What Once Was

“It’s been a while since I’ve picked this up,” he thought to himself, reaching for his pocket notebook now looking  just a bit under-the-weather, its black cover graying and pages starting to fray. “I wonder what dreams it holds,” he continued, removing the stale elastic and opening the cover, “what memories of old, what images from another life.”

The book was one very dear to him; a place for his thoughts, his mind, his words, though now to him it was no more than a worn-out husk, no more the powerful spark of life of joy of inspiration that once resembled its author so– the book, like its owner now but a foggy reflection of what in a better it once held.

The words contained therein were not particularly clever or insightful in any grand sense of the terms, but they were his words, and that’s what made them mighty.

And so he sat, and read. And read, and dove ever deeper into the mystery that is somber reminiscence at What Once Was.

[No idea what this is.]

A Day In The Life

It started with a newspaper. A Metro, specifically, sitting open on a subway seat as we all know Metros are wont to do.

At first glance it was just like any other; a bold headline reporting some silly urban occurance supposedly relevant to the lives of the readers; schlock news and celebrity slag abounding coupled with a far-too easy crossword easily crossed (four minutes fifty-three seconds easy, to be exact).  See, that’s why I paid it no special attention – it was no special collection of recycled newsprint, let me tell you that.

Of course, me being the unathletic bastard I yet prove to be, I skipped right over the SPORTS section (ever squeezed between the seemingly ever-imperative FASHION and ENVIRONMENT sections).  Now, if I hadn’t been so averse to these pages of pure penis, I would have noticed that little manila envelope tucked between the results of Small People Racing Abused Horses and Angry Men Crushing Eachother that would prove so very troublesome in the days to follow.

Anyway, back to work. As I arrived at my station, I stashed the paper in my bag lest I draw the angry stares of commuters fellow.  I disembarked, dove into the typing Bloor Station chaos and swam through the suit-donned sea and went to work.

[Maybe TBC. We'll see. I didn't mark the date in my notebook. xx0608, is all I know.]

Summer

Summer. Classes end, skies brighten and students return home after ten months abroad. The thing is, spending the greater part of a year away from home tends to alter one’s perspective, view on the world, opinions and such. This is true to the extent that going home after the summer, you can return to your life of the previous eighteen years and find you’ve returned to a world that isn’t yours any longer – a home you don’t belong to, a city you find disgusting, people you aren’t familiar with. A place you once claimed as you own – were proud to be from, even – you return to and find you now despise it. You walk the streets wander the city and you see more, notice things you never would have seen before. Your hometown your world your old life is suddenly so very unappealing to you. The people you used to love seeing being knowing now repulse you your only attraction now your new world new life.

This new outlook brings arguments fights anger disagreement with the parents with the siblings with the friends with the ones you love. Arguments escalate words slung bantered thrown out of home in a city now foreign no place to go no place to be no money to return to the new world you now belong.

Forced out without a house without a home without a family in a province across the country from where you now belong. Forced to leave you pack a bag prop a thumb find a ride a way to where you need to be. A truck stops – a shipper from out west – you get on board flip a smile say hullo and you’re on your way back home.

Of Mildred & Blandred

THERE WERE TWO GIRLS. This was the early 90’s, mind you – coming out of an era of paranoia and fear society had turned its focus to racism, equality – a world of everybody-the-same-and-unique. These two girls – not twins, actually, though I could see how you’d confuse them to be – were of the names Mildred and Blandred. Yeah. I know. With societal focus on keeping things fair for all, children especially took this to heart and rebelled. I dare say you can imagine how two girls growing up in the 90’s felt with the assholery of children those days and names sounding as if they came out of the Brothers Grimm.

Mildred and Blandred came from a rather shoddy run-down house in the zone of the suburbs placed /just/ far enough away to still be part of the community on paper, though it was That area. You know what I mean. The perpetual feeling of never-quite-safe, neighbours who knew naught of each other which was all do-ya-fine for them. Everybody wanting their privacy and security an air of violence danger chaos in the streets though of /course/ nothing ever happened. Nothing was ever reported or brought attention to, of course. But I digress.

They lived with their mother, a haggard, rather eccentric woman. Note well that I don’t mean eccentric in the urban hipster graphic designer sort of way, I mean eccentric in, well, the evil step-mother meaning of the term. Which could imply that Mildred and Blandred were in a very Cinderella-esque situation – they weren’t. That would imply them to have a certain… /beauty/ to them, which they certainly didn’t have. Oh, they weren’t detestable or ugly by any means – they were absolutely lovely people despite their past – but they certainly were no Helen, I’ll tell you that.

