SLATER AND SLATER
Frederick had a good idea. Jelly wrestling, three girls, then, five or six big pig dogs come in and just jump in there and start, ripping at their flesh but the girls, they're like laughing and trying to play with them even as the dogs are sinking their teeth into their legs, bellies and breasts, and their hair is mixed with jelly and blood and the dogs are like pure muscle and going crazy like devils and the girls are sort of screaming laughing and almost like fucking the dogs and squirming you know. How to film that though? Johnno thought of lots of spliced close ups and then Fred was all like real dogs but tame and real girls and like fake blood but is that enough? and then James, you know, the boss, just kept asking how does this sell beer and we're like it's a joke, you know, like how guys like jelly wrestling and dogs and its like, overkill, you know…all those other ads with girls and cars and beer but he didn't get it he just wanted jelly wrestling and like loud rock music or something and we were saying that's not interesting and back and forth and so we had to go and come up with some more concepts but instead we were so pissed off we just went on an early lunch down at Henry's. What a shit hole really but the damn place is right next to the office and it's like four bucks a beer so we just bought beer and Tom bought some wedges and that was that.
"Fucking hell I thought James would go for that, man!"
"We didn't pitch it right, I mean, we didn't have the images right"
"Yeah, we need some photo outfit to get some glam shots of that shit"
"Yeah yeah like, some stills of some hot models covered in like jelly and blood and stuff"
"Got to be blondes…GOT to be blondes"
"I'm getting another round"
And we had rounds, four rounds or something because what faggot wouldn't buy a round? Normally Tom but we made him get a round, trying to get out of it buying some wedges, fuck that, get some beers AND some wedges Tom you asshole. Nancy at the front desk, sexy bitch, was all smiles and giggling because she could tell we were all half pissed and Johnno was like 'what you doing tonight' like he always does and she says something like 'nothing with you' the playful little thing and we get in the lift and Fred lights a cigarette and we're telling him to put it the fuck out and he does one floor from the office and the doors open and we pour out all smoke and loose suits but you know that's what we do and who the fuck is going to say anything…come up with better work and then we'll talk. There's a new girl in the office and she's all open eyes and saying nothing so, you know, screw her she doesn't know who we are and it's back in our office and Fred rips down the cards with the dogs and shit on them and says 'next!' and we get out our pads and phones and I say 'what next? That's the fucking idea. Lets pitch it to the client!' and Johnno says we can't because of James and as much as we all think fuck him its not how its done, asshole got his hands so tight around the clients scrotums they'd never go with anything he wasn't sitting there smiling about with his big shit-eating endorsement. Whatever, got to make this sex and death thing more appealing…how the fuck can you advertise some beer with the slogan 'Get it down your throat' I mean, that's aggressive right I mean what else do they want? Their last piece of thirty second garbage was some Swedish skiers malarkey and its all about blow jobs and snow and swallowing frozen sperm or piss or something and like THAT'S okay? Tom closes the blinds and Fred lights another cigarette, Johnno gets the small bottles of scotch out of his drawer and sets them on the table, I take one and pour it onto a glass 'ice?' but no one filled up the bar fridge
"Fucking hell! How hard is it to fill it up the fucking sink is right there, or wait no, there's a jug of water in the fucking fridge right there, jesus'
"Shut up Sash it was probably you"
"Yeah right, like I'm a cunt huh?"
"Just drink it neat you baby, or splash some of your 'fridge water' in it"
"That's not a bad idea, Johnno, pass me the jug"
And so I tip some of the water in and we can get on with it…a new idea to sell this piss tasting beer.
"Beer bongs?"
"Nah…too teen"
"Too obvious"
"Well, they did go with cock sucking Swedish chicks…"
"All right fine…what about a DUDE wrestling with the chicks?"
"And what is he getting down his throat"
"Like, like a freeze frame at the last second of some chick with half her hand down his throat, and his eyes are all bulging and he's all red and about to throw up, you know, like, gagging, and its like freeze frame in the moment and then: Greigsons…Get it down your throat…BANG"
"Right and then we do like, five of them with shit getting stuffed down throats right, like, choking on a pie or like, sword swallowers or…"
"Porn chick"
"Fuck imagine…that would be cool…yeah…okay…not bad"
"Ha! That's hilarious!"
"Ok ok, Tom, draw something up…lets see how it'll looks for a pitch"
"Fucking geniuses again…what was that like, five minutes"
"No way Fred, we were talking about that all lunch remember"
"Oh yeah…expense account!"
"Fucking A"
The afternoon wears on but we're done here really so we wait until Tom has finished mocking up the stills and they look pretty good and the little bottles are gone so I email Nancy to fill it up for tomorrow and we have a few more cigarettes and grab out jackets and leave. James is n the hall and he stops Johnno and they go into his office but the rest of us get in the lift. Me and Fred get out at the lobby but Tom takes it down to the basement. Typical Tom.
* * *
The morning sun makes the office look all yellow and like we're still in the 1960s. Doesn't help that the office was actually built in the 1960s and the tiny windows that were so cool back then just make this air conditioned hell hole even seedier, pinholes of light blasting in on otherwise dark cubicles. The account managers bashing away in their cells trying to place pissy little ads in magazines or newspapers or, fuck! The end of the industry…online advertising. Like anyone buys shit from a ugly banner ad. These kids have no idea, all fresh-faced, fancy designer clothes, nice university degrees that say 'digital communications' or 'social media' bullshit. You want money? Get your shit onto TV period. Thirty seconds to get some sitting-at-home-on-their-useless-fat-ass idiot to bother to get out their credit card the next time they're in some shitville store and buy some useless crap they think they need just because we told them to. That's it. You want to know what stuff we've sold? Okay, toothpaste, okay? Oraldent. Used to be some ugly all-white too-minty paste that no one would ever consider buying…tucked down there at the bottom of the shelf with the crappy 'we contain no fluoride' shit for weirdos and hippies…and especially not when the 'family trusted' brands like Colgate and Macleans have such a duopoly. What we did? Oral dent. Dent. Oral. Do the maths. We had every fucking male teen from the age of fourteen to THIRTY buying that paste. Why? Because why the fuck would you want to raise a family when your could get a blow job every morning, or even the idea of a blow job every morning. Even if it’s a joke. Even if you don't even think you'll ever get a blow job in the morning, it doesn't matter. Now they're the number two selling toothpaste in this country because we know what makes dumb fucks tick. Tick. Ha, that's a joke. We need to get some more god damn titis in here. Fucking bosses keep hiring these faux-beard 'Gen X' in touch with the skaters douchebags…we've got more semen piling up in here than a fucking sperm bank. Sorry, crap line but you get my meaning. Everyone's twittering like the world's gonna end…fucking hundred years time the world's hard drives are gonna be full of useless puke about people's 'day-to-day'. Day to day? Since when did anyone care about day to day? We have entertainment, books, movies, art, music and god knows how many things specifically designed for us to forget about the annoying morose day-to-day! God, these kids…they could use a drink, and just as soon as I stop flirting with the girls in the café that’s exactly what I'm going to do: The blondes getting their herbal teas and wheat free muffins are all cute and stuff but they must look at me like I'm some hard skinned monster but, you know, its cool to play with the whole they-have-to-worship-me-because-I'm-senior-partner stuff and they just say whatever nice thing pops in their empty suck-cock-to-get-ahead brains, about my tie or my shoes or (god) my cologne, which, by the way, is just good scotch and maybe a few squirts of Ralph Lauren whatever is new. Didn't even mention the watch…wouldn't even know it's an Omega.
"Long black darling and don't you dare out any sugar in it"
"Of course not mister Bernstein"
"You been here long?"
"You ask that every day"
"Do I? And what do you say?"
"I've been here three weeks Mr…"
"Sash, okay…did I ever tell you to call me that before? Seeing as you’ve been here three weeks I must've told you to call me Sash before"
"Yes…you did...but…"
"But what?"
"The other partners they….I call them…like mister and…"
"Okay okay, so…you're thinking 'this up-his-ass prick' is, what, just like all the other up-their-ass pricks so even though he is saying 'don't call me mister' he actually means please keep treating me like a fucking up-his-ass prick is that right?"
