Drift

 She stretched lazily as she lay there overpopulating my bed by a factor of one, but I was not one to complain. I don't like to burden my friends with my complaints, and besides she wasn't wearing a stitch of clothes and her stretch was a thing to fascinate and admire. She knew that of course, which was probably why she 'leaned in' the stretch as much as she did. Like I said she knew what she was doing, and she knew exactly what that stretch was doing to me. It wasn't higher math, just simple visual reminder of what I had, for the moment managed to capture. It was unlikely to last, most things in my life are unlikely to last, but for the nonce I was going to enjoy it as much as a fat man enjoys his pancakes.

At the "apex" of her wonderful to behold stretch, she said "I am your lover, not your friend, you realize that don't you?" I hadn't but I figured that saying that wouldn't be in my best interest, so instead I gave what I hoped was a non committal grunt. She rolled over to her stomach, and gave me a hard glare. "Don't be thinking that some non committal grunt is going to be an acceptable answer cowboy." I tried another non verbal answer but my heart wasn't in it. At this point, I was just trying to keep this situation from going rapidly to hell, pity that I am not great at keeping things from going to hell in a hand basket at a terrifying speed. My heart began to race, and my mind started to reel like a drunken sailor awakened from a fever dream, and trying to get used to being stuck on dry land. For a sailor, dry land sucks a whole lot of ass, and I had the feeling I was about to know the feeling. 

The impression that I was getting, and that was soon to be proven correct was that she was about to tell me some 'hard' truths that I wasn't going to be happy to hear. Since I was also wearing nothing but a lingering smile left over from our latest bout of playing 'hide the sausage' I wasn't exactly in a position to do anything but listen. I sighed trying to limit the damage as much as possible (a futile but faint hope). "I am guessing there is a speech behind this pithy little comment?" She nodded slightly. "Of course there is sunshine. I don't make pithy comments for the sake of making them. You, of all people, should know this by now." I had the feeling that my sunshine was about to be taken away, but buck naked in your own bed wasn't the time to attempt to flee the jurisdiction. 

"The point of that comment was to let you know that I am not obligated to like you. I fuck you, and I rather enjoy it, but I do not, and can not like you." All I could think to say was the brilliant response of "huh?" At least my mouth wasn't agape like some country bumpkin seeing the big city for the first time, but I doubt my expression was far off of it. She sighed like she was attempting to explain simple math to a dullard (which in some ways she was) and said "lover, you are poison. Pretty poison, tasty poison, but poison nonetheless." My stomach, or was it my heart lurched a bit at that. I felt like I was about to take a fall from some very high terrain, and I wasn't wearing a helmet or a parachute. I suspected that I would not be 'sticking the landing' as the saying goes. 

I felt like the only person wearing clothes at a nudist colony, awkward and wishing I was anywhere but here. But, here was my own bed, and I was, in fact, naked as a jaybird so perhaps that analogy didn't quite work. All I could think to do was brazen it out, and hope for the best. I doubted it would work, but the gods smile on fools and children. However, today the gods seemed to have other plans that did not involve smiling in my general direction. Pity that. She continued "you are not exactly a monster, but you give them a run for their money. You are very, very hard to like. Fun to fuck, but damn near impossible to like. It is very hard to understand, and if I were to try to explain this to me mother, she would think I was a mad as a March hare." 

I nodded, what else was I supposed to do? Add some brilliant comment that I didn't have to hand? Try to distract her with another roll in the hay? The refraction period hadn't quite passed, and the "better part" of me wasn't quite ready for round 2 (or was it 3). Therefore, it would seem I was pretty much trapped in place, and would not be able to fuck my way out of this. She gave me a very intense look, and said "look pretty boy. You need to hear this, It will, eventually, help you quite a bit. It won't be a lot of fun to hear but you need to hear it anyway." I sighed, "maybe I do, but godsdam I need a drink first, is it alright if I toddle off to the kitchen and grab a bit of john barleycorn?" She smiled "sure lover, bring us back both a glass, maybe I'll need to whet my whistle whilst telling you this tale."