Mildred and Blandred. Hailing from a family of no real money to speak of, no fame no popularity no overbecoming beauty – they were, suffice to say, pretty bloody average. There was no father. No reason for it – not that anybody at school, including the girls knew at least – there just was no father. The girls themselves both had shoulder-length, straight hair, though Blandred’s was just a tad darker brown than Mildred’s, which resembled a field of wheat in the high noon sun.

Thirteen months apart they had the same honey golden eyes speckled with flakes of olive minuscule tendrils branching from the centre of their eyes.

to be continued. maybe.

Madman: On Self

“Why are you trying to push me away?” quickly deflect swoop past carry on the push.  Show you what you fear long dread to see know feel; the truth the real I as it is as it always has been.  For me it is nothing life world for you revelation horror disgust; achievement of T. S. Eliot namesake of trinwords; “I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”  Dust for me, sandstorm for you.  No matter; flip the switch.  “sorry for the delay, I had to calm down so that I wouldn’t say something I’d regret.  now that I’m calm: please don’t ever talk to me again.” – the expected response the wanted the shifted-to the goal reached.  This method works always and it’s the easiest.  Note, reader, that in life easy isn’t always best – but it works damn good here.  That’s the thing with manipulation, though; careful words maneuvered positioned placed to make you think it’s your idea.

If I’ve done this to you and you’re reading this there’s no harm in your knowing that it’s never your idea, and it always works.  It’s not personal, so don’t feel too bad.  If you read this now and it happens in the future,then you’ve got an extra layer of protection in knowing whats happening, if you can spot it.

People claim brilliance, personality++, perception+, great friend, listener, resourceful et cetera; claim what they will, I of me never claim goodness as a person.  If I’ve got a problem with a situation – rare but it happens – then there will be action taken, eventually.  Don’t need your sympathy, concern or care; I can deal with life on my own, though I’d rather not – and only then if I request it.

Cheers.

Of Charleton Jones

AN APOLOGY. A pause, unsure if to try again. “I’m so sorry.” Reiterated with just slightly more so-called passion as if the words repeated would mean any more than the empty nothing they offer now.

“Hm? Yes, yes…” obviously disinterested he carries on in his notebook writing scrawling building words and worlds, visibly unaffected removed from the grief and tragedy surrounding.

You see, Charleton Jones was a Writer, and Writers don’t let the little things like maternal death get in the way of their wordsmithing. Charleton – Charlie to those who thought themselves his friends, though he knew nothing of this and if he had it wouldn’t have mattered, really – still lived with his parents – parent, now, sorry – though he was at the age of none-and-twenty. They never had that much money and so Charlie had to live at home while attending school. He hadn’t many friends, though nigh on everybody knew who he was.

–But I digress. There’s a funeral going on here and I am off on a tangent. Ridiculous.

“How’s he taking it?” a business partner of Charlie’s father asked of Charlie’s father.

“I’m not sure. He hasn’t spoken a word about it to anyone; he just keeps writing in that damned book.”

“Come, Richard, it’s just his way of dealing with it all. I’m sure he’ll be fine, he just needs some time on his own with it.”

This is all there is so far. I don’t know if I’ll continue it; I certainly don’t know where it’s going.

X

Madman 02

My mind it never shuts off never stops never ceases to do. Always thoughts or music or lyrics or poetry or questions or logics ever words. Never a visual no ‘inner eye’ no ‘imagination’ no ‘close your eyes and see‘. Close my eyes to a world of darkness floaters maybe veins if bright enough. Don’t ’see’ words just think them unable to turn off. No ‘clear your mind’ – it can not be cleared; clearest it gets is music and lyrics. People ask what I am thinking but usually no thoughts just music, music playing flawlessly no beat skipped no word missed all of it in my head blaring noise without a sound.
Listen to music now when I sleep. Helps by drowning out the thinking constant ever-present flow stream train of words – words re: life, universe, everything. Don’t think ‘I wonder…’ ‘that hat is nice etc.’ no real words just thoughts of words always words.
I don’t understand ‘what do you think of…?’ – I don’t think of. Ask Roark. People say smart brilliant brainy genius wise adjective – I see it not. It is the flow the feel the mind ever-ready with a comment quip remark comment gobbet, if you will (thanks, Irwin).
Have read it said this all is depressing sad pity-worthy – I see it not thus. It is, and that is the way it is. I know pity not. From the mind from whence I came it is not a permissible feeling – it does not exist. There is no fear (for fear is the mind-killer, the little-death et cetera) no pity no envy no sympathy and so on. There is me. “I exist, and that is enough.” (Sartre). It is a freeing way to live, to be and it is the only way I know.
I seek not your pity, your sympathy feelings prayers (though much appreciated as they are) – I seek only your eyes that you may read, your ears that you may hear, your hearts that you may love and your minds that you will learn and know.
Know thyself, know others know the world that is for the world is everything that is the case and that is life as I see it.