"Oh, (laugh) oh no…its (laugh/giggle thing) no…"
"Okay, okay so…from now on...okay…from now on you're going to call me…what?"
"Um…Sash"
"Perfect…Sash, okay…and we're not going to do this again, right?"
"No Sash"
"Excellent…and it’s a long black you’re making?"
"Yes Sash"
"Great"
So I have to deal with this fucking idiot just to get a coffee, right? So instead I can pay two dollars fifty downstairs or deal with this? Okay okay…'thanks' I say and take my coffee out of there and remember that I can just buzz Katy to get me a coffee and why the hell not, its her job and I wouldn't have to talk to that three-week idiot again but then of course those insipid yet easy 'account manager' girls are there, but, you know like not worth it. In the office Tom and Johnno are already doing something and I don't really want tog get involved right now and Fred's on the phone talking some bank stuff so I tip some scotch into my coffee and wait for us to start the meeting.
* * *
Tom's got another bruise on his cheek he's covered in foundation, like we can't tell, the idiot, get carried away doesn't he and forgets who's in charge or actually likes it (!). So, SHOES ARE FOR FEET, that's what we're dealing with today and Johnno's on to all these ideas like 'crushing' and 'soul destroying' and other weird stuff but it sounds good. We're going to kill the whole 'shoes give you freedom' clichéd crap pouring from other agencies (for Nike) or the 'shoes make the man' boredom (from Boss) or the 'women love shoes' idiom (from Sex and the City type stuff). Fred's got a pair of the things on the table and they look okay, kind of like half-sneaker half-dress shoe type of things like you can wear them with a suit or at least good dress pants like these rappers do, rappers ha! more like fucking millionaires trying to 'keep it real' by wearing these things with suits, okay, so you've got the picture. They're, what, like three hundred retail. Okay so we’ve got like six boxes of them and they're all pretty much the same: leather, laces, clan lines, fine sticking, not too much stupid swirls and crap, kind of low key and shined up, like a good leather jacket but a shoe.
"Okay so its like don't take shit"
"Shit. What shit?"
"Like the whole shoes in a club, shoes in a fuck-off restaurant stuff"
"Okay"
"Okay so, like, fuck the convention, wear these"
"Yeah okay…what's the hook?"
"Who makes these anyway?"
"Ah it's some Paris Hilton type brand…they cal themselves Billionaire's club...its Pharell. From The Neptunes"
"Yeah yeah, they're the guys that have basically remade Justin Timberlake and Brittney and co."
"And who are we selling to?"
"Fucking hell Tom do your research. It's basically for fucking trend-heads who have no money but are BURSTING to piss away their McDonald earned cash for these ultra cool shoes, right? So they can dance like mother fuckers and get laid while looking all 'I don't give a fuck' shabby. Got it?"
"Yeah yeah I know…Christ I was up until like three or some shit…give me a sec guys"
"Yeah right and that smack to the face isn't helping"
"Shut the fuck up Fred…this…this is something else"
"Been spending too much time in the basement huh? You're gonna get AIDS at this rate"
"Yeah those girls have AIDs, like they don't check that shit"
"Ha yeah, you're right. Anyway fuck, we've got like three hors to nail this all right? They’re here this afternoon"
"Are we taking them for drinks? What girls are we getting? Not Stacey again because she is a fucking annoying lightweight. Almost cost us the Christal account"
"Um not Stacey…she's fired Sash"
"Makes sense"
"Of course we're taking them for drinks!"
"Yeah I mean we just need a basic outline, some shit they’re going to think is like 'whoa'"
"Okay so…back o the basics…what do these rich kids want, huh? Sales…but…why the idiot no-money-hip-hop-douchebags? Can we, I don't know, get the cashed up white folk buying these?"
"Yeah right like 'be as cool as an African American'! So what, we need some big asses or what?"
"Yeah, we need hip-hop beats, oiled up asses and just at the end the shoes. Fuck it, that's easy"
"Christ, too easy. Keep thinking"
"No wait, how we gonna pitch with Tom all banged up wearing his sister's make up?"
"Fuck off Johnno"
"No seriously Tom…what the fuck were you thinking?"
"I got carried away you know….you know what it's like"
"Um yeah I do, but I don't get them to hit me in the fucking face! Ah fuck it whatever, its done. You can just make the mock ups and go home to get your shit sorted"
"Okay okay…lets just get something up on the cards"
"I've got it! Dominatrix. Tom, rub that makeup off your face. Johnno, all that weird stuff you were saying about 'crushing'. Here it is; hot chicks, leathered up, I mean make up, hair, all that. Wailing on guy's with these shoes on…like fucking loving it, right, like, sexy cool, like, fuck you I can do what the fuck I want. But before that its all suits and style and all that Jay-Z classy stuff, but like in the end their like getting whipped and fucking these hot dominatrix bitches, right?"
"Sash you are a fucking genius"
"Yeah yeah and Tom is all like, 'I get it, I love it'"
"Fuck off"
"No seriously, you can be presenting this shit with your whole bruised face thing wearing the shoes, I mean, you're not an ugly fuck, hell, you're probably the best looking guy here. We need to get you a better suit…call Katy"
We celebrate, Tom makes the cards, Johnno on the phone again and me and Fred finishing some scotch telling each other we need to make sure they buy better stuff next time. Johnny Walker black label, what the hell is that crap? It's only eleven and we have to wait two hours for lunch.
* * *
We get back from lunch and Rick is in James' office, throwing his arms around like he does, got James smiling his wide smile, getting his cock sucked always makes him look like that. Fucking little ass crawling shitbag…last ad he did was for a magazine, some up-herself stick figure blonde chick dressed like a god awful princess gracefully receiving a diamond ring from some homosexual male model, yeah right, fucking beautiful. Did we keep the account? Yes we did. How did we keep that account? Because James the moron promised them a BIG TV AD…and who's doing the ad? Not fucking us I can tell you that. Now Rick is all shit scared and trying to get in with us. Yeah keep buying us drinks, yeah send us your pathetic emails. Get ready to burn in hell you little piece of shit. Good luck affording your new apartment and suits. Fucking hotheads, you know, they land one job and start spending all their cash like its gonna last forever. Doesn't matter how long you been doing this, you fuck up, you lose the client's money, and you can kiss your life goodbye. I mean it. You mess up with half a mil of someone else's money, just try and get a job in this country again.
"Ricks in with James gain"
"That little shitbag"
"Tell me about it"
"Got his fucking tongue right up his ass huh?"
"You know it"
"Got a taste for ass that little ugly cunt"
"Ah fuck him, he's out of here in one month, tops"
"Not the way he gets that cock down his throat he won't be"
"Forget that shitbag, lets go over the pitch"
"Fuck the pitch lets go downstairs"
"Henry's?"
"No dumbass, downstairs"
"Why not? We got a couple-a-hours"
"I'm in"
"All right lets go…grab some bottles Tom"
And we're leave that mess behind, got it all down anyway: Shoes + Bondage = Sex Sells. How hard is that? Those rap douches are going to go ape shit for it. We'll tell them about oiled up shaved muscled black guy chests, gold chains, sexy big assed chicks, whips and leather and crap and BANG their shoes in the frame, all fresh and edgy. They'll be hard as rocks when we're done…bus ads, billboards, magazines, TV, music videos, soft-core porn micro sites, everything. Sign up for some barely covered tits spanking some other barely covered tits. Cut to Shoes. Done. We get in the lift and press the big red 'B'.
There's only one spotlight on, hard to see if there's anyone here today. The chains and cuffs are open and I can maybe make out a bucket. Tom turns the lights on and there's two girls over in the corner sort of half sitting on each other, some light sheer nighties on and pink fluffy slippers. It's not cold in here, it's maybe like 30 degrees, they look scared.
"What the fuck did you do last night Tom?"