I briefly considered running away and joining the French Foreign Legion, but I suspected that really wouldn't help matters a whole lot. She seemed to type to figure it out, and send me a letter to whatever dusty outpost on the frontier of nowhere for me to read over and over again. I really didn't think legging it would help, so I grabbed a couple of glasses, a bottle of my best whiskey, and a couple of glasses and headed back to hear why I wasn't worth being her friend. 

I handed her a glass with a generous portion of the nectar of the gods in it, and hoped for the best. More the fool to me, "you know I am not a whiskey drinker pretty boy, but I will indulge you this once. Also, I am not going to let drunk, charming you take over this little chat. I clinked glasses with her, "perish the thought my dear, why would drunk me be any better at this that sober me? It's going to be slightly awkward and probably a bit weird, and I doubt being drunk would fix that."

She took her glass, and drank a solid measure of the whiskey I had poured her, and said "you stupid son of a bitch, if you had been anything close to human we wouldn't be having this conversation. If you were willing to admit you have something resembling feelings and could express those feelings, we wouldn't be here. Well we would still be here (she waved a hand to encompass our current physical whereabouts) but we would be having a much different talk. You are a fucking robot." How does one reply to being called a robot? Hallmark does not make a card for this situation. Was I supposed to tell that I was a lost cause (similar to the Confederacy), and tell her not to waste her time on me? Our time together, as you could tell, had its advantages in the physical sense Was I supposed to tell her about being broken inside? Explain to her that her predecessor in interest had taken the feelings she wanted me to have and broken them in half?

Try that sometime, try telling the (current) woman in your life that she's better off without you. You are unselling yourself. You're trying to convince someone to tell you to fuck off. While it is probably in her best interest, it is not something you like to hear on a regular basis. If you are afraid of being alone, it is not the best idea. You are probably talking to someone who has already made up their mind about what you and her are going to be, and trying to change a woman's mind is about as difficult as breaking into Fort Knox. 

I shrugged and said "I have not been perfect for you, and I guess we will probably just drift apart, but ponder this as you are sweeping me out of your life like a dust bunny. While I haven't been the man you want, I have been the man you need. And while we can't go back and restart this we can at least come to some understanding going forward. We aren't in this for fame are we?" The look in her eyes was priceless in many ways, and in many ways a sign of impending doom. She shook her lovely head, and said "GI, you are a damn fool, I am not looking into those pretty blue eyes of yours and finding the love of my life. As much as I wish that was possible, you just aren't capable of it."

I had to admit she was right, me being the love of anyone's life was laughable. If I was the love of your life, then you had wasted your life. So I lied both on the bed, and to her, and I told her that I was fine with her being my lover, but not my friend. It was, in many ways, one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. After all, it seems that my 'talent' or 'gift' was to get princesses to call me a knight, but never call me a friend. And sometimes all a man really, really needs is a friend.  

 

 

 

 

Mal

 I like to play darts. I am bad at darts. I lose a lot more dart games than I win. However, that does not stop me from playing darts. When I lose at darts, which is most of the time that is all that happens. I lost at darts. No one really cares. The fellow I am playing cares just a bit, because I now owe him a pint, but no one else cares. There is no master of darts standing behind me gnashing his teeth over my 100th failure to hit the triple 20. No one is there to bemoan the fact that my darts are blue not red. We all know that red darts are better than blue darts. It is common knowledge. Common enough to make it hardly worth knowing at all. I just don't like the colour red. 

I like to play cards. I am not very good, or lucky at cards. I lose a lot more card games than I win. This doesn't lower my value as a human being. It lowers my bank account, but that is my fault for risking my money on a loser. Rarely does the person taking my money deign to offer sage advice on how I could have done better. Generally, they don't want me to do better. It is a simple relationship. They see that I am bad, and they keep their whore mouths shut about it because it enriches them. Simple enough, and I appreciated them for their silence. 

