Valentines day Massacre

This is a true story.

I woke up this morning, and for one reason or another, a rather traumatic childhood event replayed itself in my mind. I’m not sure why, but the time has come to finally record these thoughts… and perhaps lay them to rest finally, we’ll see

A little backstory to flesh this thing out…

In Ireland, school is divided into the following years, from the ages of roughly five to thirteen, you are in Primary school, which lays the basic foundations for… wait for it, Secondary school (imaginative bastards at the board of education eh?) which consists of five (optional six) years of schooling from the ages of thirteen to eighteen. Now when I was thirteen, I couldn’t get access to the local secondary school all of my friends had applied and successfully managed to get into due to a lack of space… So during the summer, at the last minute, (My parents kind of forgot I needed a school…) My father managed to enrol me in a secondary school just down the road from his workshop in the centre of Dublin city, it was in the most deprived economically disadvantaged area of Dublin at the time, anyway… To make a long story short, I was somewhat out of place. It was quite a shocking year for me in many ways, but that’s not the subject of this mornings blog, what is the subject however… Is a single day in that year, Valentines day, about halfway through the school term, here goes.

Every morning, at lunch time, the school would let us all out for lunch and I would make the short trip up the road to my fathers workshop, there he would give me too much money to go and buy my lunch at a local cafe that served some rather yummy food (now that I look back on it) So off I would go, armed with too much cash, walking up Brunswick Street, where I would pass the collection of  bums and broken folk that lined the street begging, one in particular… and I don’t know why, I struck up a sort of connection with, everyday for some time, I would either give him half of the money my father had given me, or I would buy him some food (soup, bread) depending on if he already had his large plastic bottle of cider that he was slowly killing himself with, but on this day in particular, Valentines day… He sat on his bum with his knees against his chest, at the corner of an old stone building they’ve been slowly demolishing in that oh so old part of Dublin for years now, but in 1995, this old building was still there., and so was this old man (probably in his fifties, but he looked a lot older due to his living arrangements and lifestyle). Anyway… I planned on walking passed him on this particular day as he seemed to not want any attention, at least that’s the vibe I got. How wrong I was… He called me over in that drunken mumble so favoured by the homeless alcoholic, and although we had never even had a conversation, much less exchanged names, he asked me to do a very personal thing for him. He asked me to read a Valentines Day card his estranged wife had given him.

Now you are asking yourself, why would a grown man ask a child to read something to him? Well the answer is obvious enough, this man was illiterate, he could neither read, nor write, I was too young to understand the significance of what he had asked me to do, but being the little bleeding heart that I’ve always been, I gladly obliged him, so I crouched down beside him, taking the cheap card into my hand, it had hearts on the front, I remember that much visually, though I don’t remember what the printed greeting said, something about love I imagine, but I do remember, quite vividly, what his wife had written for him inside, I read the words aloud to him, my voice was shaky from the sudden emotion that gripped me, even if… Again, I was too young and naive to fully understand or process what he was asking me to do for him.

To My Dear Husband

For all the years together

hard as some have been

lots of love

*Name omitted*

I remember looking at his face after I read the words aloud, through eyes half blinded by tears, he looked at the ground, tears of his own streaming down his filthy face, they formed a sort of dual carriageway down his cheeks, skin slightly brighter than the darkened unwashed features that were his constant mask, I didn’t know what to say, I handed him back his card and for the briefest of moments I contemplated placing  a hand upon his shoulder, something… Anything to break the terrible feeling of I don’t know what at the time, I was so very confused, but I was too frightened by what had just happened, and as I told him I had to go… My mind raced with thoughts, how could this man, Who obviously had a woman who he loved very much, be living in the gutter like this? Homeless people don’t have such things… they’re just, homeless… Right?. I was actually that naive, I couldn’t put it together at the time, but as I walked away… I stormed through a million thoughts, but looking back, with the perspective of the intervening years, this was obviously just some normal man, who had a normal home, a normal wife and life, probably a normal job at some point… And even though he couldn’t read or write (Illiteracy would have been very common in his day in Ireland,  shameful as that is to say,  but far less shame than this poor man would have felt I imagine) For whatever reason, he had trusted me with the task of reading the most intimate thoughts of someone he had now obviously lost, but someone who still cared for him deeply.