"Nothing...I mean, this one chick, this one chick, she…she fucking…like hit me so, like…you know…"
"Oh not again…you're a sick bastard you know! Now we gotta go over there and be all nice and shit. Fuck you’re a moron. Luckily you can do mock ups like no one's business. Urgh, get the keys"
Tom gets the keys off the wall, one of the girls get up, yelling something and we tell her to shut up we're coming in and she's struggling against the ankle chain like some dog and its pathetic really and she's saying we're all pigs and Fred's laughing and Johnno is already talking his clothes off. Tom opens the cage and we go in, the other girl is just sitting there all quiet and the other one is standing there, nice tits, firm and pointy. She must be like, twenty, maybe twenty one, jesus the assholes upstairs know how to keep us going that's for sure. Johnno walks over to her and pulls her hair back, she tries to kick him but he's not weak and just moves her back and turns her around, pushing her against the wall and playing with her ass, she's trying to push back but he's got his other hand on her wrist and he's twisting her arm hard against her back and pushing her face into the cement. He's got her nightie up and is pushing his fingers into her holes hard and dry and she's crying out and he asks for a gag. There's a rag on the floor which I give to him and he wraps it around her mouth and ties it so she can only sort of whimper and its better that way, still, her hands are all over the place so he takes her over to the rack and eventually get's her hands cuffed in. The other one is watching us and its like she's curious or waiting or something so I go over and sit next to her.
"You like this?" I ask and she doesn't say anything, "Huh? You like watching her getting raped? Lets watch then".
Tom comes over to me but I gesture for him to go away, he goes and sits on a bench and lights a cigarette, he had enough last night the pervert so he'll wait his turn. Fred's got a big dildo and he's rubbing in between the girls legs, she trying to kick back but Johnno hits her in the ribs and she calms down. Fred spits onto the thing and shives it into her pussy but its not working so he takes it out, spits on his fingers and starts working her open that way. Johnno rips her nightie off and starts sucking on her nipples while Fred works the dildo into her pussy. She kind of struggles but the two guys are pretty much just doing whatever now and Fred's got his face buried in her ass. The girl next to me is motionless, I open her legs and she doesn't do anything, I start playing with her pussy and still nothing, it's like, what the fuck is wrong with her or more likely, something really is wrong with her. Not very erection inspiring, or maybe that’s her game? I pull a blanket out and lay her down face first and start to take my pants off. The other guys are really going for it now I mean, Johnno's slapping the hell out of her ass and Fred's driving the thing in and out in and out and she's got her head forward and trying to scream but it just sounds like a really soft cat meow or a howling dog or something and Johnno pushes Fred away and throws the dildo into a corner and starts really fucking her, I mean like really like he can't possibly even enjoy it himself and he's pulling her hair and spitting on her face and all kinds of shit and Fred joins Tom on the bench, pulls out a mini-scotch and smokes a cigarette. I've got two fingers in this girls ass and its tight and warm and smells like shit but it’s a sweet kind of thing, it does dawn on me 'when did these girls last take a shower' but it was probably this morning so they should be pretty clean and my fingers come out okay so not too bad and I keep working at her asshole with fingers and spit until it feels ready and my cock is hard. Johnno is done and he's turned her around and her arms are crossed and her face is red and covered in loose hair and his spit and now he's got his whole hands up there just ramming at her and her tits are jumping up and down so fast you can barely make them out and he gestures for someone to come over and Tom gets up and goes over and Johnno tells him to undo her cuffs and she falls onto the floor and then they're just fucking whatever now, face, pussy, ass, and I can't watch anymore because its so abstract, these two guys just moving about shoving their cocks here and there while this girl is like, like, a rubber doll of something. And I'm like up to my waist in this girls ass and she's just making this 'uh uh uh' sound which is really tuning me on and hell even I start doing it, thrusting and saying 'urgh' like louder than her so it's all so intense and she's like a quiet lamb just taking it and I'm having actual nice thoughts about this one which is rare and I don't like that any more so I put my hands around her throat to you know like stop the sound, just squeezing her neck and pulling her head up and she's got her mouth and eyes shut tight now which feels good and I cum in her ass after about one more minute of this and I'm done. Johnno is done too and just like he always does it getting his suit back on, over by the sink with the mirror smoothing out his hair with water and watching himself smoke a cigarette. Almost a too cool but too crazy a thing that ritual. Tom the psycho is hitting her in the back of the head and calling her 'slut' 'cunt' 'whore' and all kinds of stuff, really taking it out on her. Poor guy, must be how we treat him, right? Comes down here, goes fucking ape shit. Terrible.
"How're things Fred?"
"Yeah fine…not really into it today"
"Throw me a bottle huh?
He throws me a vodka and I throw it back, then he throws me a scotch.
"Fuck what the hell, they're still giving us this shit. I got to talk to Katy." I open the bottle and finish it one go, "hurry the fuck up Tom, jesus. We got a pitch in like half an hour!"
Tom's banging away, got that look in his eye like he'll never stop so we just leave him there and I throw a roll of toilet paper over to the girl I came inside and its just
"See you upstairs Tom…don't be late…two thirty okay" and he kind of says okay but its like o-o-o-k-k-k type thing with breathing and now we’re done its just plain gross to see Tom like that.
* * *
The men's room on our floor has these warm-wet-forest-fresh towels that I use to get her shit out form under my nails and the aroma is so refreshing its like 'where am I?' but the feeling is broken by the sound of some sicko pissing in a urinal like right into the water. Its like 'didn’t your parents or someone ever teach you not to do that?'. I mean seriously, what kind of unadjusted socially retarded peasant does that? Oh look, there's some water I guess I'll pee straight into it, like in the river back on the farm. Manners, right, like maybe someone else is in this cacophonous tiled room that's a veritable echo chamber to expose all your basic bodily functions. If you need to be told this then you should be fired on the spot. We don't want inconsiderate illogical dunces working for Slater and Slater. The cubicle door opens and it's no surprise that Rick strolls out, a dullard's grin on his face as he publically zips up his fly.
"Sasha, how's things. Heard you got the Greigson's account. Man you guys are the business"
"Sash"
"Huh?"
"Don't call me Sasha ok? Its Sash. In fact, don't even fucking call me Sash. You're gonna call me Mr Bernstein or your ass is going out the fucking window, okay?"
"Jesus take it easy. I'm on your team, okay? We gotta get this place up and running twenty first century style you know what I mean?"
He runs his hands under the tap, no soap, reaches for a hot towel,
"Hey. What the fuck are you doing slimeball?"
"What" he says, picking one up and rubbing it on his face and neck.
"You ever hear of hygiene?"
"Huh?"
I turn on the tap, press some foam soap into my hands and rub them together, looking at Rick like he's an infant.
"See? Watch me now. This is the important stuff your alcoholic fuckhead of a father should have taught you"
"What did you say?"
"I said your fresh-out-of-jail unshaven loser of a father should have at least showed you how to wash your hands. What the fuck do they teach you where you're from? How to steal car stereos that no ne wants anymore and sell them for a tenner?"
"Hey man…you're out of line"
"Out of line, huh? I tell you what’s out of line…you fucking coming up to me and anyone from my team and even thinking for a second you are one of us. For a second. What kind of fucking degenerate university taught you that you know ANYTHING about what we do. You push out the most gut-sickening clichéd shit I've ever seen, get one account per year that takes a fucking truckload of cum drinking for you to keep. Maybe make what, a ten percent commission, and then try and fucking stand here next to me, rinse your fucking loser ass piss stained fingers under cold water and just think 'hey, I'm going to talk to Sash…even though I am a turd and he is a FUCKING PARTNER!' Any of this making sense to you?"
"Calm down man, I'm just…"
"Shhh. I'm done. Okay?"
My heads buzzing, scotch and fucking and that got damn oily skinned bad suit asswipe just comes together and
"Hi Sash"
"Hi Stacey…how's the mag going?"
