent- writer and expert on sincerity

Ronald Twinshing- on-line literary critic

Xantasma Welch- activist writer of the literary blog ”please rape me”

Bernd Flour- professor and literary critic

Joachim Stein- writer and artist

and welcoming our very special guest

John Gee-successful writer and educator

They finally set up the stage. I notice Kessler sitting a few seats to my left. I smile and wave. He raises a can of cheap beer. The auditorium was slowly getting fuller. It looks like a zoo, or an asylum. Barely human rejects. The all looked deplorable and washed up. It looked all so miserable. I feel like “collective suicide” would be the only group activity this gathering is suited for.

It should have started five minutes ago, but the panel is only half there; the fat sweating organizer, who is chairing the thing, a psychotic looking emaciated young man in a black leather jacket, old and tired looking man in a brown checkered suit. The seem to ignore the small audience and even each other. A young unshaven man in a cartoon t-shirt and childish sneakers and masculine transsexual almost complete the panel. The second and fourth seats still vacant. Nobody seemed to pay any attention. The panelist were starting to mumble amongst themselves. Ten minutes after the panel should have started, the big shot, the star, walks on stage.

He appeared taller than he was. It was like some optical illusion; he seemed to shrink as he approached his chair. His imaginary tallness was mainly a result from his unnatural skinniness. He was swaying like a bamboo sprout when he walked and his silly fluffy hair added to his cartoonish appearance. To diminish his clownishness he left his usual side kick, his brother who looks like the aborted part of a Siamese twin, at home. Still, he looked like a fool. He was a successful writer and a total tool. A typical modern eunuch; the type that worships women instead of loves them; that 'respects' his brothers instead of challenging them. A total waste of human genome. One of those creatures that made you question the validity of Darwinism. He sat down and nodded uneasily towards his fellow panelists.

The sweaty man coughed. “ I am sorry to say that Mr. Stein could not make it. So I suggest we get this forum started. I won't bother introduce anybody here, because you should already know every one here or you wouldn't even care.” Muffled laughter.  “So what does sincerity mean to us? As writers and as readers?' The blond fat guy was looking at his phone, the tranny was staring at John, the psychotic man talked to the professor, who politely chuckled. Fat paranoid Richard was sweating even more and was looking desperate. “Anybody?” John looked around and smiled.

“I think we all want to be sincere here. I think we all appreciate what people like Dav....”

“Don't say his name! You piece of shit!” Twinshing, the young psychotic was standing up and foaming at the mouth. I thought he would jump on table and tear John Gee apart. “Don't you dare speak His name!”

The old fat professor was trying to calm down the internet lunatic. With a crazed look the internet critic pushed away the aging academic “Away with you, foul ghoul!” The fat little man fell back in his seat, nearly tipping over, not unlike a studious roly-poly.  Xantasma was body blocking the insane critic

” Back off crazy!” Richard made a feeble attempt to calm the panel. “Guys, can't we just play nice?” He did some weird giggle. “Good job, fatso!”  Some guy is jeering and trowing a paper cup. Richard is gleaming with sweat and looking around  like a caged animal. “Fight, fight!” The crowd was getting worked up. John Gee was getting agitated, rubbing his face and arms.

Who would invite a person like that to a “troubled writers event” ? Was this a set up? It looked like at least one person was going to die as result of this shit. John is clearly dismayed and surprised by the hate. He makes some weird facial expressions and leans in for his mic.

“He guys , relax. I came to check out this scene. … to share my knowledge.... to...”

His microphone was barely on. The feedback is getting louder than his voice, which was less shrill than I expected. Ronald Twinshing in his black leather jacket was hitting Xantasma, almost a full foot taller than him, was blocking him effortlessly.  John was staring at the table and Craig was filming the assault by Ronald. In the mean time the aged professor, the cowardly Bernd Flour made his way off stage, slowly and painfully, like a shot animal. Richard was stuck in a loop of looking at the audience with a retarded grin and a looking in horror at the chaos of his finely selected panel.

Thisd was going to be messy.. Did that paranoid fat bastard set it all up?  I don't believe so: he has nothing to gain from this chaos. No, it was just pure entropy; everything was gravitating towards its basest level. Xantasma knocked over the tiny basement dweller. He scampered to his feet, lunged towards the large transexual, plowing him/her/it into John. Craig steps back and keeps filming, with no  expression on his face. Richard yelps and runs off.

Kessler Laughed heartly, baring his unbrushed teeth. “This is too good to be true!” I saw guys clenching their fists, a fat guy doing a little autistic excitement dance, some other guy flapping his arms like he was going to have a full on seizure.  I grew nervous. The crowd looked up to no good. Yeah, I hated this ass as much as the next guy, but getting charged with GBH or attempted murder is not my my idea of “a good time” or even “useful life experience”. John Gee got up to his feet   There he stood. Mr. Bigshot. The successful writer. Looking like a big lost child. He did not understand where he gotten him self in to. We weren't envious, we were disgusted. The nerve of that insincere paedophile to show up at our little gatherings of sincerity and hate. He thought he could show us “the way”. We would show him. The audience stormed the stage. The other panelists were ignored and trampled. People were grabbing and tearing at John. He was crying.

“Why don't you like me?”

“You suck!” Somebody who smelled like sweat and dead animals was yelling in Johns face.

“Why are all so angry?”

“You are shit!”

“I thought I could teach you guys something about tolerance and...”

“Fuck you!” The Failed Writers Guild seems unanimous in their hate against our Johny, the prodigy, the success. Then suddenly things get really ugly, really fast. It was a flurry of animal frustration and violence. It was pure insanity.

So that is why I am driving at 2am in Kesslers car with a famous writer in the car booth. “One day Greg, you'll laugh about this.” “I doubt it” I snort and try to keep my eyes on the road and the car straight.  Fuck. Fuck. I thought I could relax by embracing writing, not cause more stress.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

the anti-hero's journey (4)

being lost at dusk

The bus stops again. I must be dazed by the sickly warmth, because when I get up the bus is empty. In the dusk I try to read my map. After short walk I see the place I booked. An old brick and mortar hotel. The surrounding streets look as desolate as the hotel. I see boredom and poverty. With the aid of the filthy streetlights I make my way to the hotel. The large building looks like it had seen better times. A vague smell of a slaughterhouse or a pre anti septic hospital; it smelled like death and suffering.