X

Of Heaven and Mars

As a rule, I don’t like dreams. Or sleep. Just doesn’t sit right with me, the concept of letting your body go entirely unconscious, no idea what could happen to it, no idea what’s going on around you – and you have no control regarding this. I guess I’m not a very trusting person. As for the dreams, gah. I typically say that I don’t dream, because it seems that way to me; never remember anything, don’t wake up with cold sweats in the middle of the night, never arise with a sense of foreboding DOOM in the morning – I don’t dream. Of course, there are exceptions; I know this, because sometimes I do dream. Take last night, for example. While it has almost been an hour since I woke, I necessarily don’t remember all too much of it. What I do remember is that I was at a fictional college (though I’ve seen it many times) that also went by the name of the college attached to where I go now – I remember thinking ‘Crazy coincidence, I actually go to the college with the same name as the one the writer’s chose for this,’ – which isn’t true, because that fictional college has a different name. Which means that I remember something I -thought- inside a dream. Strange. I also remember befriending somebody, in this nonexistant dreamworld, and becoming rather good friends with them, with the potential for ‘more.’ I remember, there was some… college basketball game, I dare say, or some sort of pep rally thing, but there were chairs and tables set up (as in, small circular ones for small number, or larger ones for a bunch of friends to sit at) to watch whatever was going on – I don’t remember the details. The aforementioned person was sitting at a table near the front and by the left wall, a small one meant for one or two people. I remember that I was standing near the right of the room, just off centre and looking her way; I didn’t want to just walk over there, I’d rather have her ask me over (because, you know, manipulatory techniques and all. This is actually a pretty good way to see what somebody thinks of you – do they like you enough to actively want you to sit with them?). I remember she was looking around, for me, saw me and beckoned me over. Not to say anything kinky happened, this isn’t that kind of story. Don’t remember what happened then. Later, entered her dorm room with her and who I can now only assume to be a roommate – I don’t remember who it was, if anybody from the same fictional world as the school and the ‘primary’ person came from. We were just hanging out, talking; I remember that I said “It’s strange; I go to ____, [they interrupted at this point to ask what I was studying, but I continued] which shares a campus with a college, called _____________, which is what the college here is called.” They asked again what I was studying, so I told them. It’s just, think of the implications of this. In the dream-world, I was at a college in California, a rather non-existant one becoming rather close friends with a non-existant character from a work of fiction, yet the ‘me’ in that world still went to the same school, was doing the same program. Thus, the whole becoming friends thing would imply I had been there for extended amounts of time, which is rather nonsensical if I still attended school in Southern Ontario. Of course, that’s not why I’m recounting this. The thing is, (“and, when I awoke, I was alone – this bird had flown” – Sorry, just popped into my mind), when I awoke I realized it was a dream, and as insane and psychotic as it sounds I was rather disheartened at that. The thought that in this whole fantasy dreamworld, I had made a friend, a rather good friend, had gotten to know each other pretty well – and it didn’t exist. All that time, all the things that have been through and said and done together, the entire friendship that had been built didn’t exist anymore. It vanished with the dream. But it never existed, and never will. It’s the feeling that you’ll never see your best friend again, but to a lesser extent because I’m a cold, heartless wretch. (Kerouac quote: “I’m a wretch. But I love, love.”) Oh well. I’m very deliberately not saying who the character was, or what fictional piece this was from, or the college name, et cetera. It does strike me as strange that I remember something I thought within the dream. And that there was actually some feel of loss when I arose and found it never existed. But so it goes, dear reader; that’s just the way things work.