Death of a Romantic

You are a killer, a murderess, a cold blooded taker of life. The fact that the life you took is mostly a fictional construct doesn't alleviate your crime. Your murder of the Romantic (in me to be clear), was a premeditated act of cruelty that Genghis Khan would be proud of, and he was a monster. Granted you're a monster too, just not quite on the scale of Genghis, but to the guy you killed, the Romantic, that just doesn't matter. Dead is dead, no matter if you are murdered along with 5 thousand fellow citizens who skulls (along with yours) are going to make a lovely pyramid as a warning to others, or if you are killed in single combat in the Roman Coliseum. The Romantic, the guy you killed, is dead as dead can be, and he is no Jesus Christ there will be no resurrection. Perhaps he will be buried in the graveyard of relationships that the guy still alive (the Rationalist) carries around in his head, or maybe he will just lie where you left him to rot or be eaten away by the carrion circling over head. I've never heard a corpse ask how he got so cold, nor heard one complain about the accommodations of their final resting place.

Your murder plot (for I can only see it as such now) started over three years ago, you were bored (or so you said at one point), and you swanned into the Romantics life at a time in which is was undergoing another crisis of faith brought on by your predecessor. At the time, it was a crisis that he thought was going to also be fatal to him, he was not in a happy place, and things were looking bleak. Then he found you, or you found him, or you found each other. Either way, he did owe you a lot, you did him the favour of prolonging his life by three years. Though I doubt he would, if he were able, thank you now. Since he is as dead as dead can be, it has devolved upon me to pick up and move forward, to shift through the detritus of the time you spent killing him, and try to puzzle out why the fuck you did it. The good news, if there is to be any good news, is that he kept very, very detailed records.  At least that is good news for me, for you, his killer, that might cause you a moment or two of panic. After all, you know the details of your killing of him, in fact since he is dead as dead can be, you are the only one who does. However, those records are like his mind jumbled, and it going to take the patience of Job to sort them out, luckily I posses just such patience. He didn't write everything that he should have down, and I am not a mind reader (especially of the Romantic), and while I have a pretty solid case, I don't know if all of it can be proven "beyond a reasonable doubt."

However, luckily for me, and I guess for him (maybe not so much for you) it doesn't have to be. This isn't a courtroom, there isn't some fellow in a black dress and a white wig sitting on the bench waiting to pass judgment on you for your crime. There aren't 12 bored citizens sitting in the uncomfortable chairs, doodling in their notebooks, and paying as little attention as possible to the litany of your (and his) sins. Let us not fool each other, you and I, his sins were just as great as yours. There are no innocents here, there were never going to be innocents here (well maybe one, but that's another story).  His problem, which since he is as dead as dead can be, has now devolved into my problem is that he didn't listen to me. He never really did, he ignored me many, many times each one to his cost. Somehow he survived ignoring me all those times, until you came along, and killed him dead. I guess congratulations are in order, several people tried (some of them more than once), and you were not exactly the one I would have pegged to  be doing the deed, but maybe that's why you succeeded. You weren't as high on the danger list as I should have put you, and so maybe I am partly culpable in his death as well. I let him, in regards to you, convince me you were different, you were the one that was going to wash away the pain of the multiple mistakes of his (our) past. You fooled him completely and that allowed him to lull me into a false sense of security, and for that failure I will be just as condemned as you are. So, let us not fool each other, You and I, let us stand in the dock together, and answer the charges against us. Let us plead guilty to the crime of the killing of the Romantic because, quite simply, we are.

My crime is one of inaction, an inability to notice the signs that were directly placed in front of me by you (and your other partner in crime, but again that is a different blog post) those signs were as simple to read as a child's book. And they were (are) obvious, you should know this for your own sake. Consider it a favour, me telling you that bit. Because if I can see them, with the limited access I have had, then others with far more access can see them too, and remark upon them. It doesn't take Philip Marlowe like detecting skills to see them, consider that while you are sitting there in your smug little world of thinking no one would ever suspect you of doing anything untoward. Lily white reputations are hard to maintain in this dirty, dirty world, and no one's is as white as they like to think, yours included.  I think I have all the proof I need to lay this crime on your doorstep, I know I can prove my culpability, there are no real witnesses to the actual event, no video recordings or anything so concrete as to be considered the "smoking gun." There is just enough here for me to be convinced, and really I'm the only one who needs convincing. This is not a threat, I don't care to threaten, that isn't my job. My job is to take as much responsibility as I have for his death, try to sort through the various details of his death, and to point out to you that you are, in fact, a killer.