So onwards I went to get my lunch, somewhat disturbed, wiping any tears from my eyes before I entered the Cafe to get my Vegetable soup and bread roll that kept me warm on those cold February days. When I was returning to school at 1.30pm, the homeless man was nowhere to be seen, and I must admit… I was relieved, I didn’t know what I would do or say if I had to walk by him again. So back in that hell hole I went, classes until 3.30 and I was finally released again, though I wouldn’t get to go home until 5pm, having to wait for my father to finish in his workshop for the day, this happened quite a lot that solemn year, so I found myself wandering the streets around old Dublin on a near daily basis, having little else to do in the meantime. I decided to take the walk back up Brunswick Street and onto Manor Street, where my favourite cafe was located… why I do not know, probably to buy some sweets or some such, but as I turned the corner from Brunswick Street to Manor Street, I was struck with a scene I doubt I will ever forget.

A small crowd had gathered outside one of the pubs right beside my cafe, as a child of thirteen years, this is the equivalent of a naked flame to a moth, so eagerly I ran to see what the commotion was about, to this day, I wish I had not. The image is eternally roasted into my minds eye, it was my Sponsored Hobo. Pale as a ghost, laying prostrate across the pavement, his arms outstretched to the side, laying weakly limp. A deep crimson red poured from his wrists and formed little pools under his hands, his life was bleeding away in front of my eyes, the card I had given him earlier could be seen jutting out of his old coat pocket. I was stunned, a wretched feeling of  shock and for some reason… Guilt,  twisted my insides, like I had been the one to slash his poor wrists, the strange thing was, no one helped him, they just stared… Like they were waiting for him to die, he didn’t make a sound, either he had passed out (most likely) or he was fully at peace with the decision he had made, and awaited that sweet oblivion that will one day claim us all. I wanted to jump down beside him, hold him, tell him everything would be fine, but I was too frightened. What a wretched little cowardly boy I was. I beat myself with that thought secretly for a long time. As we all watched him slowly die, the medical services arrived, they didn’t seem to be in that big a hurry, and even though I willed them on in my minds eye, he was casually placed on a stretcher and dumped into the back of a waiting ambulance, what a nuisance he was, disturbing the peace of the street with his broken down ways, best cart him off… Out of sight, out of mind. As the crowd began to disperse.. I was left watching those two pools of blood… Lost in thought.

What if I had placed my hand upon his shoulder earlier that day?… what if I had said just a few kindly words, perhaps he would not have given up like he had, perhaps he would still be alive, but now, some wife… Some woman who loved him so, would never see her broken love again, he would probably be placed in some John Doe grave, having no identification save the Valentines card in his pocket, maybe her name could be traced I thought… If someone cared enough to do the tracing. I know now that all of these thoughts running through my head at the time, the guilt… most importantly, were not mine to bear, at least not then, I was just a child, too young to be dealing with such thoughts, but had them thrust upon me in the chaos of life. I’m not sure what to draw from these memories except perhaps closure… Finally, another tangled weave unknotted from my past.

There is a flip side to Valentines Day, to all the expressions of love and joy and hope, a dark mirrored image of broken hearts, broken lives and broken people, I think out of all of us, they need it the most, love that is.

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I am Batman.

A Wonderful thing happened tonight.

I was standing at my window, observing the night sky as the darkness set in. My cat Wilbur was laying low in the grass, Lucy sat in front of him, panting in that retarded yet adorable way only a dog seems capable of pulling off. I could barely make them out, faint as they were in the dim white light of my laptops monitor behind me.. facing the window with me, watching the pair.