I walk up the desk. It looks like something from a beat novel. A worn down foyer. Old furniture that once was fashionable and is not yet retro or ironic. Barely cleaned; you can see the owners have given up on keeping up appearances: it is shit and why would they pretend that is not? It is musty and I imagine how disgustingly oppressive the air it must be when the sun is up. I ring the bell on the desk and wait. I look around and feel sick. I am not made for travel. An old man, as worn down as the hotel that he manages comes round the corner. He looks surprised. “ Hi, I booked a room. Zanabudin.” He nods and starts looking for a key. He hands me a key with a clunky wooden pine cone attached. “Room 26-b. Round the corner, up the stairs and then third on the right.” He shuffles back. Strange. Through the narrow corridor and the winding staircase, which seems to go up one and a half story, I make my way the room. The door looks normal. The room itself is surprisingly clean. I wash my face and lie down on the bed. Before I realize how tired I am, I am fast asleep. When I wake up it is completely dark. I undress and get under the covers. I wake up just a couple hours later. My head hurts. There is a hint of dawn on the horizon. I step over the pile of crumpled clothes next to my bed and get to the shower. I try to decide if I need a cold or a hot shower. I turn the warm water tap on and some lukewarm water dribbles from the shower head.  I wash myself for a minute before the water starts to get cold. I am not even annoyed, I turn off the shower and grab a towel. Through a small oblong window almost at the ceiling, I can see a part of the sky and a wall, when I stand on my toes I see a court yard. It is still dark and only a small lamp on the side of the building provides some light, no sign of life from any of the windows. I dry myself  and get my toothbrush from my bag. I leave a wet trail on the greenish carpet. I  start brushing my teeth vacantly. I don't know what to do, so I put on my boxers and lie down again. I can hear the occasional bird and car. According to the alarm clock it is just six fifteen in the morning. Still three hours before the convention starts. I think I should get some breakfast. Ten to eight I leave the hotel. It pleasantly fresh. There is the foreshadowing of rain, but it is dry for now. There is cheap hamburger chain on the corner and I get disgusting cheeseburger and a milkshake. I walk through the depressing neighborhood. Boarded up shops and the occasional hipster shop or other gentrification cancer. I take seat on bench looking out over the east side of town, which is slightly downhill from here.. I should be able to see the place  from here, but I can't recognize it. It should only be an other twenty minute walk. I throw the wrapper and empty cup in a bin and slowly make my way downhill. At the end of the street I see a sad square building appear. I think this is it. There are few people outside. I can't tell if they are genuinely poor or just hipsters. They smell like hipsters though.  I don't care. I get to the entrance. This is the place, “ Courounbourg community centre”. It looks less run down than my hotel.

There are slightly more people in the foyer. I join the queue in front of the table labeled “registrations”. There are some stalls from small publishers, “Homeless Publishing”, “ChaoticPress”, “Sad Penguin Books” and even some authors are trying to peddle them selves like desperate crack whores. I guess this worth the money after all, if only to experience this safari of sadness and depravity.

I make my round around the foyer several times, the desperation is almost tangible. When I get tired of the freakshow, I sit down on the stairs and open the paper program. Plenary welcome looks boring. The session afterwards just weird. Self help for losers would be a better title. There are some many things going on.

How do I write the perfect suicide note?

Poetry: the thin line between stalking and admiration.

Solitary: an opportunity to write without distraction.

That kid who bullied you? Kill him! Rewriting your life story.

Selling your soul: whoring your self out.

Honest discussion on the merits of sincerity.

The last one gripped my attention: that looked kind of fun. I get a overpriced horrible coffee and complimentary soggy organic biscuit at one of the food stalls. The girl who serves has dyed hair, facial piercings and cute tits. I smile as she hands me the cup made of recycled paper. I make way to the room: the grand  theatre ball room. I sit down at the back. It is also the room for the welcome talk. People are coming in. It starts filling up. I look around. I still feel out of place. The truly weird will never fit in. Never again will I be able to lose myself in a group. As soon as I started school, that period was over. So here I sit, a weirdo amongst weirdos, but still all alone.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

the anti-hero's journey (3)

t should have been a shorter bus

The closest I have been to being admitted to an asylum, is traveling on public transport. To be confronted with disgusting madness, unable to avoid the interaction with the frail of mind. Sometimes, however, it can be mildly entertaining. Today, on this coach towards the south, on my way to the writing convention, it is definitely more entertaining than disgusting. In the seats in front and across from me sit two men, who could be brothers or mirror images of each other. Fun house mirror images that is. The first man was a young looking guy, wiry and with a annoying voice, sitting next to the window. On his head and his thin blond hair he wears a red hunting cap. On the aisle seat, to his right, sits a large mountain of a man; his quivering body covered by a mustard stained plaid shirt, sporting an undoubtedly ironic mustache and wearing, as if to emphasize the difference with his companion, a green hunting cap.

The larger, and apparently older of the two, was chastising the smaller one.

“No, that is completely beside the point. Young friend, one must never under estimate the perversity of man. For instance, undoubtedly, that unkempt man” he was gesticulating with his large head towards me “has probably engaged in the most obscene and disgusting behavior, not even imaginable to your young mind.”

“You mean he is deviant? A fag?' Wide eyed the young man was looking at me.

“Fag? Call it it what you want, but to me there is just one word: pervert!”

“Don't be such a big phony, you are just sour because you just broke up.”

“Ack!” The large fellow was now doubled over, retching and rubbing his big belly

“Sorry, I forgot about your stomach trouble...” The young guys eyes were teared over and he was nearly crying.

“Tosh!” The overweighed hipster gave his friend a shove. “Just try to be considerate! You know very well I suffer from this affliction. I am far too sensitive for this world”

“I'm sorry!” Now the kid was crying. His obese fellow traveler was belching and fidgeting.

“You should be sorry, you little inconsiderate sister obsessed lolicon pervert!”

The small guy was now sobbing and chocking on his tears.

“Don't say that. She is a swell kid and....”

“She is no different from any other female. She is a little harlot! Just another filthy temptresses! Just another deceitful bitch!”

“Shut up fatso! At least I'm not a self-abusing overweight college drop out!”

“O, I guess 'boarding school dropout 'is much more distinguished? Ha!” His face is contorted in a horrible composition of contempt and pain, spittle on the corners of his mouth.

The little guy was now more angry than sad. “Well, I am not the one facing murder and arson charges down south!”