I like to read. I read a lot. I read a lot of obscure stuff that sometimes tilts over into the realm of boredom. Some of what I read is complicated stuff, and since I am stupid, most of it sails gently over my head. After all, if I split infinitives, I am surely too stupid to understand Peter Heather trying to explain the causes of the fall of the Roman Empire. It is a pity. Peter Heather is a very clever lad, and his book, if I was smart enough to understand the big words, would probably be very enjoyable. However, since I am burdened with an overlarge case of the stupids, most of it remains a mystery to me. Pity that, but at least I knew that when I bought the book. Luckily for Peter Heather, the sale makes him money, not me understanding it. If I understood it made him the money, then Peter Heather would be bankrupt.

I like to eat pizza. Pizza makes me, at least momentarily, happy. It does not bring me the type of joy that winning the Super Bowl would, but I am unlikely to ever play in or win the Super Bowl. Pizza is available to me at my local market daily. Sadly, pizza also makes me fat(ter). Most things that bring me joy make me fat. I guess that is also somehow my fault, but it is just the way of the world. I've the fat gene, and I am lazy. Therefore, looking at pizza makes me gain weight, eating it makes things worse, at least regarding the scale.  

I used to like to write. Focus in that simple grammatically correct sentence is on the words “used to.” I have lost my joy in writing. Not because I am bad at it, of course I am, I am bad at most things I do. After all, I still play cards, darts, and still eat pizza. Being bad at something never stopped me from at least giving it a go. Then again, no one stands over me reminding me how bad I am at those things constantly. I am not sure if you can be bad at eating pizza, but if you can I am sure I will manage it. However, Bobby Flay isn’t there to tell me that the cheese is not melted enough to bring out all its majestic flavour. It’s fucking cheese, it is generally not majestic.

Neither is my writing. However, luckily for me I have legions of people who are more than willing, and quite happy to tell me how poor it is. Legions of card-carrying grammar Nazis who clutch their pearls every time I fail to put a fucking comma in the right spot. Trust me, I have new, inventive places to put that comma that offends your tender soul, but you might not enjoy it as much as you’d think. Subject/verb agreement doesn’t make me as hot as a June bride riding bareback, and for that I make no apology. If the “U” I put in the word colour offends you, well fuck you, and the pink and purple jackass you rode in on. I am sure that 50 Shades of Grey is a master class of proper grammar and letter-perfect spelling. I encourage you to read it. There are other things I would encourage you to try, but you’d probably get upset that I misspelt the word defenestration, (which, for the record, I didn’t).

All this is to say that perhaps the slings and arrows have stuck. Perhaps Felix’s story will have to remain untold because I can’t properly use a semi colon and have no desire to learn. I suppose you could say that maybe someone with actual talent will come along and save poor Felix from the dustbin of literary history, but they won’t. Not because the talented fellow isn’t out there, he is no doubt of it.  But simply because Felix’s story is mine to tell, and since I am so very bad at the spelling as opposed to the telling, then Felix and his fate will remain unknown to everyone but me. Which might just be best for us all. I don’t have to think too hard about it, and the pearls can be freed from the clutching hands holding them. All in all, I suppose it’s a win/win, but it sure doesn’t feel like it at the moment.

I tried to make this post simple. I tried to use short, simple sentences that didn’t contain too many words. I failed, but then again what did you Nazis expect? You win, and I hope you enjoy 50 Shades. For the nonce at least. I will leave you with another simple, short, and grammatically correct sentence. Fuck you. (see how easy it is, hard to fuck up a two word sentence).