Lucy had made a fatal error in judgement, her tongue, dangling as it was from her mouth… Would soon trigger the instincts of Wilbur to attack and pounce… I probably could have called her in the time it took Kitty to attack, but why should I? Lucy needs to learn a lesson and I need some mild amusement at 11pm on a Saturday night, so just as I feared…Wilbur leaps onto Lucy’s face, leading with her barbed little paws, and it was at this moment that something amazing happened, maybe it was the yelp Lucy let out… But just at that moment, as my own instincts were triggered by the high pitched bark… An enormous shaft of light shot into the sky from a great distance, I’m not kidding… It shimmered along the low dense cloud cover as it searched the sky with great fervour, I was dumbfounded, gobsmacked even, my eyes followed the heavenly light. Left, right, left… Right! Why? Why was it doing this? Surely it was making a call… A plea for help, in one brief instant in time, I let myself be convinced that the light being shot up into the sky was in-fact for me, because they needed my help.. and who am I?

I am Batman, that’s who this silly light in the sky has convinced me I am, The Dark Knight, morally ambiguous anti-hero driven by childhood trauma, I may not have any actual superpowers, but I have some really fucking cool gadgets that you will most likely find in a toy store near you, along with a clearly phallic bat mobile that fucks any scumbag unlucky enough to be illuminated in its blinding headlights. I am an alpha male, I eat sleep and shit manliness, there is always a new attractive woman on the horizon who has everything in her life except for that one key ingredient… Me, but I will not stay with this woman, because she only signed on for one movie and I wouldn’t be very anti-hero with a wife and 2.4 children now would I?, so I must live as a perpetual bachelor with the occasional passionate but brief affair. I also pretend not to care about social issues by living the life of a playboy millionaire, but really.. deep down in my dark heart. I do, I fucking care… Like, a whole fucking bunch. So I must answer this light in the sky, I must wear fifty pounds of leather and endure the agony of relentlessly itchy balls an outfit like that would surely cause, I must wear eye shadow, because without it my helmet would look crap, you’d clearly see the skin around my eyes and it would clash with my expensive dark body armour and this would not do. But most importantly of all, I must wash the scum from the streets of Gotham with my reign of Vigilante Justice, I must help.. for i am needed.

All of this flashed before my minds eye as I stared into the distant probing light.

But as soon as I had convinced myself, I knew in that same instant that it was a sham. I’m just some schmuck dreaming his life away, and the light.. Wondrous as it was… Beamed from some fancy nightclub with shite music and fancy lighting in a town called Navan, not twenty miles from where I now sit. Awwwww, fuckin reality. Why must you insist on gatecrashing my dreams?

But dejection soon turned to amusement, Lucy and Wilbur lay together on the grass, the cat licking the dogs face, who in turn let out a prolonged groan of satisfaction into the night sky, all is well in my sleepy home, and I really need to see that new Batman movie.

One Hundred and Thirty Thousand Reasons to be afraid.

Trim, County Meath, Ireland.

3.30pm, Thursday, 3rd July, 2008

I stepped out of the bank onto the wet pavement as crowds of people milled past, hurrying to wherever they needed to be to avoid getting overly wet, it’s raining, obviously. My father stood beside me as we looked up and down the narrow street for traffic, suddenly it was too late… I spotted him at the last instant, this hooded man who stood out from the crowd with singular intent, to get to me… Raising an arm that clutched a shotgun with its barrel sawn off to deliver maximum carnage at minimum range, I looked into his eyes in that brief moment before the smoky flash… He didn’t seem to care about my life, no compassion in those cold dead and dark eyes, his face contorted into a mask of self induced rage he obviously had to work himself into to even get this far, it’s a shame, I would have just handed it to him, all that mattered was the paper… Just bits of paper in the bag wrapped over my shoulder, some fuck working in the bank must have set this up, it was the only place a leak could have materialized.