"Good good, but hey, I wanted to ask you…"
"Not right now okay…I'm pitching in like five minutes so I've got to go get my face on"
"UH, okay Sash, but, I, I'm gonna come find you later"
"Sur Stacy, you come by and see me. We're gonna go for a drink though okay"
And she says something but I'm not really listening and its amazing I even got those three lines out at all. They’re all in the office and Tom is making some more sketches, like the back up sketches because as soon as one of the idiot executives freaks out we just put those up and they calm down and we can push through what we want without them doing too much thinking. Legal. Consumer. Reaction. Blah blah heard it before, way ahead of you. Fred's playing with his phone again, he's getting screwed over some share deal so we understand but he'll have to keep the crowd going in about ten minutes and Johnno is sitting back, smiles at me when I come in. I sit down and run my fingers through my hair, it's weird right now, I'm more shaky than I usually am.
"You okay Sash?"
"Yeah. Are we ready? Let's go"
Vampire Doodles (so hot right now)
Vampires from the mother land of yesteryear.1. Chunky Monkey
2. Mr lean but mean.
3. Your friendly neighbourhood butcher.
4. His cousin Vlad across the road. Famous for his sausages with extra bite.
5. Bat care taker.
ADAM & EVE (‘Apples’ part 2/3)
Again Adam traces her beautiful body with his hands, first rubbing her feet and then moving along the perfect shape of her claves, bends to kiss the back or her knee, still marvelling at how exquisitely soft it is. He draws back to admire the shape of her thighs and buttocks, letting his hands naturally caress her smooth flesh in a movement so natural and organic, it never changes. She is lying in the soft grass, eyes closed, her long lashes playfully dancing as she daydreams, a slight smile on her lips. He lets himself yearn for those lips instead of kissing them, imagines her moist acceptance of his own lips on hers…later. His hands on her lower back, the slight arch and valleys formed from those feminine hips, back and forth he plays, applying a little pressure to help relax her body, gently massaging her muscles and skin. Again he bends for a kiss, the small of her back, the scent of her womanhood rising to his nostrils, he moves his face closer to the source to better take in the aroma. She looks over her shoulder at him, then returns to her dream. The whiteness of her skin so alive in the sunlight, the sight protrusion of bone under such sweet flesh. Her hair falling to one side showing her beautifully fragile neck. He uses his fingers in her hair, just above the base of her hairline, squeezing the nape of her neck, releasing tension there and now scrunching her hair in his fists. Her ear turns red, hot with blood, he sucks on her lobes a little and runs his hand down her arms. She relaxes them and moves them along with his motions, he can hear her breathe out and he wishes he could take those breathes into him, how sweet and warm they must be! Coming out of this beautiful creature laying there so serene and pure. Event though he does this every day its always the same feelings, or, it gets better and better. He looks at her, admires her, the sun in her hair, the occasional shadows the leaves make moving across her back. She senses him looking, opens her eyes and looks at him, raises herself up on her elbows and kisses his lips, just once, the turns to lie on her back.
"I love you" he says.
"I know" she says.
* * *
Adam wants to cook her favourite fish for lunch. He crouches by the stream and waits for them to come. One of them will offer themselves up soon, a young salmon. He waits by the shallows, the transparent water passing over the smooth river stones, the music in the trickling makes a mesmerising tinkle that is perpetually surprising, a crescendo of soft tingling light moving quick and soft, makes the nerves in his fingers twitch and his mind wander from the task, lost in the glistening fireworks of sunlight reflected from the moving surface. The salmon come, hovering and slipping by, their shark grey liquid skin twisting and sparkling in the sun. The warm breeze come to remind him his is not part of the marine world. He hears himself breathe deep, in and out with rich oxygen…a different animal. There it is, swimming in perfect opposite to the current, seeming to look over its shoulder at Adam, patiently waiting. He moves his hand above the fish's body, wait there (uts not ready yet), a few moments, then it is true that the time is right so he simply plunges his open hand over the small body and grasps the slippery living thing, lifting it out of the water with no struggle. Of course the shock of being in an opposing environment effects the little fish at first, but Adam takes it into his lap and lets it relax there. After a moment of nothing it flicks again, its confused mouth struggling, but he is there, tickling it under the chin, looking it in the eye and holding it close to his body. Soon there is peace, he is sitting there alone again, sun warming his shoulders, a soft silver fish laying still on his crossed legs. That is all, he gets up and takes it away.
* * *
As Adam moves the fish around in the hot coals, Eve approaches, something is different in her face a new way of walking, something Adam hasn't seen before. He watches her come, looking into his yes as if nothing else exists, feeling that she wants something, not that she has simply caught the scent of the cooking salmon, something else. She has a ring of vines wrapped around her waist, some larger leaves draped over her shoulders, as if she has taken nature itself and covered herself in it. How strange Adam thinks, unable to take his eyes off hers and feeling the heat from the coals on his thighs and chest. He turns back to the fish, using a forked branch to flip it again, the darkened flesh getting close to eating. He crushes some herbs in his palm and mixes them in with the juice of a lemon, looks back to Eve as she now stands before the fore, looking at the fish and the coals with pained expression, her brow creased.
"Adam" she says in a slow voice, "there's something wrong"
"What is it?" he asks, moving back from the fire and placing the salmon onto some leaves.
"There's something e forgot about"
"Forgot? What?"
"That there is…something else. We didn't know"
"Know what?"
"I don't want to tell you"
He takes small piece of salmon from the body, blows off the ash and tastes it. It's good, sweet and salty.
"Have some salmon" he offers.
"Sure" she says.
They sit together, eat the fish, dipping chunks of the flesh into the marinade, he notices her simply eating, a blank look, not smiling like she normally would.
"Something wrong with the fish?"
"No…Adam…you need to eat this"
"An apple?"
"Yes"
"Okay"
YOU’RE READING THIS: IT IS ABOUT YOU AND A NEANDERTHAL
Like trying to sympathise with a moron or what I mean is trying to tell a moron how to be sympathetic, more so, simply explaining how it could be possible that their so obvious lack of spatial awareness could cause so much grievance…! Well, these things are but a simple fact of life for the poor writer. Who me? Oh so you've noticed you are reading. Please don't make me come over there (like a threat from both the voice in your head and/or a person writing is any kind of threat…far from it, it is an ominous thing that you may be aware of or I should probably have not made you aware of). Okay so it's funny, think of this: these are words you are reading, in your own voice, right, and writers can have you think/process/deal with various things, and even try to tell you things so that it will seem like you are telling them to yourself and after, say, a sentence (read: full stop) is when you'll have the chance to internally again think 'fuck off' or 'hey yeah' without even worrying with the normal human interaction thing of caring about your facial expression or being able to look someone in the eye and agree. So, okay this has all happened in your head so far. Without being too oblique/egotistical obloobaboogabah! Ok, sorry. Just to hear yourself say that at this point…ummm, okay (that’s me you hear but I am not here…arrrrgh, okay).
Sorry. That is really off track. I am back talking to you, okay? I promise. None if this 'make you aware that I am aware that you are aware' stuff. Well I'll try.
The moron. He has learned how to repeat the phrases of those he loves. He does it day-to-day, of course yes, and then, when he is talking to his mother, he has changed, but of course, being ill-equipped to understand the ways in which he has changed his mother's[1] confusing sentences that question his new found 'wisdom'-esque ideologies make no sense. He knows he is always improving, not knowing that his technique or absorption is not improving but a replacement for actual improving, imagine: a soul that is moulded like clay (perhaps there is a type of religion where this is the ideal?). So do you have someone in your head yet? Sorry, don't forget I'm talking to you(rself). And our feelings towards that person…ummm, I don't really want to tell you how to feel.
I don't want to dislike this person, you know it's like, what makes me so good to think like this?
Who is talking? Reading or thinking? My voice is my own (in your voice). I like the head voice; I want to talk to it not just, oh god, be it for a few moments.
The eyes. That's where it is. You want to reach in and shake them by their heart and have them stop talking so much about vacuous things like interest rates or TV or whatever the hell else they're talking about (cars, sorry, I forgot cars) so that they can just forget about these, I don't know, attributes. Attributes? Imagine if they could all know about marketing, advertising…how the best brains are being coopted into persuading you to 'be cool' or 'want' etc. So hilarious. Okay, a test is needed because even you are not believing (and even if you are this will be fun. Yes I'm telling you, god! Arrogant?…please, find out before you judge. No I love you…stop reading!):
If the writer could recreate that magic from earlier where he was able to both talk to you and have you talk to yourself, remember? Of course you do. Okay so now who is doing the telling. I can hear myself referencing myself. I love my voice and I am the only one here. In that ad I saw…write three paragraphs on that.