 

 

The Wolf and the Coyote

 Despite what they tell you in the movies, the barrel of a gun isn't exactly cold when it is pressed to the back of your neck. I became aware of this when said barrel of said gun was pressed with just enough pressure to get my full attention into the back of MY neck. I was a bit surprised to say the least, but being semi-used to having guns pointed in my general directions (thanks Felix's goons), I knew enough to raise my arms and turn around when I was told. Which I was quickly told to "turn around real slow like, and don't do anything stupid. Or should I say don't do anything ELSE stupid." I did as I was told, and turned around real slow like, I knew that it was going to take a delicate touch to keep myself from being made unalive. "Before you have me make peace with my gods, perhaps we should have a bit of a chat?" When I had made my full turn, I was facing the barrel of a gun about 9 inches from my nose. "I thought the barrel was supposed to be cold?" The sun browned fellow behind the gun barked out a laugh, "that's only in the movies hombre. Here we keep our guns close and body heat does the rest." I nodded, "well if I survive this chat, I will be sure to tell all my people about the difference."

"Currently that is a big "IF" my man. I know what brings you here." He pointed to the rock formation off to our left, but I can't understand why you decided that this holy ground was a good place to do that" he pointed to the stain in the dust that I had created. "Well, I guess I was over hydrated with all the water I have been consuming for the last two days to keep the stomach flu I have from killing me any quicker." He snorted what I hoped was a laugh. At least that's a unique excuse for defiling sacred ground" and here he pulled back the hammer on the revolver pointed at my face, "I am not sure the Wolf would appreciate your 'offering'. 

I sighed I didn't exactly disagree with him, but I figured if I told him that I was about to be his 'offering' to the Wolf, or maybe the trickster Coyote, either way I wasn't quite ready to meet either one of them. "In spite of what you probably think, and how it looks, I did not do this with any disrespect. In fact, I talked quite a bit about it to the gods around here who would listen, hoping they would understand, that I was in distress, and didn't have any other real option. I also figured that these gods, your gods, created all of this (here I indicated the wide open plains around us) and maybe even all of us. With that in mind, I figured they understood that sometimes their creations would have bodily functions that sometimes were very difficult to control. I even asked for pre-forgiveness. I didn't get a obvious answer, but I figured that maybe the Wolf and the Coyote weren't exactly going to speak to a non-member such as myself."

He tilted his head at my little speech, and said "you can lower your arms, but don't try anything else stupid. You, like most of your tribe, have a lot of words to explain your sins, some of them are even pretty words, but they are nonetheless, just words." I nodded, "I understand that, and I don't disagree, but words are my coin, I get paid to say pretty words, and I guess maybe it has rubbed off in my non-professional life as well. I mean, after all, pretty words are how the not gorgeous of us convince women folk to sleep with us." He laughed again, which I took as a good sign, after all only a true killer would shoot you as dead as dead can be while laughing at your jokes, and I figured/hoped that I was not looking at a true killer.

"Keep talking then, after all it is just you and me out here, and I am trying to remember if I have a shovel in my truck or not."  I winced, that was not exactly good news, and I wasn't sure if he was making a joke, or really thinking of digging a me sized hole for me to occupy for the rest of time. "Well, these are your spirits not mine, so I figure that maybe you would be able to determine how they feel about this "crime"of mine, and make no mistake I understand that it can be very much considered crime." He nodded, "well at least you understand that, unlike most of your people who just trample over this land like it's theirs to do what they please since they had more guns than us." He waved HIS gun at me, "which isn't exactly the case at the moment now is it?" 

I nodded my agreement, "yes it appears that is true, I would have never brought a gun here, no matter what type of pagan/heathen/savage you think I am, and probably am, I don't go heeled on holy ground. I told you it was not my plan to disrespect this place, and I have no real gods of my own, but I understand peoples who do. I guess I've just never found a god or gods whose terms I am willing to accept." He lowered the gun, which I took as a good sign, but I wasn't for sure if maybe his arm was just tired.  "Tell me paleface, how you know about the Wolf and the Coyote, and I might not leave you here for the buzzards, because as I ponder it I don't have a shovel, and am too tired to dig a you sized hole anyway. That's not to say that dying isn't still in air, just that I will have to consider it a few more minutes, which you should use wisely."