A grave silence followed. The young men looked at each other with a mixture of disbelief and shock, like they had just been found out. Little did these two self-absorbed donkeys know that I was the only one who paid any attention to their silly verbal fight. The other passengers were too absorbed in their own lives to notice anything happening beyond  their own screens or outside of their thoughts. The couple of indeterminate gender and sex, the urban youths, the retired holiday makers; none noticed the scene , fit for an absurdist novel, being played out in the middle of the filthy bus. Real life was no longer interesting to most of us. Only the carefully edited or scripted appropriations of real life could rouse people’s attention and emotion. Unfiltered, I dare say “real”, reality was to be ignored. Without musical or visual cues for the correct emotion, people did not react anymore. Only in the proper setting they could experience emotions. In a large herd or in front of a big screen. Then they let themselves go: shrieking, howling, showing more attention and emotion than they ever could show for a real person or event. That is not the sublimation, but the synthesis of human interaction. Simplified. Dumbed down. With an on/off switch. Years of evolution, or Gods work, I do not know which would be sadder, reduced to a gesture of a finger. +/-, like, upvote, share. No longer able to experience anything as real, only as a filtered, framed event. This is death. The end of humanity, not the human race, just humanity. Flesh clad automatons will rule the planet, populate it with happy and customized clones of themselves, forever progressing further away from life, towards the immortal ego. Like a species survives despite the death of an individual, so will the ego survive despite the death of its host. We are killing ourselves on an industrial scale. The ego will consume us whole. The greatest urge remains self-obliteration.

In the bus the tension cleared from the air as fast as it had emerged. The fat hunting cap wearer was now more soothing and almost unpleasantly nice, trying to console his smaller counterpart.

“Young friend let us agree the the two of us are flawed and that we all, including myself, have done and said thing one would wish one would not have said and done. Let us unite in the struggle for originality in writing and show those poseurs how it is done!”

Holy shit. These guys were writers? These are my peers? Are all writers such losers? Are we all narcissistic, unoriginal wankers? Despite my own shortcomings, I was hoping for more sanity in my equals. Then a chilling thought arose in the back of my mind, a thought I could not forget; to everybody else, I was just a narcissistic wanker, an idiot believing that his stupid experiences are better or more real than those of others. I remained quiet and brooding for the rest of the trip.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

the anti-hero's journey (2)

In an almost zen like state, I make my way to the bus.

In an almost zen like state, I make my way to the bus. The loud idiots can not disturb me. Nothing will The bus is crowded and filthy. It matters not. Not to me. Not to day. There have been days like this that send me spiraling into depression. Similar days have made me contemplate taking my own life. Today I will not let this thoughts emerge. I am focused. I have a clear goal. I show my ticket to the bus driver, whose eyes seemed fixed on infinity. I choose a seat on the right side of the bus. The morning sun warms my back and shins  over my shoulder. I relax and fall asleep.

In I a few seconds I revisit all my former bus trips. From the times I got sick on schooltrips, to the tedious and grueling ones when I was desperate to save money traveling. Suddenly I relive that one magic one. The one where felt so sick that I couldn't even doze. That time I saw the vision of her. The girl I never knew I longed for. That girl that would reject me so cruelly almost ten years later. That girl that I though was meant to complete me, but was only there to torment and taunt me. She is back. I do not cry, much to my surprise. She sits down on my lap. She is older. Fatter. Has stretch marks. Her teeth are still crooked, only more yellow. She looks tired “ I have missed you” she says as she rests her head on my shoulder. I smile faintly. I never thought I could care again about her, but I do. The longing, that painful, tearing feeling, is gone. I feel only tenderness towards our shared folly. There is no anger. I know she is not half as bad as I made her out to be. Just misguided. We cuddle and I run my fingers over her changed body. I feel the fat, the stretch marks, her once smooth skin.  I am not appalled, just surprised. I now realize that the short time we shared, the way she changed me, it was all for the best. I feel strangely at ease. She caresses me, I just let it happen to me, I do not care, I am already dead. It is not real. At least, it is not real to me.  I try to kiss her. “ We shouldn't.” I let her go, my memories of her  no longer coloured by resentment. I wake up with a heavy head. The bus is almost full. We will depart in five minutes. The diesel engine sends its vibrations through the bus. I cough and rinse my mouth with some water. It has come full circle. The motivating vision from my youth is now a dear memory. I can finally let go of the sense of failure. It wasn't meant to be. I shouldn't dwell on the what could have been, I should appreciate what was.

The visions I have on my travels are far more stupefying and grandiose than the physical wonders I encounter. Only I a fool thinks that it is ones body that travels. Tourists are the worst example of this idiocy. Loud, encumbered with cheap trinkets and obsessed with “experiences”, trying to avoid hardship and difficulty. True growth comes at a price, true knowledge is what you least want to  know.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

the anti-hero's journey (1)

Road trip to nowhere

The bus will leave at five in the morning. I will probably only have four hours sleep, at best. But it will be worth it. Three days of being free of manual labor. Two days of mingling with fellow aspiring writers. It would be four sleepless hours. I got home, took a shower and put on my clothes for the coming morning. I laid in bed for three hours, then decided to make self a coffee and walk to the bus stop. It was just getting light, the birds were chirping their manic tunes. The streets, except for the occasional garbage truck and the homeless, where empty. The air was cold and still fresh, not yet saturated with the fumes of rush hour. With still forty-five minutes to wait, I took a seat on the bench near the bus stop. I could see the river, the tower blocks, the factories, disgustingly mundane places, lightened up by an angelic sunrise. It looked so beautiful, but I knew how awful it all really was. Instead of sadness, I felt tranquility. Nothing mattered and I was enjoying the morning light.

After contemplating the beauty of nature for a whole fifteen minutes I got bored. Luckily for me the coffee stand across the street just opened. In a couple of hours the street I crossed would be filled with stagnant cars, all eager to escape the city on this Saturday morning. Not yet. It was quiet and peaceful and even somewhat clean. For now. I was getting a coffee and perhaps something to eat. I got a cheap, but hot coffee and oyster and cheese bagel. I walked back to bus stop and see some others gathering. Still more than twenty minutes to go. I returned to bench and overlooked the city again. The light has gotten brighter and had lost its magical properties; it was now merely light, showing the city how it was: grey, dreary and filthy. I was still not sad: it is just the way it is. Magic and beauty are fleeting, otherwise people wouldn't be obsessed by either.