My voice sounds weird in my own head and if I was to read it like this not knowing where it's going or even really now knowing if I talk like that then that is weird. In my head I am in my head. Do I know about this moron thing that's supposed to be happening?
Stop questioning, I'm trying to tell you but I'm being really distracted by the whole talk to me talk to you thing. No I'm not trying to do it again, god. Okay. Off track. I was talking to this moron and it was so easy to implant ideologies in there, but, like all prophets (!) I know my words are ridiculously brief. This moron will probably scratch his neck hair and already forget all the good I tried to achieve in my five minutes cigarette break. Hey, even though he gave me free cigarette doesn't mean I didn't give something in return i.e. WISDOM. Come on!
You have the person now, right? You can see him, or possibly her. And what are you thoughts? Oh god, stop it…ha! That's terrible but of course we can all agree. Here's why:
In every workplace there is a Neanderthal. What it wants is always so obvious. FRIENDS. "Be My Friend" it says, moving about areas such a thing is not designated to be in. DRINK? Of course, three thick beers down, the hair on its forehead somehow already glistening with some liquid (I am remiss to believe as sweat in these 22º surroundings). As a moron some kind hearted colleagues try to befriend it only to to discover the repulsive (read: public spitting/urinating) aspects of this quote unquote harmless guy, which they forthwith discard or at the most humane pack into a taxi cab for expulsion towards it's home (or more accurately simply away from all of us, okay, fuck!).
I wouldn't do that. I am better than this writer…fucking wanker. Thinks he is better than someone having a good time.
I don't know what to believe anymore. You turned on me. Yet if you want to find out what happened to that dumb drunk ugly Neanderthal read on. Otherwise, listen to that voice in your head who thinks I am an asshole and doesn't want to be talked to or involved anymore. Warning: you will be involved, no matter how bad you think I am laying out the story/personality. Okay?
I made a mistake. I forgot to say that all humans have a place in the world, if only for the fact that they exist and that you have to have them and, I don't know, work around them? No, that's terrible. Okay, um, see them and then, yes, I forgot, help them. I only have maybe ten minutes a day where I have a chance (it could be more but as you know – talking to you now- know, that's a long time right). It involves mainly listening and then having maybe two or three sentences to influence, after, what, nine or twelve sentences of complacent agreement lines. So you are helping, or more accurately trying to educate. And after all the racism and generalities and car-part conversation what do you know you have achieved?
Better luck next time.
[1] Or anyone else close enough to comment such things as "what? who are you?"
DINNER IN ROME
In which it is ruined by the addition of Middle Aged Australian Christians
I love that I am not a liar in my purported LOVE of experiencing a country rather than visiting (or 'touristing' per se). I connect with a place, then of course it connects back. That is my way, and it turns out I am right (well, I thought I may have been lying to myself all these years). Yet if it wasn't insulting enough that I should bear a multitude of non-Italian speaking imbeciles (i.e. Americans) all day…I was, after a long day of 'connecting', seated next to two middle aged Australians! I feel at once sick and slightly (no, I'm not going to say, okay, assured or safe) CONFUSED…I mean holy fuck here I am all the way here and I have to listen to this nasally drone instead of the wonderful lyrical Italian I came here to worship. I hated experiencing the whole tourist thing all day, and it was just so continuous! Everywhere I went it was idiots with maps and terrible 'comfortable' clothing that almost made the beauty of Rome disintegrate. I was polite enough to only ever look at my map in the most surreptitious of ways, far away from being spotted or to any way spoil the illusion that I may have been a local, casually go about his Roman day (i.e., enhancing said tourists experience! And yes, not wanted to be judged or hated by any actual Romans).
I'm tempted to write down every thing these two Australians say because its all so common place it could be everyone I know…the most regular cookie cutter observations and responses, in particular the role playing aspect of it…and I am supposed to be in Rome, not Queensland or Penrith. I travel literally as far away as possible (i.e. different hemisphere and opposite longitude) and this happens…actually, there is a humour to it AND I'm going to try pretending that I'm her in Rome having dinner with my (imaginary but not that imaginary of you get what I mean) Aunt and Uncle here in Rome. Should I say 'hello'?
. . .
Ok so I said hello or more specifically "So what part of Australia are you from?" refraining from saying 'Stralia' to further endow myself. Then followed many minutes of shit (during which the husband spent most of the time inside paying the bill - "cant trust them with your card you know") followed by the man returning and offering his hand with
"I'm <name> anyway, pleased to meet you".
"I'm Alex" I reply.
"Pleased to meet you Alan" he says, giving me a pat on the back as he and his wife leave. Somehow ignoring Alex as an Australian name. Okay.
LIES TOLD DURING THE MANY MINUTES OF SHIT:
1. I've lived here for three months
Mainly because after I launched my "which part…" line the woman was so surprised I was Australian vis a vis "Oh! I thought you were a native" simply because I (wow!) ordered in Italian…e.g. "Fettuccine Carbonara per favore". And because I didn't want to crush her somewhat astonished notion of me, the Aussie native doing so well in Rome.
2. I live in Darlinghurst
This one was mainly to preclude me from living anywhere near their reality, which it turned out was the Hunter Valley so I had no real worry. My main problem was my 'Australia bias' and I thought they may have been from (god!) a country town or worse, Brisbane (or as the locals call it 'Bris-Vegas'. Urgh).
3. I am here working (on 'websites')
Sure, Why not! Like anyone over, say, 45, knows anything about websites.
4. Any church here is good (for Sunday Mass) – this one is compounded
First I said YES to being catholic (technically a truth) which, somewhat of a curse, led to a quasi-tirade about devotion and faith etc with many references to the Vatican et al (I should have guessed by their clothes and hairstyles)
Second (an mainly because of my 'three months' lie) she asked "which church on Sunday is good, we've planned for St Peter's (where? what? huh?) but we don't want to queue". To which I offered the compound lie which also proves my Catholicism "oh yeah you'll definitely have to queue for St. Peters", so in its place I offer "They're all good…do you know that stretch of road leading from the Vatican?", blank faces, "I mean from Vatican City, heading toward Rome?", some nods of vague understanding, in fact, the only road I know because I had walked it there and back that day, "They're all beautiful down that road, the churches, on a Sunday, for mass".
HER IDIOSYNCRACIES I HAD TO LISTEN TO WHILST HER HUSBAND PAID THEIR BILL
How Ireland was not as religious as she thought/wanted: she is a repeat visitor to Rome for the whole 'being close to the Pope and the Catholic artefacts etc stuff'. This time she has dragged her (second I assume) husband along. Their last pilgrimage was to find solace in, what she thought/expected, to be the 'deep-seated Catholicism of Ireland'. No I did not point out anything about 'The Troubles', I can only assume this would have somehow affirmed her appraisal of the Irish Catholics being so, um, devout. She (and her husband I think but couldn't really tell if he was just being nice i.e. faking it, because he liked fucking this woman or whether he actually agreed) was appalled at the lack of purity and sanctity shown by (what I can only imagine she thought were) 'her people' (yes she had red hair). I pretty much left that whole spiel alone, preferring instead to eat my Carbonara and nod a little (oh and drink wine. Probably should have mentioned that, in the ten or so minutes we chatted, I somehow drank almost half a bottle of wine. Go figure).
NOTE ON MY UNDERSTANDINGS AS SOON AS THEY LEFT
St Peters is actually San Pietro, i.e. the MAIN church in Vatican City, the one which only an hour earlier (or so) I had ascended to the top of (the Basilica). This happens to be THE church that on Sundays the Pope himself holds mass. So I had inadvertently advised possible the most devout (well, zealous as far as I was concerned) Catholics to NOT attend St Peters mass and instead seek absolution in a (lesser to them) church, one that they could roll into anywhere along the main road. A lesser tourist might have been happy with my advice. Only then did I fully understand the look on their faces after hearing me dismissing, essentially, THE Pope's mass, based on the length of a mere 'queue'. Further, the next day as I was leaving my hotel I entered the Vatican area where they had posted huge screens of the inside of San Pietro, which was when I realised "holy fuck the Pope's in there" or something along those lines that may be less sacrilegious.