"I learned about them, and Appi the creator before I stepped foot out here, I told you I've not come to terms with any god so far, and I figured I might have a negotiation with your lot to see if maybe their terms were acceptable to me. I am not sure if they are taking applications from heathens like me, but it never hurts to at least ask. I've gotten a whole lot of silence from a whole lot of other gods, so I wasn't expecting much, but hope springs eternal as the saying goes. If it helps, I did try to avoid that" I pointed to the dark spot on the ground I had created, "but whatever god created me in his/her/their image gave me a waste disposal system that sometimes has a 'mind' of its own. I am sure you've had similar issues at some point in your life. Being of a similar age, at least by the looks of you, I am sure you understand how much aging sucks." 

He gave me a curious look, "tell me white man, if I had created a similar puddle at your Holy See, would your kind give me the grace you ask of me?" I replied "well, two things make that different that what we have here. First, I don't have any holy ground, but I take your point. Secondly, most of that holy ground you attribute to my 'people' are in areas a lot less isolated than this. Which is to say a place to handle our 'business' is more likely to be closer to hand. Not that it relives me of my "crime" here today. Just a couple of observations."

He smiled, and holstered his gun. "You do have a way with words paleface, and it looks like today is not your day to die after all. Go on your merry little way, and thank the Wolf for their grace when you get the chance." I nodded my thanks and began the long walk back to where I had came from. "Oh, by the way white man, the Coyote has spoken to me, and says that you won't pay the ultimate price, but your 'crime' will not go completely unpunished." I arched an eyebrow, "what does that mean exactly?" He shrugged "the Coyote isn't the type to be precise, but I expect when it happens you will know." He trudged off towards whatever business he had, and left me standing there with just a bit of disquiet as to what the hell this Coyote character had in mind for me. I shrugged it off, thinking I've not accepted the Coyote's terms either so, I don't really have any truck with this "punishment" they have in mind for me. More the fool to me, because here I am three days later, still puking my guts out into a hotel toilet, and praying to all the gods for a death that seems overlong in coming, and thinking maybe the Coyote has made his point despite my disbelief.  

Laconic

He looked me in the eyes and said "don't fill the hours of your life with empty words." I wasn't exactly sure what he meant by that, and since he eventually came to what we would call a 'sticky' end, I wasn't sure how much of his words were to be trusted. And by sticky end, I mean someone stabbed him to death. I don't think it was the end that he had envisioned for himself, but then again who predicts the exact way they will die? It wasn't fair how he died, after all he wasn't some raging lunatic on the street corner proclaiming his love of Jesus, and telling the rest of us that we were destined to burn in hell. No, he was just there. He wasn't trying to save the world, in fact, I am pretty sure he hated most of the world and in particular the people in it. 

He wasn't the sunshine that makes all your problems go away, nor was he the dark cloud that followed the unlucky among us around. He was just who he was, not someone you'd trust with your sister, but someone you could count on to be there. And being there was just something he did. There is a lot to be said for just being there. There, wherever it might be, is just there, it can be Ten Sleep, Wyoming, or New York City, it didn't matter to him. If you needed him there, well there he was. He could be counted on to be there for you, he was just at hand. The breakdown you were in the middle of having? He would be there to sort you out, and make sure no one died. Or at least if they did, he kept the news from you until you were able to process it without being put in a mental institution.

The blade that killed him was just that a blade. It had no particular grudge against him, it was made in Sheffield by some craftsman who had no idea that he was fashioning a murder weapon. Knives have many uses, killing people is just one of those uses. It went between his ribs as smooth as goose shit on glass, and I am not really sure how much pain he actually felt. It wasn't the quickest of deaths, it took him a while to leak all his lifeblood out onto the pavement he landed on, but it wasn't as gruesome as it could have been if the knife wielder had put some thought into it.  

They (whoever they are) say that the last argument of kings are cannons. His last argument, one that he lost, was with a blade. It was odd in a way, because he wasn't the arguing type. His advice about not filling the hours with empty words wasn't just advice, it was the way he lived his life, and eventually died his death. He was unapproachable, or so people said. If you were to ask him, he would just say he was just sitting there minding his own business. Which, if you've ever spent a lot of time minding your own business, you will find that a lot of trouble comes you way in that minding.