With the more unforgiving light warmth also came. I sat quite comfortably, sipping my coffee and eating my bagel, which turned out to be better tasting than I imagined.  A hobo tried to hustle the people at the bus stop. He gets laughed at and later on some asshole throws an half full can at his head. The usual shit of the usual shitheads. Other times it would have depressed me. Not today. Today I don't give a fuck. I couldn't care less about the rest of the world. I'm just sitting here, in the sun, eating my bagel and drinking coffee. Nothing concerns me. Today, at least for now, I am at peace.

I feel for my note book and pen. Pretentious twat. As if I will write anything memorable on this trip. If anything it is a fetish, a magical item to try to lure the muses, to try to encourage creativity.  At least I have them, even if I don't need them. I happily pat my pocket. The bagel is gone, only a little of now cold coffee remains. I close my eyes and appreciate the light and warmth of the morning sun. I finish my coffee and throw the paper cup in the thrash can next to the bench. I sigh. This is pretty nice. Still ten more minutes until the buss arrives. The traffics is already less sparse The sound of people talking and inefficient combustion engines drowns out the last of the bird song. The air is no longer fresh. The city has awoken. The still brighting light chases away the last remnant of  whatever beauty I imagined to have seen in the city. It matters not. I am still warm, sitting in the sun on a bench. For now, I am at peace.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

depressed

does anybody even read this?

[wreckedgreg-blog]

a tribute to hate

A sickness overcame me, I could not write single word down. It nauseated me, the thought alone of writing, fabricating a narrative. It seemed the worst thing a person could do. Stupid, immature and redundant. However, then I remembered my dreadful daily life and I started typing in a most frantic manner. Anything was better than spending the rest of my life in this enslavement to the mediocracy. Even if I did not escape this misery in the real world, I could still escape in to fantasies. Horrible sad, but funny fantasies. Stories abut human failure and self inflicted pain. To put in words with I experienced and saw, it seemed the only thing I could do. I try again. And again. Over and over. Repetitions that make me even sicker. I fill my crooked storylines with half formed caricatures. Ugly bastards of resentment and bad memories. I kill them off like flies. I make them suffer. Make them live through the shit I had to deal with. I am God here. My word is reality. I create and take life. The great creator, unchallenged and alone. I am a monotheistic nightmare.

I construct a hell on my pages. Eternal suffering for all those who sinned against me. No chance of forgiveness. I am getting my revenge. Fuck this stupid world. It will burn and I will watch it without any regret. No crime without punishment. No respite for the wicked. My anger rages on. It burns stronger with every page I write. I get so much joy from the suffering and anguish I inflict. Here I am master of my own fate, here I have control. Total control. I do not waver; I do what I want, I get what I need. Years of frustration and isolation have created this carnage. In a neck breaking speed I destroy everything that bothered me. The grave injuries, inflicted by those I cared so much for, the small every day insults. All the things that have eroded my joy during my sad life. It is payback time. I am not taking any hostages. My armory is immense. I have taken time to prepare my weapons: they are sharpened and have a venomous edge. My strategy is well planned; I have run all the scenarios multiple times. I have enjoyed the prospect of retribution, I have erased mistakes and streamlined my battle plan. I have never been more ready. My body trembles, my heart races and I feel electrified. Supercharged and overflowing with force. I feel alive, in control. I must not lose my head. I have an important The most important thing to do is to keep momentum. Not to tire myself to soon, spending to much energy on a single nuisance. I need to get them all. If I waste my time it will only shorten my rampage. I need to get them all. None must be allowed to escape.

I know what will follow after my rage. Regret and sadness are sure to come. When I lie there exhausted, I will be crying. Not for all that I obliterated. No. There will be tears for myself. Because despite everything I will have done, my pain will remain as an everlasting memory. I cannot erase the hardship. This would all be avoided if only if I was stronger, if I did not let the world hurt me. It is too late now. Forward is the the only direction I can go from here. I take a deep breath and let the hate flow.

I am on an everlasting trek towards a non existent retribution. A difficult and painful path, but my only choice. Never will I be accepted by normal people. Or  even my family. I can only spread and share my misery with the world. I can not ever hope to be accepted. The stupid, “normal” people, who spent their whole life going back forth between a senseless search for pleasure and pointless obedience to outdated rules. Those of even temperament, of little imagination and even lesser knowledge. Who needs them anyway?

[wreckedgreg-blog]

Hardware

hardware shopping

I love shops like this: filthy, cluttered, and managed by a grumpy old man. I was there to buy a hammer and some nails. I was looking round in amazement at the outdated and overpriced supplies. Stuff that went out production decades ago, stuff that has been outlawed for years. This was the type of shop where you would find a NOS blunderbuss from 1825. It is either a large collection crap or a fantastic museum, depending on your interests and mood.

“Need any help?” These types of shopkeepers see anybody that enters their shops as an intruder to their domain. They do not really care if you buys something, as long you piss off.  I had look around and seen many ancient tools, some of which I could not even guess the intended use. I had taken my time. The old man behind the counter was annoyed when his ten minutes of ignoring and glaring did not scare me away. He now had to take more desperate measures: he decided to talk to me. This was of course not to help me, but just a vehicle to convey his animosity.

I find always extremely difficult to imagine these characters outside of their environment. The work well in their scene, but would be unconvincing in any other setting. It would be easier to envisage this guy as an actor; I see him walk out from behind the counter and go to the back room, wipe off the  make-up, take of his garish clothes, put on a decent suit and loafers, lock the door and walk down the street smoking a cigar. When he gets home he takes his dachshund for walk to see his granddaughter. That is how it should be. It is not the case. This sad man stays in this sordid little shop. I doubt I would notice him outside. He probably slinks in the shadows, stealthily making his way yo his apartment that is as misrable and depressing as his shop. Either his wife died, divorced him or the guy was never married in the first place. He drinks cheap wodka and cooks something disgusting; a cabbage and potatoes dish form his ancestral country. Something his mother used to make, something he might have cooked decently at one point in his life, but in last decade it has been quite a miserable meal. The contents ever overcooked or almost raw, mashed to a watery pulp and flanked by a pathetic sausage from the Kentucky Jelly company. No longer could he bothered to make an effort. He forgot to care and therefore could no longer care. The food, even shoddily made, reminded him of happier times. Days when cared  about things and people and people cared about him. That was long ago. The only thing that kept him going was his shop; a silly excuse to get up every day, an endavour that was probably costing him money, but that he could not abandon. In an emotional sense  he became symbiotic with his old shop. It was the only thing that felt like “him”. All the other things he did, had and felt appeared to him to be the product of others. Only the shop was not a reaction to expectations, disappointments and indoctrination. The shop was his and his alone. As soon he would pass away, the shop would close and the land lord would be left significant debt.