Anyway… I’ve just been Shot and I fall backwards ever so softly… Or at least it seems that way, my chest perforated with hundreds of little soft lead balls that have flattened and surely shredded my internal organs, I don’t feel it though, I know I should be wailing in agony and demanding medical treatment but it’s wonderfully calm actually. I should get shot and die more often, won’t be long now, that mysterious nothingness is all that awaits me… I see the hooded stranger take off down the street, his shotgun leaving a smoky wake as he darts and bulls his way through a crowd of panic, bag in hand. It’s a funny angle, watching his escape as my head rests on the cold wet pavement, Is that blood? Ah yes.. My blood, shock is a wonderful thing, I wonder do a lot of violent deaths end this way when the victim has time to kill before expiring? Is it calm? Soundless? A comforting examination of the events as they play out in slow motion? But yeah…. There goes my blood, mixing with the rain water as it leaks out onto the street. It looks really bad, I really don’t think I’m bleeding THAT badly, the dilution effect.. It has to be, I strain to tell those that approach that it’s just a trick, blood always looks worse mixed with water, but no words come out… Just blood as it seeps out of the sides of my mouth, bubbling through red teeth. They must be scared, they crowd around me now, serious strained faces shouting and gesturing wildly in every which direction… Someone is on the phone, don’t bother, there is no time.

A serious case of day dreaming I have going on at the moment, Yes indeed. Why was I day dreaming about being shot walking out of a bank? Well I was in one at the time of said oddly disturbing day dream, helping my father withdraw a large sum of money, the exact amount is not entirely relevant to this particular blog, but let’s just say it was enough to make me jump away into my imagination and dream about shoot outs at Midday in sleepy town Trim. So what really happened? We waited in an office, sitting in uncomfortable silence with one of the clerks until finally in came the bank manager with the cash, which I spirited into a carry bag and placed over my shoulder… So far so easy.

After much blabbing and small talk pleasantry nonsense I plaster on a fake smile and we both say our goodbyes to the staff…Who I don’t like. I don’t think I like any bank staff, how could you work with all of those huge piles of cash and not try to steal it? I just don’t get it, is it not everyone’s dream to pull off the perfect heist and swing in a hammock whilst smoking opium  as the self proclaimed King of some third world country backed by a band of Mercenary thugs? Am I alone on that one?.
But anyway the nervy part had arrived. People are always wishing for more Money, “I wish I had more money my life would be fucking great, yay hurrah blah blah blah” and all that jazz, but let me tell you… Imagine walking through a town with a large amount of money on you, it never feels quite right… Because you know that on the street with you there is a certain percentage of people who, if circumstances permitting, would take that money from you out of sheer greed, having it makes you paranoid… You’re looking at little girls walk by you and double checking to see if they pull out an uzi machine gun at your back to fill you full of lead… It’s possible you know, you could train them to do that.
But yes.. walking out of the bank, my favourite uncle was waiting for us. I  walked between them as they flanked me, this part I like. I’ve never had bodyguards before, It’s reassuring to know you have these walking bags of meat to slow down a few bullets for you when the shit hits the fan… It was raining but the streets were busy, just like my daydream… But no lunatic with shotgun to end me where I stood thankfully, so anyway we’re walking, nearing the waiting Jeep when I spot this really really attractive woman coming towards us… I mean one of those Gob smacking beauties that give you that just been slugged in the gut feeling when you lay eyes on them. She looked like Eva Green, that wonderful actress in the new Bond Movie… shame she died in that movie actually, at the end she drowns, very convincing little death I might add, but anyway… back on course.

I’m so Smitten by her beauty that I stupidly let my guard down, it was a set up of course, and me like a trained monkey fell for it, beautiful girl, guard down, oldest trick in the book you fool! Before I even had time to cry like a little girl She’s taken out a silenced small calibur firearm and is blazing wildly at my father and favourite uncle.