The sun browned girl that walked into the bar didn't attract nearly as much as attention as she thought was her due, but I suppose that ended up working in her favor. She just walked in, and put a knife between is ribs, and walked out like it was just another a Tuesday. We weren't paying that much attention to him and her, because women had a way of finding him. It was a mystery to us as to how he managed to "pull" so many very, very pretty women. He wasn't exactly ugly, but he was no Brad Pitt, nor did we think he was a Shakespeare, since he was man of very, very few words. 

She just walked up to him, appeared to whisper something in his ear, and put a knife between his ribs. Those of us at the bar were more impressed at her hotness than anything else. We were very confused what she was doing talking to him, and by the time we had sorted it out, he was bleeding out on the floor. I was the closest to him, and after the shock of what I was seeing wore off, I rushed to try to help. I tried to staunch the blood pouring out of him, and convince him that "help was on the way, and that he would be fine" Even as I was telling him these lies, he didn't say much, he just looked up at me spat out a bit of blood, and said very calmly, "remember lad be laconic." Then the light went out of his eyes and he was as dead as dead can be.   

I wish there was a happy ending to this, some way of making his death mean something, but it didn't. It was just his death. Maybe it was senseless or maybe she had a very, very good reason for making him unalive like she did, we never knew, because they never caught her. She was a ghost, a spirit in the material world, but a spirit that knew how to use a blade to deadly effect. I suppose none of this mattered to him, he wasn't able or didn't want to spend his last moments on this mortal coil explaining the whys of his murder, all the knowledge he was willing to impart was "be laconic." I hope to follow his advice.  

 

Years

 All these years, where have I been? I am here, I am looking around for an answer to a question that I am afraid to ask. She said you are not the man you used to be, and I said neither is this guy. As I stood there next to the light switch that had shown the bright light on the betrayal I knew was happening, but was too confused to accept, I had no real words to say. No great wisdom to impart to the woman that had made my son. She just laid there with no real excuse, and did what most people in her situation would do, she blamed me. Not the worse idea in the world, I wasn't blameless. Few of us are. I had, in retrospect, perhaps taken her loyalty for granted. That was my mistake. One that I should have known better than to make, but here I was making the fuck out of it. I always say that if you are going to make a mistake, make it a big one, and here I was refusing to learn from another mistake.

I wish that I was strong enough to just walk away, but I am not the swiftest horse in any stable. I just stood there like the ever increasing moron that I was becoming, and tried to make sense of it all. I could only think of the time that I had lost with her, time that I would never find again. Time being one of the more precious things that we humans have was something not to pissed away like this, but here I was looking at her, and realizing that years of my life were circling the drain. A drain that I didn't have a lot more of years to tip into to. I wanted something beautiful to say, I wanted something to make the light behind her dead eyes relight, but I knew it was pointless. 

It was like swimming in fables, Aesop didn't have a story for this. Her words were weapons, violent ones. Ones that made me want to just be left to the wolves. Let them circle me like the dying buffalo I was, at least to them, let them feed. I just wanted something to say that wouldn't fade away. Something that was beautiful enough to break its way through the walls of her betrayal. But I wasn't then, or probably ever that clever. Cleverness doesn't run in my family, and I doubt that even if I had been clever enough to say something pithy to her it would have made much difference. 

I began to calculate steps away from her. After all, where the fuck else did I have to go? It wasn't like I had some sort of fall back plan. We had, in a moment of madness (at least for me) made a whole lot of promises that I thought were in need of keeping. Away was the only place I had to go, away is not a happy place. Away isn't the south of France on a yacht with Nichole Kidman on my arm or in my bed. No, away was to a dark, dark place where most people don't want to be. She looked up at me with the brown eyes that I had been foolish enough to fall into, and said "I can't explain this, I was so in love in you, and then I wasn't. It was just like falling off a cliff."