Thinking all this, I put the yellowed plastic box of nails and the slightly rusty hammer on the counter. “ This is it.”

[wreckedgreg-blog]

Mr Singhs corner shop

My father, may Satan roast his soul, used to tell me this story. Or at least I remember him mentioning these events at some moment of his pointless life. He did not teach me much, but this was one lesson I took to heart. It is of his years a young man, when he immigrated to this country. He was sent by his parents because he was up to no good and this country provides so many opportunities to those up to no good.

“When I first moved here, before I met your mother, I was still a stupid young boy. I lived with my cousin. Lasarov had a small flat on the edge of the city centre. I washed dishes at some filthy restaurant. I did not make a lot of money, but enough to buy cigarettes and magazines. It was strange neighborhood, full of immigrants, whores and other rejects. It was chaotic, overcrowded and unhygienic.  The neighborhood resident were hoping for a better life, if not for them, at least for their children. People where mostly optimistic. However, this mood was fickle. Sometimes an event; being fired, finding your spouse in bed with a friend, running out of cigarettes, hearing that your mother died could change this. In most cases this led to suicide, increased alcohol intake and occasionally to a fight. After such event the people went back to their prior stupor. It was hard to comprehend for the police and journalist when they came to a crime scene to find the perpetrator docile and moping. This was not what they expected from immigrants; they expected fiery temperaments and animalistic instincts, but they found beaten down and tired workers, barely awake. A beacon of positivity in this mess was mister Singh, who as far as I could tell was ancient when he moved here and lived in the neighborhood for decades. He ran a small shop. It was more a very large newspaper stand. He sold all sorts of crap. Cigarettes. Pornographic photos that were at least twenty years old. Candy bars. Lemonade and beer. He looked stupid and old. That is, he looked like an idiot. He looked like he might have been smart in a previous life time, a teacher or a librarian. Even in that dark stall you could see, under his wrinkled skin and horribly worn out clothes, a glimmer of intelligence.

In his own idiotic way old Mr. Singh tried to be kind. Occasionally giving me free candy and always willing to belief people when they said their kids were starving and they would definitely pay him next week. He was not a saint, but he did the only thing decent man could do; to try to be a decent man. When there was a fight he tried to calm people down with promises of cigarettes or alcohol. It occasionally worked. He was a nice guy. I think he lived there for just ten years, but he was such a part of the neighborhood, not just the community, but he seemed to be the house god of the area. Until that one night. I think I only lived there eighteen months, but it felt like an eternity.

There was trouble in the air. It was late summer or early autumn, one of those hot and sweaty evenings. There trouble brewing. You could feel it. I was tired, but I could feel my hairs stand up. Children and animals were running around. I forgot what the excuse was:  political upheaval, a race riot or just a football match; I do not remember why and it is not important. There was an uproar. People were  out on the streets, on drugs and alcohol. They looked like a zombie mob. They were frantic with anger and malevolence. Stupid human beasts. Tearing down everything they saw. The police was aware and  had a clear task: t make sure that the mob would not leave the neighborhood. When they saw the riot police on streets, they got angrier, but also frustrated; they cowered and moved back to the centre of the area. The group, of roughly eighty people, walked towards one of the little plazas. The plaza where Mr. Singh sold his wares. If there was one thing Mr. Singh did not like, it was violence and chaos. He tried to calm the mob down. Candybars, porn, cigarettes and alcohol did not  apease the madmen.

“Fuck your cigarettes Mr Singh!”

“But Janosch, please calm down” The old man pleaded. He was looking frantically whilst some thugs moved towards his shack “Don't Mohammed!” Too late, they were already kicking down the poor excuse for a shop. “Don't you know I care about all of you?”  They did not forget, they just did not care. Mr Singh ran inside in attempt to hold up the walls and roof like a malnourished third world Atlas. Of course he failed. The building collapsed on top of him.  Like a Hollywood cliche, it started to thunder and rain. Grudgingly and unsatisfied, the mob finally dispersed. Mr Singh would die of exposure. And that, dear Gregory is why you should disregard people; they would do the same to you, had they had the chance.”

This was the only thing worthwhile my father ever taught me. Some people get old like flowers wither; over the years they lose their colour, eventually start to wrinkle and after decades slowly fall apart. Other ages almost over night, like they have been hit by a truck. truck. Apparently my father aged that abruptly after his final break down, a couple of year before I was born. I have only known him as a decrepit, sickly, bitter man. Needless to say, I hated my father and rejoiced when my mother accidentally tripped him up and the brute was run over by a bus. This taught me an other valuable lesson: even if you act like a tough nihilist, are an abusive and whoring husband and an overall shit father, you will still cry for your mother when you are bleeding out on the pavement.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

Preaching to myself

Gregor Zanabudin, you are scum. You never seem to appreciate what life, earth and the gods provide for you. You scowl at the sunny parks, avoid the fun people and do not even pick up that five pound note. You just don't see, do you? Those girls, running in their tights that outline the gorgeous behinds, jiggling their mamamaries, why don't you see; they do it for you! Why else would girls and young women run through the park on a Saturday morning? For their own pleasure? Are you really that deranged, young Gregor? I call you “ young”, but I should call you immature, puerile, childish and useless. A sickly and weak manchild. Despite your education, your thinking resembles the musings of a garden slug. You have free time now, but how much of any merit have you written? You have enough money to survive an even occasionally indulge your silly fancies, but are you content?

You are truly a disappointment Gregor Zanabudin. I can not see anything to explain let alone defend your stupidity. You were given all you needed to be successful, happy and productive. Yet, you are as worthless as everybody always said you were. Every day of your existence just underlines how pointless you are. To honest, I am disappointed in you, Gregor Zanabudin. Just sit there and mope. Blaming all your failures on the world and on people who do dare to try. It is disgusting. You waste your short time on this silly world on complaining how short and limited life is. Are you really that stupid or is it some sort of post modern performance art type of thing? Either way, you are a complete wanker.