Either I'm a liar or the best damned Rome tourist guide for certain Aussies. You can choose.
OFFICE WORK AND THE THINGS THAT HAPPEN/DIE
It's really terrible to be there on the outside, you want me to say looking in, but its living IN that is the reality. For example (an easy example to start with) there's one of you in front of me, talking, trying to you know like believe in something or more likely just live the role they've been PAID to[1]. And yes its true they expect me to respond so I can do it right so yeah its easy to say the things that are needed and then, ha! they walk away satisfied…okay so lets for a second pretend that this sentiment is true of everyone. Okay so, then extrapolating, the whole world is…
I took up a pen and it was unlidded and fed by ink but not dried yet and it hasn't let me down yet so its love I feel now for this persistent little pen that creams ink out its tight spot at all hours, the beautiful thing it is. It's still not owned. The firm will buy more pens.
You had a dream in which you lived? So you are actually making a life outside of this place? AND you are going to tell me about it? Okay. It's lovely and heartbreaking your things as they are; a new car (the best ever!); a holiday (praise god!); a baby (one day!); I'm getting out of here to start X (wonderful!).
The patterns on the wall I have memorised. If by patterns you mean hollow motivational slang, and if by memorised you mean have taken to be the implicit insulting of my intellect, then yeah, memorised, sir.
Company Culture: the allusion of admirable circumstance under the cloud of cost benefit analysis.
The women are still things. Skirts, shoes, hair and make up. Even the unattractive ones who try to assert equality slash professionalism know they aren't exempt. The new thing is to be unattractive and steadfast, surly, revel in your ugliness young managers for we fear no threat from you on so many levels:
Level 1. You are probably not going to have children any time soon (corporate benefit)
Level 2. You will not distract your co-workers.
Level 3 The men will take you seriously (no cause for distraction)
Level 4. You get to see the pretty girls promoted ahead of you and/or they are left alone to be vacuous beauties that (you remember back to when you were growing up) have always had it kind of good and sweet and more fun than you could imagine, and, lets face it your imagination, poor stuck-in-the-clutches-of-the-rest-of-the-disgusting-world girl you have created is taking over…and you think 'how unfair' without knowing the reality and instead being resentful and spiteful and exacting your revenge on those damned pretty girls. Late at night when you remember you are a female you feel sick and bad because there is no more mirrors and you know deep down that you've just played along again in the male world of handshakes and beer and appreciating cleavage (in your head: do I have good cleavage?).
Person: Walk away. Stop those steps towards the desk. Look at the sky, fall in love with the day.
Worker: I am already in love with the day.
Person: No. There are better things to do. You don't need to do this.
Worker: I'll have a coffee and then it will be 10am
Person: This day is too precious to waste…this life
Worker: I can't believe they pay me $200 a day for this
Person: I am not worth this
Worker: Hello, hello, hello (wow, such strange and nice people! The phone rang)
Person: What clichés, yeah right 'Good mourning'. Please stop asking me what I'm, doing…I'm making a coffee. Your fascination makes me sick, okay?
Worker: (laughs/grunt laughs/ fake laughs or its a real laugh).
You were told that you had something important to do. You did that important thing! There were smiles and the other paid things said 'well done' type things and that was one week or month or so. There was a budget you didn't adhere to. The investors were not happy, you affected their pocket! Now what happened is you are fucked and useless and worthless (in a monetary sense) and yet you felt inside that you are actually bad and a failure and then, like a breathe or in a Namaste yoga way you remembered that you can turn off your computer (self) and walk away into the night and see your friends and maybe they ask you about 'work' and you can so easily say 'ah, forget about that'.
It's maybe around three pm or so and that thing happens where you see yourself sitting there. I did not want this and yet the screaming voice inside is silenced so easily most of the time. You are standing up, you are moving around. You yourself see your desk and the other people. Go make a coffee. There is someone else there and they are using you to talk to because they are uncomfortable speaking to the woman in the kitchen who is new and so you do the thing whereby you coalesce their conversation so you can leave agreeably but in the end you insult them both by being callous and 'coming down' from a 'higher level' BUT you are aware of this quasi-elevation so there are positions and responsibilities to be adhered to and in the adhering you feel yourself perpetuating the myth and simultaneously liking the myth/respect thing and putting them in their place makes making your pay check and all the days indiscretions and belittlings seem worthwhile (read: for the few minutes you can extract respect for free).
[1] Okay so uniforms: The police officer or even cinema attendant saying 'please step behind the rope'…the rope? Humans coexisting within these precepts, right. We have lost the class system and replaced it with; a class system. Revolution? Our free market economy has bred the new world order of money and privilege so now you can MAKE yourself upper class (instead of it being bestowed). A step in the right direction we thought and then the old ways just seeped in. Imagine trying to converse with a uniform and what it gets you. Hey, you're just paid to act (crucial word) like that. Its hard to snap them out of it and remind them that: hey, the uniform comes off and you are a human. 'Get behind the rope sir'. Really? You care whether I am on this or that side of a cotton rope. What the hell happened to you? And when you finish your 'role', then what? What do you become, or what are you in the first place? Nothing until you adorn a role thing..
A Useless Day Before Lunch
STUPID 11:14am
Just because you come across a house with door slung wide open doesn’t mean you have to stick your head inside, see that no one is there and grab the wallet and car keys which are stupid enough to be hanging off a key chain bearing the emblem of the car you are about to get into and turn the key in the ignition to hear the engine start and you even rev it a few times before remembering Christ you are out the front of the house but pull away casually anyway, looking back a few times to a dead street or just that kid in the front yard kicking a ball or doll. It's when things like this happen you get that feeling deep inside like shit something is going to happen to me and then quickly why would it? None of that karma stuff exists but then again that old feeling of this isn't going to be karma its going to be you can't just steal someone's stuff and just walk/drive around spending the money in the wallet which is only thirty dollars on beer and a few bags of peanuts. Back in the car, still petrol in the thing not going anywhere really so of course you end up at a house you know and take in the beer and nuts and just sit in that house for a while drinking beer from the fridge and smoking their cigarettes and eating peanuts and laughing at the TV or watching sport until an hour or so goes by. Ah fuck it I end up saying and take the last six pack out of the fridge and say see ya later and get back in the car because what else right…is it even reported stolen yet? Probably. Better get this thing somewhere where I can walk home from.
KILLER 10:24am
Fucker got his shit car out the front like the dumb fuck he is. Ok so he's got a whole bunch of shit about to hit him and his junkie girlfriend or whatever the fuck she is and yep in like 10 minutes oh fuck it three or as soon as this cigarette is done. Ok so ok go up there, kick the door in and shoot the fucks, no problem. Ah fuck this cigarette I'm gong up there. Got some toys on the grass, trucks and balls, they got a son or what? Letters all over the front step, they don't care about shit these two losers. Anyway shut the fuck up.
DEALER 10:04am
Yeah good okay so got three grand's worth of shit in the boot to get rid of, like shit more than half of it in like three hours. Christ I'm gonna get fucked over this I tell you. Straight away its like why the hell did he let me take all those lines, fucker trying to mess with me yeah right but fuck it I can do it. Go see Caz and Sarah and then Clive at the Oyster and um like Dave and then like oh fuck who'll be awake, um Phil…yeah ok sure. Another cigarette in my mouth what, the other one fucking smoking on the dashboard ha yeah right that’s right toss it out the window, smooth, smooth. No one on the highway, nice and that sun, nice, that sun is nice like like everything's cool, right, yeah…smoke comes out nice, ha, music isn't even on! And she lives, is it two or three after the service station, no that doesn't look right, oh yeah fuck that ugly ass yellow brick house on the corner, who the fuck lives there? Yeah I think that every time why stop now? Oh god what a dump, her kids toys out all over the yard, all it needs is a dead or dying dog and like, three dead lawnmowers and it'd be perfect. Ha. How the fuck she keeps people coming to buy gear off her I don't know. Christ in front of that poor kid. Where'd she get that kid? Who gives a fuck? Better get this shit inside, hate having it all just in there, like a beating heart right?