I just looked at her, and said "a tout a l'heure." To her credit, and I am not in the business of giving her credit, that was when she knew that we had become enemies. Shockingly enough, I have very few enemies. But those that have made themselves into enemies know it. I do not fuck around. I follow the Roman theory, I create a wasteland, and call it peace. It is something we can count on to the end. There are no embraces after we have become enemies. Why would there be? We didn't just drift apart. We were ripped apart. 

To be fair to her, which is better than she deserves, I wasn't prefect for her, I am not some sort of saint that was hanging on the cross and being told to "come down we need the wood." I  had put my arms around the waist of another woman. However, that was just a moment of temporary weakness, or at least to me. For all my stupidity, I wasn't going to piss away her. She was, in theory, all of that and a box of chocolates too, But here I was looking at an angel from nightmare. Her laying there, unrepentant, blaming me for her betrayal. All I could hear was her voice of treason telling me the lies she wanted me to believe.

They (whoever the fuck "they" are) that only your friends can betray you. The theory is that if you didn't trust them to begin with, how could they betray you. I've spent way too many hours of a otherwise useless life trying to sort out this betrayal. I am, despite what most people think, given a whole lot of thought to this, and I am not as stupid as one would think. I have pondered it upon many a rock, and despite trying to shake it off, and pretend it is all OK, I have come to the somewhat sad conclusion that somehow it is all my fault. I wish, for my own sake, and the sake of ending this post on some "happy/clever" note that this wasn't true, but here I am accepting responsibility for being the type of fool that would make Prospero proud. 
 

Surviour

 Ernst Hemingway once said that "critics are men that watch a battle from a high place then come down and shoot the survivors." True words spoken by a fellow who probably knew a lot about critics. No one likes to be wrong, no one likes to be criticized. No one wants to be told that their grammar is shit, and that they couldn't spell CAT if someone spotted them the C and the T. But critics exist, they look at our production with a look of distaste that reminds us of a man who has smelt a large pile of dog shit on his Sunday walk to church. I suppose they serve some purpose, they keep us honest. They make us think over hard about the things we put on "paper" They make us look inside ourselves for the bon mot that makes them have to ponder what those words actually means.

There is the fun part of it, trying to out critic the critic. Make them ponder words they have to look up to see the meaning, make them ponder if the word coulour should have that "U" in it or not. Make them think, because when a critic thinks, he or she weakens the nation. They aren't creators, they are destroyers. They look at a misplaced comma or a lack of subject/verb agreement as an offense against God. They look at a split infinitive as a sign of retardation. Forgetting the Raymond Chandler quote that "when I split an infinitive, God damn it, I split it so that it will stay split." And that is coming from Raymond Chandler a fellow who wrote a lot of very, very good books. Hell, even Star Trek tell us that "to boldly go where no man has gone before." Well, newsflash Rodenberry that is a split infinitive. 

Do we care? Maybe the more pedantic of us do. The ones who come down and shoot the survivors. The ones that are too afraid of the 'battle' of writing to give it a try, and prefer to pick apart the works of others. The ones that tell us that it is to go boldly, not to to boldly go. Those cunts, the ones that would probably take candy away from a baby on some sort of general principle. They don't build, they burn. They take apart the works of others because they have nothing else to do. They don't create, they can't create. If they did create they would have to be letter perfect or risk the charge of hypocrisy. 

They look upon the works of Joseph Roth like genius, and try to find a misplaced comma. They aren't reading for content they are reading to try to find mistakes. Mistakes happen, or else the critic wouldn't have ever been born. A fact they happily gloss over in their thinking. They are prefect, never a hair out of place, and stockings always straight. It must be a very, very dull existence to always be just so perfect. I'd wager that the critic has never had an original thought in their miserable life. They can't venture out on the limb of creativity, because out there lies split infinitives. Out here on the perimeter there are no stars. Out here we are stoned immaculate. We don't concern ourselves with subject/verb agreement. We don't know, nor do we give a good gods damn about where to place a semi colon. 