There is no excuse for how thing turned out. Only you, Gregor Zanabudin, are guilty of causing this mess. No matter how I look at it, your life could and should be so much more. When I try to retrace your strange path, I get lost in the depressing mire. How could you let things get so out of hand? Do you ever had any idea where you wanted to go? If so, you have kept everybody in the dark about your motivation and ambitions. Everything you always said; all that crap about proving yourself, about “being all that you could be” and “{doing your very best” were just what it soudned like: utter dribble. Meaningless banter, uttered in some vague attempt of conforming to rest of the world and not admitting that you were, and always will be, an useless coward. Gregor Zanabudin, that once snarky boy, later that antisocial young man, now a derelict and dirty old man. You are disillusioned and cynical beyond your years. When people look into your eyes that would think you have murdered whole villages, ravaged innumerable women and pretty much committed every sin and crime known to mankind. The truth is much more shocking. You never even tried. Everything, your sins, your crimes, your achievements; mere imagination. It is all just in your mind.

Gregor Zanabudin, I do not recall every seeing such a waste of potential; it would be better to die a hated criminal than just to wither away like a syphillised idiot. A sub human, worse than animal stupidity seems at your core. Perverted and wasted intellect is far more pathetic than just the lack of intelligence. Failing far more admirable than giving up without even trying. I pity you.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

The magical land of Nigerian princes, self help gurus and forex traders

On-line communities of lost souls. Interconnected spaces where social interactions and transactions are literately “just blips”, were timezones and dates do not exist and where day to day niceties are irrelevant. The cold screen lures me away from my writing and horrible life. Intoxicating play, electronic escapism. The scariness of VR is not the endless planes it can emulate or the multitude diversions it provides, but the emptiness in its user that needs to be filled. The gaping negative space that yearns for something, hungers for fulfillment. I chastise my self for losing track of time spent on the information mesh, but then I realize some people spent more than their rents worth on puerilistic virtual skinner boxes like human rats.

It can be just a garbage can of the worst of humanity, or it can be just a really efficient way of communication. It feels still pretty surreal to be in contact with people on different continents, living their parallel existences in different timezones. It is magic. Books gave us the ability to comfortably share our minds with strangers, the internet has enabled us to share in real time, back and forth. There is no longer an excuse to not be aware of anything: in the modern age all events cast digital shadows. Electronic ripples can become tsunamis, as mentioned in the whole ”butterfly wings can cause hurricanes” fashion. Small blurbs can be augmented, resonate and reach billions.

In this turmoil, this digital shit storm, I tried to carve out a niche for my self. What a fucking mess. I met some interesting people, had some great arguments, but I did not made a dime. I lost money on stupid shit. Maybe  I am just as a big a failure in virtual reality as I am in real life. Well, at least electronic rejection does not hurt that much. And like most stupid shit, it was fun some how.  The time of “digital cowboys” and other faddy shit was long over;the electronic frontier, the uncharted map, is getting smaller and smaller and the imaginary gated communities, the digital hugboxes, are expanding at an exponential rate. For those who do not fit the go-happy circle jerk mentality, only the on-line ghettos remain. Deplorable places where the rejected rejoice and plan their revenge on the world. The place that nurtures its sick and twisted children. This is where I hang out; we are all electronic bottom feeders here; desperate for the crumbs, the off cuts, the left overs, the shit, the fallen fruit. The lowest common denominator divided by zero. A cultural waste land; barren and pillaged, just some remnants of heritage were left, to humped and revered by the half-sentient. A reality so dismal that no SF or sadistic fantasy ever predicted a horror like this. It is over guys and girls, there is nothing new to create, just shit to break and deconstruct. No hope. The future is here and it isn't pretty. Come and join us as we dine on the remains of our forefathers; there is no cover charge and it is all you can stomach. No need for booze or drugs; this reality is weirder and more horrible than any artificial trip ever could be. Call hell, call it limbo, call it madness; I just call it home. This is where I belong. The old rules do not apply here, the standard social order has no power here. It is utter chaos. This is where I will thrive or perish.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

my living hole

My living hole

“Oh yes! Fuck me in my tight ass! Do it to me!” The drawbacks of cheap housing: the thin walls.

Waking up at 11 am on a Sunday morning to the sounds of third rate porn was not my idea of “fun”. At least it wasn't that primordial music that sounded like the rape of cattle. Or the fire alarm, which for some reason only went off at night or early in the morning and stayed quiet when Fred almost burned down the whole block with his “deep fried caramel bananas”.

Cramped, damped, no privacy and deranged housemates. My room was as horrible as it sounded. I would like to say it was convenient or affordable, but it was my only option. My dire financial track record made escape from the Kentucky Jelly Corporation impossible. It had owned my waking hours, it still owned my room. It fueled my nightmares and made money of my dreams. KYC represents the all encompassing, all controlling capitalist conglomerate. The only reason I allow tit to control me, is that I am weak. To weak to break the bonds of routine and easy existence. Too afraid of life. Of chance. Of succeeding. So this tiny and stuffy room is where try to forge my escape from this small and oppressive life. This where I write about how stupid I am and fantasize about how I could, potentially and in theory, be happy. How to word my mistakes in way that provides entertainment and a sense of purpose. To make up lies so crafty I will believe them myself. This the goal I have chosen for myself. The unattainable mortality I strive for is that of literature, of the written word. Ideas are as, or maybe even more, enduring as words, but ideas can escape the grasp of their originator, words can not. Everything I write will be attributed, if even for a short while, to me. An idea flees the control as soon is it spoken aloud.

I hate myself for the risks I did not take and for the times I did and failed. I can never be satisfied by anything I do. I will remain bitter and angry. Never mind any success: I will remember all the failures, the losses, the defeats, far more frequent and intense. This is who I am. I look outside and see the depressing scenery: forlorn building, crowed by forlorn people. Misery and banality exemplified. How could I ever think moving here was a good idea? How did the thought occur to me? I search my memories, but can not remember how it all started. All I can rememberer I was in a similar situation and mood as I am now, only an ocean tot the east. Somehow this place seemed full of possibilities. I knew it would be dirty and hard, I just never imagined it to be so depressing and so similar. There is much truth in the saying that crossing an ocean does not change the traveler.