JUNKIE 09:59am
What the fuck I called him like an hour ago and he said twenty minutes mother fucker. Mother fucker better have some cigarettes. SHUT UP!!! Stupid kid, wah wah wah, Christ eat a bug you little shit what the fuck do you want? In his castle, in his whole bed to himself like what the fuck?! Yeah right ok so I'm microwaving the milk left in your bottle that you didn't want before but now you do…happy now. Bing! Ok yeah sure…fuck now its too hot…ok so yeah running it under the cold tap for your majesty…and you you still don't shut up. Ok here you go, suck on that and shut up so yeah all good. Christ where is he? Ok so cool do your last line and then that will be that and he'll come and bang. Mmmmm yeah yeah, ha fucking talking to myself. That kid better just keep quiet Christ or my heads going to just pop off or I'm going to put him in some…fuck where can I put him? Shit little bastards just going to have to stay in here, no matter what right? Urgh god that is hell. Hello? Oh yeah hi Rick. Today? Yeah sure I will, come by in like an hour or whatever yeah? Ok cool, see ya. Fucking junkie, got a sixth sense for knowing when I'm getting the shit that arsehole. Well this pricks gonna be paying through his nose this time. Fucking ringing me daily – BUY MORE THAN A GRAM DICKHEAD. Yeah, yeah I'll tell him that. What does he do, beg his mummy for money every morning and then come around to piss me off. Fuck that, buy an eight ball and fuck off 'till Friday. Yeah. Oh thank christ here he is now.
BUYER 11:29am
Weird she's got her door open with that kid and all that gear in there. Maybe its like a thing like, cops or some shit is going down. Pffft, yeah right…too many movies Rick! Seriously, no way any cop'll think this is a dealer's house. Looks like a messed up family home, sure, but to think this chick deals coke out of here is crazy…fucking toy trucks and shit. They should get a cat or something. Hello!? Sarah! You home? Whoops probably shouldn't yell out…Heeee-eey? Anyone home? The kid is bawling its head off, again, god how annoying would that be? Yo Sarah! Ok this is weird, where the fuck is she? Fuck it I'm going inside. So what do I just sit here on the lounge or what? Weird, why the hell would she read a fishing magazine? Who's is this? Fuck that's a huge swordfish, Christ imagine catching that. That would be cool. Ha what stupid fish would fall for those lures! Yeah right like real fish are all fluoro with like ten hooks coming off them. So if fish are so blind why even bother fashioning lures into fish shapes…may as well be a lump of plastic covered in hooks. Ah whatever, how stupid. Hey Sarah you home?! Annoying, she said an hour. I'm like ten minutes late, like she knows what time it is, ha! I better check on the kid I guess poor bastard. Wait what the fuck is that, some dude's legs? What the fuck is that about? Ummmmm, ok…Sarah! Hee-eeey you home?! Want me to come back?! Seriously what the fuck's up with that dude. Oh Christ oh fuck what the fuck shit Jesus…..mother fucking HELL!
POLICE 11:56am
23 Harland Road, two dead, both shot multiple times to torso and head, cocaine found on crime scene, door broken in, no signs of struggle, single small child left in bedroom undisturbed, called in by Rick Tindale, local resident. Ummm ok so what the fuck happened huh? Yeah well…looks like some kinda drug hit to me Harry. Drug hit? What the fuck is this TV? Looks like a couple of idiots got killed that’s what it looks like. Fuck this hit business. Well look at this shit, no one's touched all that coke, I mean, there's at least twenty or thirty grams there. Big deal. Some fucker just tagged along, shot them two, took the money and fucked off. This was just a little deal that some idiot wanted the money for. We'll find them. And what are we looking for. Well, probably someone that this Rick knows, right? Yeah right well, we may as well start there. Plus…where the fuck are the cars? So no one here drives right? Someone's out there driving one of these people's cars, ok, so, get on that ok?
WHEN LIFE IS NOT LIFE or I AM MISSING SOMETHING HERE
Over the table of half glasses of wine and some eighteen dollar entrée which sits half eaten but they daren't reach for a bit under the weight of reprehension or guilt because she is crying and he is trying damn hard to stick to his last sentence which, lets face it, was a bit brutishly simplistic in so much as it basically called her useless and perhaps you could interpret it as saying she is unattractive or bad in bed or similar. He gulps at his wine, only appreciating it as it sinks down the back of the throat, again the thought 'fuck this is costing me hundreds of dollars to sit here and have a god dammed fight' and it's just that exact thing in his eyes, enough for her to think 'why am I bothering?' which, as you can imagine only exacerbates things. It's always the way, the blind leading the blind or worse the awake falling all over themselves to play roles, roles in which they hate or at least said at the start of the relationship they hate and oh god what about all those other couples who fall into these traps and how crap are they and this will NEVER happen to us because we are too smart and so they sit there knowing that bit each time they try to, somehow, introduce this or break the moment there is always another crushing true statement to reel back in all the old woes and hurts that accumulate like dust into every relationship (or so they, maybe we were wrong and naïve and anything but inevitability is futile but I don't want to believe that (their hearts say). He takes some bread in, takes a spoon and fork and places the last crumbed artichoke onto her plate, she is too far gone at this point to car, it just sits there and he mops up some of the sweet reduced balsamic sauce with the bread and finishes it, another swallow of wine, refills his glass.
'Okay…' and then what? … 'Okay, okay so lets just, eat this delicious food okay?' She looks back at him, pricks the artichoke with a fork and eats half of it, putting the fork back down with the crumbed vegetable thing stuck on the end
'Yeah' she says, finishing her wine too.
>> We've had enough of this story, right? Same old thing again and again. You get to thinking it’s a self-fulfilling prophesy? The ins and outs, the repetitive up and down, the long winded you-just-get-sick-of-each-other motif…….this modern romance where we give it a few years and then passes. Well, it been happening for years and as so relationship after relationship just dies. Is that right? Is that what's supposed to happen? Our references are:
(i) Parents (and their generation) who we saw struggled through marriage, mostly with cancer causing burdens and repentant betrayals or role-playing idiosyncratic belittlements of Father and Mother and HOME stuff where resentment bred hate and cold hearted jibes where 'me wife' is that and 'my husband the idiot' is this and 'what can I do' kind of jokes around BBQs or inside with salad (you know the drill)
(ii) Grandparents who (even worse!) suffered male dominated abuse and denials of privileges or thought and the burgeoning debt to be paid to children and the bricks and motor house where you are supposed to just have things done (humanity-less, emotion-less, desire-less).
(iii) Modernity, free sprit, carnal exploration, all encompassing mass market love that means look good feel good be happy at all costs stuff which is also hollow in the end and leaves us begging for the kind of warm home-as-hearth thing we imagine somewhat romantically through the mire that we have directly seen, somehow still imagining a better way or even a pure way that our pathetic human parents/grandparent didn't really find, OR were actually unable to find because they weren't equipped with what we know now…and what is it that we know now besides that marriage isn't forever, that one plain path isn't possible and that we want what we want and being able to kill that is a (luxury) skill we both don't have and don't want and to try to regain (regain? No, it was never real, besides as a socially typical class system thing from mega-yesteryear). Okay so let's hear about how they have children:
The babysitter has been picked up by her father and they gave her $60 or so and they sit on the lounge, him in his quasi-suit and her in a semi-formal dress (backless!) and they take of their $600 shoes and they lie dead there on the carpet amidst bunny rabbits, pieces of lego and Disney DVDs, the romance, any of it what was there, is just miserable in the face of such blatant realism; the house the smell of children who don't wash properly and fart freely and don't wear eau de toilette...this instead of the chatter of adults spending hundreds on fine food and wine out in the dimly lit world of the night where children are either absent or annoying baggage. The rich food they choked down between terse comments sits in their stomachs, reminding them how far away from that life they are and how cheating the moment means long term morose bowel related symptoms, endemic conditions of the dying bourgeoisie ideals that you need to cheat in order to pretend to be amongst. They don't look at each other, turn on the TV, he light s a cigarette and she hates it but he just keeps doing it and she's had too much wine and food and arguments already to say anything this time but it makes the bile swirl and rise anyway and the cancer she thinks grows, prays for cancer in a moment then feels bad for thinking and wishing for it, instead that woman thing inside kicks in where she loves her sleeping daughters and the next time the sun will come up and seeing him eyes closed exhaling smoke into the family room is a mixture of hate, disgust, annoyance an envy. She slides her stocking off, takes a moment to admire her own skin, her legs twice daily covered in a regenerist cream that costs over a hundred a jar but its worth it and she just leaves for the shower without saying anything and its like he was waiting for it because as she is halfway up the stairs she hears him put some of his old music on and open the fridge, not finished drinking yet.