Semi colons, and colons can go merrily fuck themselves as far as we are concerned. We are not here to march to the beat of the grammar Nazi's drum. They can bend over, turn around, and go fuck themselves.  We are here to tell a tale, some of those tales are sad, some of them are scary, and some of them educate us in spite of ourselves. They tell themselves that if every little rule of grammar isn't followed, then there is no point in reading the text. They are small people, people who imagination has left far, far behind. 

Of course, the argument exists that we are just not educated enough to know or follow the rules of grammar, and perhaps there is something to be said for that. We just didn't pay enough attention when we were being taught to diagram a sentence. That we are too retarded to understand the simple rules of grammar. Perhaps we will never be able to square that circle. We write for content, we don't give two donkey fucks about grammar. Maybe that makes us look under educated. But, at the end of the day, we are worried about making you cry, or making you feel, not making you check off a box about split infinitives. 

 

 

My Betrayal

 For reasons I could not understand, my latest playmate forced me to walk to her. Maybe it was another act of cruelty in our dirty, little civil war, or maybe she was just curious if I could walk the 15 feet to her table or not, it didn't matter to me overmuch at the moment. I staggered over to the booth she primly occupied and slid into the seat across from her. "Sit down, before you fall down you damn fool" she said with the anger that I had come to expect from her. I did as I was told, she was one of the few people in my life that I generally 'obeyed' though I am not sure she knew it or not. I knew that this was going to be a difficult conversation, and I wasn't sure that I was drunk enough for it, but drunk or not here I was. 

"You know why we are here, don't you?" I looked at her blearily, "I have a general idea, we are here to discuss my sins, my betrayal." She nodded, "at least you are drunk enough to admit that. It took you long enough to accept it." I sighed, "I am not sure if my acceptance is the same as your acceptance, but I agree that you think I betrayed you. I have admitted this to you many times before, so why are we here?" She gave me a very,very dirty look (she was very good at giving dirty looks), and said "because you retarded bastard, I am tired of this dance. I am here to get answers."

I shrugged, "I think I have tried to give you answers before, and you didn't accept them. Why do you think that I have new and improved answers now?' She smiled "I know you, you son of a bitch. Probably better than I would like to admit, and I know you have been pondering this issue between us for a considerable amount of time. I am here to listen to what idiot excuse you've come up with this time." I tried to think of a witty reply, but I had nothing, "yes, you bitch, I have been pondering it for a long time. I have tried to convince myself that I was in the right, that you deserved my 'betrayal' as you call it. I tried to figure out why I did what I did, and what would have been different between us if I had not made that choice." 

She took a drink, glared at me, and said "I know what you said you the reason was, I know you weren't in the greatest of "head spaces" at the time, well I know that now. I did not know that then. Do you realize that I trusted you? Do you have any fucking idea how hard that was for me to do? Do you have any concept of that?" She  held up a hand, "don't answer that you fucking moron, because there is nothing you can say that will help." I was way too drunk to handle this, but I guess I had no real choice, so I was going to give it my best. "You said repeatedly said  about me that I didn't trust anybody, so why the fuck would I have believed you trusted me?"

She sighed, "because you stupid bastard, we spent an awful long time telling each other things about ourselves that other people didn't know." I shook my head, "I do not accept the fact that we were that close, you fucking hate me now, I think that if I were to turn around, you would put a blade in my back." She laughed softly, "you don't get it do you? You might be the cleverest bastard I know, but somehow still just stone, cold stupid at the same time. It's a real gift." I tried to digest that, "fine, genius tell me what I am missing then."  

She slowly stood up, and placed her money on the table. "If and it is a big if, I ever felt the need to tell you what is obvious to the entire world, except for you, this is not the time nor the place to do it. I want you a lot more sober than you are at the moment to explain this to you, even though I still doubt it will sink into your thick skull." I looked up at her, and it hit me like a surprise left that she was beautiful.  However before I could articulate what was slowly sinking into the aforementioned thick skull, she swanned out of the bar leaving me alone with my thoughts, which is to say she left me alone.