Wasted money and time? I don't know. If I was still where I started I would not have written this. Maybe the truest sense of failure comes from realizing that failure, and I mean complete and utter defeat, comes from the realization that this; the terrifying failure, is, was and will be the only outcome of your pathetic life. No wrongs to right, no years to redo: it would not change the outcome. In the the end we all will experience this failure. The fortunate ones only briefly. The rest of us  will experience the slow erosion of our minds, the unstoppable break down of bodies. In the will be reduced to nothingness and than we will die.  Going on is pointless, but giving up is weak. I will not surrender without a fight. Resisting the imminent death is thee only thing I can do.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

happy

The smiling, happy successful people. Ready and eager for everything life could send their way. The more I see them, the more I want to punch them in the face. Today, I had a cleaning job at university for shit pay, the frat girls, the same ones I could never fuck, or even date when I was their age, were perky, chirpy an bubbly. It filled me with disgust. I see them in bar , and in summer time in the parks, like when I walked home from the factory or got drunk and loitered around the fountain. The stupid simple, but happy people. I envy their ignorance. How can they forget the despair, the pain, the inevitable void? Do they not see it? Or are they able to drown it with the constant stream of brainless entertainment, the mind numbing politics, the sedating activities? It has never worked for me. I always feel sad and angry.

I can never understand the emotions of other people; they all seem so insincere. Not true emotions, but just the behavior that society expects them to have at set times. They just look like well trained animals to me. I cannot, how ever hard I try, take them seriously. I wonder what the clinical diagnosis for my affliction would be. Psychocotypical autism? Antisocial schizoid affection disorder? Psychopath? I don't care and I don't want to find out. Any diagnosis would probably end up in either electroshocks or a lobotomy for yours truly. Better stay away from psychologist, psychiatrist and other headshrinkers.

As I move the tables back to the storage I wonder what would I need to be happy. I don't think there is anything I really need or want. Happiness is just not an option. I think the stupider you are, the happier you are. The people around me certainly seem to prove this theory. How happy and chirpy they all are now. In a couple of years the will be stuck in dead end jobs, paying off students debts for a study that did not provide anything more than an excuse to drink, use drugs and fuck around.. You know the saddest part? The will be content. The will feel like their life of wageslavery is worth living. The won't kill themselves or retreat to live as bums under bridges. No, they will be content with the small escapes society allows them: expensive vacations, the usual excessive alcohol, sex and drugs, as long as it does not interfere with their ability to make money for their masters.

When I am finished clearing up the tables, sweep the floor. I live a life of low expectations, but also of a certain amount of freedom. Will make enough today to buy food for the nex two weeks and the rent is already paid. I'll use the remainder of the week to write. To write shit nobody wants to read. The collective death is inevitable. Yet, those who spot the decay and rot are chided for pointing it out. People hate the truth now more then ever before. The current generations, raised on sunshine, rainbows, and ideology are shocked by their first encounter with reality. By the brutality of life on earth. The only truth, the oldest reality: everybody is out to get you. To kill, fuck or maim you.  They can not deal with it.

I smile at young unblemished positive faces. They all think they are so much smarter and better off than me. I am so happy I no longer live in their world. My home is in the street, amongst the filth,  the dirt. To be ignored and shunned. To be left alone. I wouldn't go back to the imprisonment, the self imposed restriction. If the price of freedom is isolation, I wholeheartedly choose that over the deadly, mundane blandness of normalcy.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

My Nigerian prince on a white horse

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[wreckedgreg-blog]

Cold air.

I like the night time. I like the quiet. I like the cold air. It feels all so spacious, fresh. It seems filled with possibilities. Insomnia can be a blessing. Night shifts can be a gift. I walk along the empty road. Serene. There is no other way to describe it. It is peaceful, empty and beautiful. The glaring streetlights give deeper meaning to even the most mundane things. Buildings appear to hide more than than they do during the day. There is hidden meaning and importance everywhere. I feel like a child. The world looks foreboding, but also challenging. There are adventures to be found by those who look.

I almost forget I have been awake for twenty hours. I did some packing in a shop, made fifteen quid, had some coffee, tried to write, had some fast food and now I am outside. I wished I smoked. I would look cool and it would give me some warmth. I don't smoke so I put my hands in my pockets as I walk towards the river. I feel so alive. I have forgotten how shit today was. The tiredness, the hopelessness all disappeared when I walked into the cold night. There are only opportunities, no restrictions. I can anything. As I cross the river, I can see the many lights of the city.

I sigh. I think I am happy. I know the magic will vanish as soon as I go to bed. I will have a dreamless sleep or worse, a hectic, frantic nightmare. Whatever happens, I know I will wake up tired, empty and depressed. That's why I am taking the long way home. To make it last. I am clinging to this bewitchment. I long for more of these enchanted moments between slumber and wakefulness. My mind is catching up to the tiredness of my body. I smile. It is inevitable. I will lose this fight, like I lost all the fights before this one. I will go on losing. This is my life. Nobody's life last for ever and all the bewilderment is only temporary. The world has won. I accept defeat and make my way home.

I'm not angry, just so fucking tired. I smile. I knew it would end up like this. It always does. There is no escape. Not for me, not for anybody. We are all stuck in this endless shit. You can get angry, you can get sad, but it is best to just laugh. There is no sense in getting upset. It is all pointless. I walk faster as it is now getting colder. I contemplate getting a beer at grimy convenience store. I decide I'm too cold and tired to drink. Still walking parallel to the river, I reach my neighborhood. Familiar, but still strangely mystical in the night, it was waiting for me. My home, since almost a year. A shitty home, yet a home nonetheless. I walk past the decrepit park and the malfunctioning fountain. There are still some homeless and drunkards sitting round. I get to my apartment building and open the door. In the darkness I make way up to my room. I don't even bother to switch on the light. I get in to my dirty and cold bed.  I'm still happy. My mind is empty. There are no self accusations, no suicidal thoughts, no longing for death. Sleep can be peace.