*Lights Smoke*

So Yes… This is terrible, my father and favourite uncle have just been gunned down in front of my eyes, they drop like sacks of rocks on either side of me. ‘Damn… You cowardly bitch, did you have to kill my favourite uncle?’  I Exclaimed in a really smart arse annoying even by my own standards manner, holding my hands up as she points the handgun at me, a sly grin creeping across her face, indicating to me that she’s not only ruthless, but sadistic… What a combo! Anywho, eventually she opens her yapper and starts flapping her beautiful lips about me setting the money down on the ground and taking a step back, I would be spared, all the usual bullshit, I was unafraid as I held my ground, the rain pattering around us, quietly but confidently offering up a compliment ‘You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen… Wild eyes’ Which seems like a strange thing to say when two immediate family members have just been shot down in front of you and it’s looking like you’re next, but hey… We all realize at this point that I’m day dreaming again… So I can make this as strange as I like.

But back to her reaction, she didn’t like it… My smart arse comment that is, I figured that out as soon as my kneecap exploded after she shot it, I fall to my knees and make a wonderfully dramatic wailing painful screech that trails off into a bored monotone bleargh sound, one suitable for the horrific occasion. It’s raining still… I drop the bag with the money in front of me, she’s approaching now as her gun remains trained upon my forehead… Cold dripping steel pressing against my skull as she arrives to collect her bounty, leaning down with that same grin… Unchanged since it’s arrival, letting me get a perfect view of those small perky tits. What a sadistic bitch, I was almost turned on, fuck it, I was turned on, save for the fact that she thought nothing of ending my life, that’s definitely a barrier to arousal in that respect, so yes… What am I thinking? I can’t just die here in this day dream, I did that in the last one, I want to win this one, I’ve decided… So as soon as her beautiful little greedy fingers are on the bag I launch myself upwards whilst grabbing for the gun, a ballsy play I hear you say. Indeed… and it paid off.. I managed to deflect the aim of the pistol as it fired, continuing upwards as I use my head to crack her one right on the chin.
She’s out cold in an instant, her body falling back to the hard concrete below, a loud wet slap as it comes to a halt. What a shame, In another day dream… we could have been friends doll face, maybe even lovers. I pick the pistol up and aim it at her pretty unconscious face, but I don’t kill her, I want the good guy who is too big hearted to seek revenge ending this time,  so I toss the hand cannon aside along with the evil money. Good Riddance I say, climbing into the back of the Jeep I originally intended to get into in the first place.

My Father and uncle are waiting for me Impatiently in the front seats, there was no attractive lady or murder or anything else exciting for that matter. Just a boring old walk from the bank to a car in the rain. I think I like my world better.

Neil Young?

I remember the wonderful sunny day in Dublin City. I remember the amber whiskey flowing so smooth. I remember the fantastic concert as a swirl of noise and laughing faces. I remember that thirty minute guitar solo that bleed all over the large crowd. I remember my cousin Daniel asleep on the grass, with limbs out like some slumbering angel. I remember Philip having one of the most profound experiences of his life at the piss pots. I remember leaving. I remember an insane amount of ranting while standing in the middle of nowhere in darkness. I remember threatening to throw both myself and Vincent out of the emergency exit of the bus and under a speeding car. I remember meaning it. I remember Vincent laughing that he would gladly die if it meant I would die too. I remember him also meaning it. I remember the fifteen minute discussion on the best way to eat your own face. I remember the laughter that would not stop because I had temporarily lost my mind. I remember the middle aged woman and her husband beside us, masks of fear etched across their faces. I remember another couple laughing. Oh dear lord, what happened last night?

 

I don’t think I want to remember some of it.

If Trees could talk.