>> How many clichés can we handle, or, more importantly, how many clichés can we actually allow ourselves to perpetuate by actually living them? I've seen even the most liberal of us fall pregnant and then say thing like 'at least when they leave the house I'll still be forty' or 'its so rewarding, I know you want kids' or 'it's not so bad, I mean, you think it is but we love it' or fill in the blanks. Clichés, right, that's what we're talking about. I'm not writing from a song book that is invented by the clouds or meditating on commonalities and trying to write in platitudes that transcend reality and make you think otherwise, these are experts from reality, and worse, a reality we at once know and have tried so hard always to avoid OR OWRWISE are not aware of and accidently fall into and THEN posthumously HATE for reasons unknown to us! Argh god I hate that last one and in as much hate anyone STUPID enough to 'accidently' fall into anything of such a grand magnitude. Imagine dealing with that life? Well I can and I have seen it and I am being somewhat tongue-in-cheek here about that but you can because those kinds of people will never read this (lets face it NEVER read anyway). Ah don't be so polite.
Of course I don't mean it, it's more an abstract representation of how YES class exists in so much as we think we are better than someone/thing else. Its an easy way to understand your place in the world, an easy way to justify ludicrous spending on oysters and shoes and such whereby you can afford it and are no beholden to an old fashioned ideal where just because you were born means you have to bear. So instead you can lie in the sunlight in $300 pants and sip a $3 coffee and just, you know, waste time alone. Yeah, make more money for no reason other than to spend and/or keep it. Do nothing but for the pleasure or for the simple reason it was intended for i.e. consume for the sake of consuming without regard (that's the key word here) for the masses or any entity, group or obligation. Ah I am breathing freely and possibly too deeply or through the nose with too much force (getting carried away with my own sense of non-achievement (comparatively!)). Okay so they start a new day….oh god lets see:
She is in the shower, able to get up so much more efficiently than him (responsibility she tells herself, lazy fuck? No! He has a good job…bills paid, house over head etc stuff that tempers the ill sentiments and allows her to wash her body every day, lingering on the weight gain on her hips and belly and hold her breasts up even though she pretends she is just washing her body) and he wakes up with a pain in the forehead, wine it is again and he has a hard cock and its both there and a reminder that he is still, well, a living breathing fucking man so he is pulling on it and playing with the end and he feels stupid but of course doesn't stop and is thinking about fucking his wife from behind but his boss pops in because he has a meeting gin like two hours and now even still playing with the blood filled end of his thing is rehearsing his lines and making sure he knows what he has to say and quote unquote bring to the table and it so abstract now because he thought too much about the meeting and still the hand working on the end and it feels good and strange and is just pleasure after all and now so far removed from actual sex its just about playing and giving the little electric feeling to himself. He hears the shower stop so he rolls on to his front to press the thing into the mattress and pulls her pillow over his head to pass out for five more minutes or more accurately wait until she comes back into the room to get dressed and ignore it for as long as it takes for her to pull on the basics of her apparel.
'Good morning' he says, in a way pretending last night didn't happen an simultaneously knowing she doesn't care anymore about what happened it's been so many times and she just says 'good morning back' like he knows she will so he feels vilified and gets up, half erect thing dangling there, too much hair on his body he thinks, moves out of the room to the shower, all covered in her moist evaporation and smelling the same as it does everyday: powder. Downstairs she is cooking toast and some scrambled eggs and coffee and juice in three glasses and the young one is sitting half naked (top) so she says go put your top on and why are you not in your uniform yet and the older one is trying to read the paper to be cool, an adult and Mother says 'can you get your brother ready?…here's your cereal' and she says 'Mom!' but it’s the same as everyday it seems and the 'Mum' ignores her and drinks her coffee and puts cold toast in her own mouth and he comes down the stairs feeling sick and still dirty even after the shower (it was too quick and the hot water turned lukewarm after two minutes) and his hair is wet so it feels like sweat. He has a coffee too but its old and just warm and the paper is half played and he read maybe one article and the kids are saying stuff which he answers and she is hunched over the cat dish pushing cold meat into the plastic receptacle with a butter knife.
>> So I'm missing something here, surely. There is a sense of love in the duty, of the building of a family, the pure essence of being a human (read: procreating. Urgh, sorry, I digress), the basis for humanity, the evolution or continuing with humanity…basically the utopian goal of contributing to 'tomorrow'. Is this everyone though, because, if not, then you are surely labouring under false pretences, I mean, we all have to get on Noah's boat or drown. Its not for the faint hearted this obligation. But I wonder if we think as such…some would rather be the bastion of hope rather than those-who-musty-be-saved...again we're talking about the desire to be the elitist few reigning over the weakened (by mind or status or facility) masses. By now you're probably hating me and feeling some kind of compassion to this beautiful little family trying to make ends meet, hell, you are probably yourself feeding a baby or cleaning up after a toddler and are acutely aware of the self sacrifice necessary for such a calling (ha, cling…sorry, well, its not religious but usual…and that’s the craziest part! It must make you feel deflated to think it usual, right? That EVERY household has the same trouble, struggle, routine. Oh). 'What I was trying to say was HOW WONDERFUL, really, I mean, this is sacrifice par excellence, yet, an expected sacrifice (which somewhat waters down the offering).
And in the end what I hope is that this is not the end or the ending or the raison d'être or purpose for all our life/living/libre -goals -dreams –ideals. Sorry for so many openings, ending and appendages, but you can see how complex simple such things can be. Okay so its logic time [ smiley face ]:
(a) There are those predisposed to procreate (caveat: want to! Regardless of motif, goal, humanity's interest or altruism)
(b) There are those who should procreate
(c) There are those who should not procreate
(d) Adoption (read: at the mercy of (a), (b) and (c))
SIMPLISTIC MATHEMATICS WHEREBY THINGS ARE WHAT THEY SEEM:
When (c) falls into (a) there is trouble and also the burgeoning of the dull masses.
Those who must be governed
When (b) can be (b), the blessed purity of life can breathe freely with love and support
Or else we are left with preachers who are insular and breed ignoramuses.
When (c) are left to run free the world balloons and it is not safe for the ageing community
And now we turn to government and, reciprocally, the public education system. Oh fuck hell no
When (a) becomes (c) through their own investigation of outcomes and personal desires for success
Perhaps the best children needn't be born or perhaps you should shut up and write a book. Do both! How dare you! Etc.
When (a) falls into (d), benefactors, benevolent souls, the future of humanity is secured!
Love is all we have, and all we want to give. We want you to have all the advantages of this world that we can give.
The purity of humanity as preached by religion is when (a) IS (b)
We have you! You were born right and were told the right (!) things. All of God's blessings to you!
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Tidbits
- Going to Jamie Oliver's Italian Restaurant in Cambridge tonight. Jamie-esque phrasing on menu: "proper" "good old" "lovely", ummm "wiggly" ? 2010-07-06
- To get more followers just put trending topics in your tweets, fucking douchebags! Okay? Social media expert par excellence! Done. FOLLOW ME 2010-06-10
- RIP Blanche Devereaux, the original GILF 2010-06-04
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