I wake up. Cold bright light leaks through the unwashed  curtains and the dirty windows. I'm back. Conscious and remorseful. A memory from the blissful last night still lingers. I'm less sad than I would think I would be. I boil some water and make some instant coffee and turn on my laptop. Hopefully I can get some writing done. I take one sip of the disgusting coffee. I decide to go back to sleep. My laptop screens glares in disapproval. I will write something today, I promise. I drift off again. The safety of unconsciousness. How I long for ignorance, oblivion. How sweet would life be if we could just live every day without to have to remember past regrets, old mistakes? Now I understand why my parents drank. Even the days with the twelve hour shifts and the crazy parties don't seem to have more than an hour I can really remember. So  strange. In the end all the time spent on thing just evaporates. It slowly dissipates in the cold space, lost forever. The vague memory of the fact that you had a memory of something pleasurable at some point. When depression achieves a level of abstraction normally reserved for post modern philosophy. I know I was happy at some point, but I cannot remember why I was happy.  It does not matter. I start writing. I think about the pointlessness, the total and utter unimportance of all my failures. Nobody gives a fuck and I would still be miserable if things turned out different. There is no escape from misery. There is no perfect wife, great job or special hobby that can take away the sense of failure, the feeling of being totally lost. When I write it down it just sounds trite. Well, I'll write it anyway.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

Removal

The factory hall is quiet and nearly empty. For the first time I can hear the trains in the nearby yard. For the first time I can breathe without gagging. The windows and surface are covered in mucky layer of grease and dust. The light seems lighter; less bleak, still not warm, but not as sickening as I remember it. I feel like I am watching a documentary, I feel detached and out of it. It is real, but it doesn't concern me. It is no longer a part of my life. I would like to say that I was free, but I was just feral. Still a filthy, stupid animal, but no longer bound to a master.

I am unemployable, bored. I think that is what brought me here. I have nothing better to do, at least nothing I can put myself to. I feel tired of it all. I sigh and look back over my shoulder, I can see Ramon in the shadows, the rest of the factory is lighted by the sun light that comes through the ceiling. windows and the cracks in the walls. Ramon sits at a lonely desk. I think he lives here now, don't think he gets paid, but he looks happy. He is even wearing a tie, a plastic clip-on tie, but a tie nonetheless. He has a new and shiny name tag; R. Hindimaganda- Romirez. He still wears the same stupid expression; a vacant stare and idiotic grin. I think he is some sort of a custodian, but he doesn't seem to do much more than sit at his desk and look ridiculous. He smiles as I walked in and out of the factory hall, with a small nod that signifies recognition. I think a cement garden gnome would be a custodian of similar effectiveness.

The concrete floor is scared and discoloured. There are patches of congealed fat. It still smells same, yet so much milder. Once or twice I almost slip in one of the disgusting puddles.  I am relieved that I did not trip and smeared myself. After a small walk around,  I leave the factory. Ramon is still grinning. Outside it is cold, but bright. I squint as I walk to the gate. The cold causes me to cough. I feel more ill than bored now. I walk homewards past the cafe. My right hand feels around in my left trouser pockets: at least enough for a coffee. I go in. It is empty. Gladys is reading a news paper. All the tables are clear, no used cutlery, plates or cups. I ask for a coffee and happily accept the hot cup as a consolation. I sigh. I want to do something, yet I just want to go to bed. To be done with all this shit. Go to sleep and hope I'll wake up in a better world.

There is no escape. Even without the factory my life is a depressing mess. It did not change. Maybe the factory provided some sort rhythm or stability. I can remember all the times I cursed it. The days I came home sick, the sleepless nights followed by those long empty days.. The factory is closed, my life is still shit. It will always be shit. Life is shit.

[wreckedgreg-blog]

Books

When I entered the cafe, I noticed Kessler sitting near the window. He was reading a well worn paperback. It appeared to be titled “Huge cocks and small hearts”. It was a post magical coming of age romance thriller set in the gay porn industry of Atlanta in the early millennium. How Joey the fluffer found true love or something. As I walk over, he notices me. He doesn't looks up.

“Its better than you would think.”

“That doesn't mean much.”

Kessler grinned. His face looked more sardonic than usual.

“Depressed again, Greg?”

“No, still.”

I smiled. I do not want sympathy. I want sincerity. Kessler overflowed with sincerity. He's a nice guy. Some people would call us “gritty” or “base”, but we are just realists. Observers. We will not embellish or ignore truths. We don't have anything to gain by lying about the depressing state of the world. Rather tell the painful truth than to join in the chorus of lairs. We don't have to repeat the mantras the propaganda taught us. We do not depend on self deception for survival. We have let go of 'hope', 'love' and other concepts now copyrighted by big entertainment. We write for real people, whether they are educated or not. We know our culture, we live in it, not just dress up our lifeless prose with the relics of past times like all the hipsters. The letters are not dead to us.

I order a coffee and Kessler keeps on reading, the book must have some merit. I look around and see different, but equally familiar, dreary and empty faces. The people are similar but not the same; each day separate individuals make up the sad crowd at Gladys literary cafe. All their uniqueness, their quirks, their ticks, melt in to one annoying mass. The patrons are different each day, but their shit  is always the same. Inane arguments over the meaning or intentions of the work of some dead Russian or the merits of this or that academic recluse that wrote so autisticly that it was not clear if it was an very elaborate act or that it was even possible for a such an autist to study and write literature.

Kessler finished the chapter and put down the book. Reaching for his coffee “Done any writing lately?” I chuckle and almost choke on my coffee, I chokled “ No! Been busy feeling sorry for myself.” It is not a joke. It is possibly my favourite pass time. Feeling sorry for myself is right there with self loathing and hatred for the world. One of the few emotional luxuries I allow myself. I thought writing would help that, but it didn't. Some people get rich of their writing, some people famous, others merely survive because of it and I just continue my pathetic self pity through it. There can be no over indulgence of self pity without self hatred, self loathing, it is a see-saw of perpetual motion towards death.

“How is your writing going?” Obligatory deflective question. As in the joke about rabbis; every difficult question is countered with another question. Could be the allegory for most human lives; question after question and not a single answer. Is there an afterlife? Does it matter? Is there a god? Who cares? Why? Does it change anything? Anything at all?

“Same old, same old, Still working diligently, feels like I am getting there.”

“Good. Are you going to the  alternative writing seminar thing?” I nod towards one of the posters.

“Yeah, I'll drop in. I know the organizer, Paranoid Richard. Quiet the character.”

“Cool. I'm out of a job anyhow now. Spare time galore. Should be a good weekend. It is only four hours by bus.”

“So, are you serious about writing? You had a decent job, some security. I just scrape by.” He wasn't being sarcastic.

“Yeah, I think it is the only way for me left to go.”

“Good. ” We smile and drink coffee. A police siren drains out the silly conversations. We look out the window and see a  beat up delivery van flying over the curb, just avoiding a collision with a burned out wreck.

“Hope we'll make it” Kessler grins.

“I'm sure it will be one hell of a ride.”