If Trees could Talk

I like fruit trees, I like trees in general, they’re pretty for one, especially in spring and summer, through even in fall and winter they have an amazing visual appeal, slowly leaves die, lose that ripe green colour they have mustered all through the seasons of life, fading into a palette of reds and yellows and oranges and finally brown. The final curtain descending on the growth of life for the year, saying goodbye as winter sets in, they become leafless, piles of dead plant matter scatter throughout the land, clogging drains and gathering in piles along the sides of roads for me to wade and kick my way through, because I love that sloshing leaf sound, reminding us all of death, Autumn is the Season of decay, yet I love it so. The trees themselves live on, enduring the cold, spindle branches playing with the light as you drive or walk beneath their canopies, I like that flicking of light through trees as you move under them, looking upwards, simple wholesome appreciation.

I’m looking out my window at the apple tree in the back garden, already, thanks to the voluminous amounts of sun we’ve received in the last few weeks here in Ireland, the little apple buds are starting to slowly swell and ripen into little balls of juicy soon to be edible goodness. I wonder what the tree would say, if I imbued this living thing devoid of consciousness a mind so that it could think, and lips so that it could speak, I think it would plead with me in an ever so honest way. It would say “Hey.. I give you this fruit year after year, season after season, and you kill me… Why do you do this? Bringer of air and food into your life; all I ask is that you respect me” I would feel a terrible guilt, for here in this imaginary conversation I must speak for all mankind when I reply that “I’m sorry, I do appreciate all that you and like you do for us tirelessly year after year, but I can no more stop killing you than you yourself could refuse to blossom into life each spring while you are able, for it is your nature, and you must obey your nature, like we must obey ours in killing you, for our pride will not allow us to conceive of the idea that you have just as much right to life as we do, your betters must take priority”, and there would be no help in this truth, only pain… And the tree would not speak again, for it would know that all the words in the world would not save it if it came to a choice between my and his existence. Man, for all his reason, is beyond a beast.

The Bastard Wind took my Plum Tree down last night too, curse the fucking air for moving at high speed, taking away the incredibly local source of favourite fruit!

Low and behold things are killing me.

Well…

My family is on the verge of fracture, it’s a sad state of affairs, this Blog will more than likely be depressing, so if you’re in a good mood and want to keep it that way I would suggest you come back when you’re already in a lousy dark mood, or just don’t read it at all, that way I won’t be responsible for bringing you down. See how fucking considerate I am?

Anyway, They’re divorcing apparently, I say apparently because they’ve been attempting to figure out just how to go about it for some time now, still living under the same roof, quite a bizarre living arrangement… An acrid taste of bitterness surrounds the pair of them the closer their proximity to each other, you can feel it, like waves of unspoken, unheard of anger and disappointment, they co-exist peacefully while everyday life is smooth, but as soon as a bump comes along the tensions resurface and my mother is telling my father and us (My brothers and I) that she’s on the phone to a lawyer to start the process, this invariably comes to nothing after a few days of heightened tension between them..my mother lacks the strength to leave my father I think, too afraid… years of dependence on him has cemented a sort of warped symbiotic relationship in which she needs and resents him in equal measure.

The problem I have with the whole thing is that they just can’t seem to make a break, even though it’s painfully obvious that they’re both suffocating in the coffin that their marriage has become, I have to contend with the pair of them approaching me and in very subtle and deceptive ways, seeking my support against the other. Oh how I wish I wish upon a star they would leave me out of the whole tangled mess, being around this constant state of despairing flux without getting sucked into it requires a tremendous amount of energy. I can’t possibly take a side, either of which leaves me hurting and alienating the other… The only choice I have is to stay out of it, even if it means both of them resenting me for it short term. It would be easy to hate them both, but I found in the past that to hold onto anger is to ferment bitterness and that rots you from the inside out, they both made plenty of mistakes down the years, failing to look at themselves and their actions honestly, they only reserve those particular goggles of truth for the other in the marriage, but I can hardly turn around and say that to the pair of them, both unwilling to leave their drowning embrace of blame, I don’t know every facet of their ruinous marriage story they would say, and they would be right. Nothing to be done it seems, I must endure.

My oldest brother is another story, during his late teens he developed Schizophrenia, it completely devastated his life, gone was the brother I knew of old, outgoing… Happy…  At ease with himself, all replaced by irrational and terrifying fears that rule his life. Who… Without medication that makes him feel emotionally numb, becomes so anxious and convinced of an unseen pending doom that he literally just shuts down, all because some wiring in the brain is slightly off. I’m not sure we ever really recovered fully from that, that was the knockout punch that finished my staggering family off and we’ve been falling to the canvas ever since. I think for a long time I was convinced what happened to my brother would happen to me, that I would go crazy or was going crazy, I distanced myself from him in many ways because of it, he reminded me of one of my deepest fears. Many years ago when I used to visit him at the time he was first diagnosed in hospital it used to fill me with dread, not the going to see him part, but the hospital itself, it was so run down and monochrome and all the patients, from the young to the very old, all just seemed to stand and stare or stagger down lonely echoed halls in those flip floppy slippers in silence. I used to wonder why no one said anything, I didn’t know at the time they were all ultra heavily medicated or trapped inside their skulls unable to escape back to the world around them. The Atmosphere in psych hospitals is uniquely morbid, more so than a morgue, which I’ve also had the displeasure of being in, people in the morgue may be dead… yes, but there is a finality to it, an end, with madness there is no such luxury, only a life and a world that offers constant confusion, a horrible isolation of mind that no one should have to go through, people joke and laugh about being insane… But if you saw it take someone you loved, it starts to lose its appeal.

For all that my brother has to endure, he is the kindest soul I’ve ever known, there is no badness in him… None whatsoever, a purity of character reserved for those who must live life with the awful affliction of mental dispair, it breeds a remarkably unique empathy, at least it has in my brother, I really must try harder to be a better brother to him, at least I know the fear that kept me distant before, I have the luxury my brother does not have of choosing not to give in to despair. My father is planning on building a house and wants to put it in my name to comply with Meath planning permission, I told him to put it in my brothers name, that way he will always have a roof over his head, always have a home, the torch of responsibility for taking care of him will one day pass to me, but like that fabulously catchy song goes, he ain’t heavy, he’s my brother.

So yes, the sea of life is rough and I’m the night watchman on the Titanic, but you can’t let the dark times get to you, not as long as you can dream, Cheshire cat grin as you stare down the iceberg. It won’t always be like this. I must travel, I’ve put it off in one form or another for a few years now, my own impulsiveness the lead suspect in that particular case, but my feet are itchy and only the horizon can scratch them, so loose plans shall be made! (Yet again..)

Life really is a roller coaster, you wait in line for what seems like an eternity only to ripped off for a ride on rails that has you laughing at the ups, screaming at the downs and by the time you reach the end there’s a good chance you’re covered in vomit…

Shit… Ruined my ending.

Fuck it.

PS: To the Architects of the Lisbon treaty, go away, shoo, fuck off, you failed.

If you work for a living, why do you kill yourself working?

Work

The Sheer horror of it.

Even the word fills me with an empty black dread, now don’t get me wrong, I’m not afraid of good honest labour, but let’s be frank, there is a big difference between Work and labour, the former bringing with it countless other annoying social conundrums to contend with, work relationships and the putting up with of assholes “The Boss”, rules , regulations, being on time.. Etc etc. All very annoying we can agree. I Say this because I happen to be stuck in work at the moment, slaving like an 8 year old Malaysian Adidas employee, endless reams of numbers, statements, Invoices, quotations, phone calls. This high pressure corporate world is crushing my poor Hobo Soul, turning me into a machine of profit… All I can think about now is my Job and the making of lots and lots of money so that I may buy such important things as thick Gold Chains and Jewellery to inform the world around me that I have a lot of disposable income and don’t mind flaunting it with meaningless displays of perverse affluence, maybe a flashy car that makes very loud Vroom Vroom noises and is shaped and curved like some fifties American pin up, so that I can impress members of the opposite sex in  the hopes that I might be afforded the chance to stick my penis into them……. Come on ladies, look at me, I have prospects, I have wealth, you can have some too, just let me stick my penis in you!

No…….. wait, wait. I am lying through my sun tanned teeth.

You see, in actual reality, today is “Bring your shotgun into work day” A really fun work bonding experience that involves a Shotgun, 450 rounds of ammunition, 450 Clay Pigeons, a Clay Pigeon Launcher, and one disused scrap yard filled with the hulking wrecks of looming cranes and great big diggers you used to see as a child and dream of driving through anyone and anything that stood in your way… Now just carcasses, a mix of rust and that comforting danger yellow most heavy machinery seems to be blessed with, resigned to rot until someone deems it finally profitable to smelt them down. This idea is the brain child of my father (The Boss). For his many faults, and I do mean many, he is actually one of the greatest employers you can have, (If you’re not his son, that is) as far from conventional as you can get basically. So instead of working this afternoon we all went out back to the scrap yard and set up a firing range, why work when you can blow the crap out of hunks of Clay as they hurtle through the air, I like to imagine they’re little alien saucers flying overhead, trying to spy on us, finding victims for their suitcases of Anal probes, not on my watch, not with my trusty double barrel shotgun at the ready, eat high velocity lead you bug eyed bastards!

Anyway, there was six of us in total and we each took our turns belting out the lead as the clay pigeons sailed silently through the sky at various angles, the wind catching and twisting them in unpredictable directions right at the moment you’re about the pull the trigger, needless to say just about everyone missed most of what they were shooting at(Except myself of course), but not really caring as the sheer thrill of hearing that violent burst of sound that makes your heart jump and your ears scream, the mood was jovial but edgy, which can’t be helped because no matter how much fun you have shooting inanimate objects that secret fear is always in the back of your mind, this machine is designed to Kill, I never forget that when I hold a shotgun, it was no different this time around, especially given the fact that what we were doing was not strictly legal, randomly deciding to shoot weapons in the workplace (Unless you’re a gun club) is generally frowned upon by health and safety inspectors.

But on a slightly lighter note I think I made quite an impression on the youngest of our employees here, “Little” Johnny as he’s affectionately come to be known, due to his small stature, just shy of five feet tall and at 17 probably not going to get any taller, cue little man syndrome, he’s joined a gym to beef himself up, I think his logic is that if he beefs himself up to an Adonis like condition it will somehow compensate for his lack of height (Endlessly fascinated with the expressions of little man syndrome in the vertically challenged people I meet) But he’s a nice fellow, with a good heart and a common sense you don’t expect from someone that age (I had none at that age, not much now for that matter) but all afternoon he wouldn’t stop complementing my skill with the shooting, asking me for tips, had I ever competed or would I consider it, flattery flattery flattery, no idea what to do with it once I receive it, he seems to think my rather nihilistic view of life and its problems is hilarious and easy going, I don’t have the heart to explain to him that it’s really just a cover for my own inability to find and express any type of meaning into my life at the moment, that’s too heavy a truth to place on the shoulders of  little angel faced johnny, who knows nothing of these things, let him have his delusion, at least for now, life will crush him soon enough. Anyway… Excellent times were had all round, by the time we finished it was 4.30pm and almost time to go home, I just had to reflect on the fact that I’m glad I don’t work in some normal structured environment,  I’d never last, Chaos is too close a friend for that kind of world, I’ve no idea what I am going to do with myself long term, I’ve yet to find my purpose, my “use” to make this world a somewhat better place if such a position exists for me, but for now, this will do just nicely, at least until it all comes crashing down around our heads, which it will.

Roll on “Bring Your Hammock and Honey Rum to Work Day”