Your crime is one of action(s), you reeled him in by listening to his Baudelaire, his Arnold, and his Rimbaud, and "oohing" and "ahhing" over how clever it made him sound, and pretending it was having the effect on you that he wanted it to have. Maybe you were honest (at least in the beginning) I do not know, and now do not care. He clearly thought you were, which is why he silenced me completely. Maybe I fell for it too, maybe I wanted to believe the him believing you, and that I would be a lot less necessary to him for the remainder of his days. I didn't  realize that his days were numbered as low as I thought. I figured he had a long, happy life in front of him, and so did he for that matter. He convinced me just as fully as he convinced himself, and thought he had convinced you. That is the tragedy of this event (if there has to be one), he convinced both the one person who could have saved him, and the one person that killed him of the same thing. That it was real, and it would last. That is why I am in the dock next to you. I am nearly as guilty of murder as you are.

You are no Lady MacBeth, there is no actual blood on your hands, you didn't kill him quick, but you did kill him clean. There is no blood smeared crime scene for people to come and gawk over, or pictures to be taken of, and placed on some detective's bulletin board. You strangled him, not literally of course, or I wouldn't be here to write down this little love story, but strangle him you did. You took away his supply of oxygen to his (overactive) brain and he died. There is a school of thought that would say that all of us die from a lack of oxygen to the brain, no matter if we are stabbed, shot, or beaten to death by clowns, a lack of oxygen to the brain is what kills us all. You, on the other hand, made sure of it by strangling him just as if you had wrapped your pretty little hands around his throat, compressed the carotid artery or the jugular vein and squeezed the life right out of him. It was (is) a particularly cruel way to kill a man. It certainly is an up close and very personal way to do it, but that is what makes it so cruel. Just shoot the next one in the heart and let him die quickly.This one, your killing of the Romantic, was not quick. You squeezed, and then you would seem to let up, saying something, doing something, that would give him just enough air (or hope, same thing I suppose) that he would think he would survive, but then you'd apply the pressure again, and eventually it became more than he could bear. Trust me, shooting the next one will be a mercy killing, because make no mistake there will be a next one. You are a killer and that is just what killers do, they kill.

I am even convinced that in those details records of his, when I am able to sort through them without soul crushing guilt, is the identity of your next victim. I think the Romantic knew it, and I even (fancifully perhaps) think it is what eventually struck the "death blow." I can't be for certain, and the records are a bit unclear, but they are lengthy, and I figure a clever man such as myself, especially since I no longer have to worry about the Romantic trying to convince me other wise, will be able to suss out your next victim. Because make no mistake sweetheart, that's what you create, victims. I am unable to decide, at the moment, if I will warn your next one or not. I suppose that if I figure out who it is in time, I might be obligated to, but then again I might not. I suppose that just depends, and on what it depends even I am not sure. And if I (the Rationalist) am not sure then, brother we are fucked, but you know that all ready, because after all you're a killer, and you have to be one step ahead of muppets like me don't you? I wish you luck. 

Unraveling

Watching someone you care about unravel is a deeply disturbing event, and the realization that no matter how hard you try, you can't stop it is even worse. All you can do is helplessly watch as the person starts to come apart in front of you. It is not for the tenderhearted, and I, for all the tough exterior I present to the world, have a very tender heart. Don't tell anyone because I don't want my carefully crafted reputation of being a bitch/bastard to be called into question, but even if you did tell the world, most of them wouldn't believe you anyway.  This is an attempt to describe the unraveling of a close friend of mine, it is also an attempt to arrest the progress of that unraveling, and it might (just might) be an attempt to serve as a way of getting other people involved in the attempt to prevent his unraveling. Finally, it will try to serve as  "for the education of others" post, a post that says if you know someone in your life that is coming apart. Try to help if you can, and if you can't, get an adult who can, don't just watch the unraveling happen with a mixture of fascination, pity, and horror.

Of course that is all easy to say, but it is a real Herculean task to do. The person who is unraveling, even if they admit it, and few of them will admit it because admission equals weakness and no one likes to show weakness we are all John Wayne or Clint Eastwood and they weren't weak. They will probably tell you to "go fuck yourself." They may tell you that multiple times, or they may just shrug and tell you they "are fine." Fine is a very dangerous word in our language, it rarely means fine. It generally means (especially in this context) "not really okay, but too stubborn to give in and admit to either myself or other people that I’ve a problem I can’t fix.”You can hope that they have a wider support group than just you that allows them multiple chances to get whatever is unraveling them sorted. If you know the others in that group, it is best you band together and bum rush the bastard, sit him down, and work it out as a "team". If you are like me, and don't know if there exists a real group of people he trusts to do that, then you might just have to try to tackle the job solo. If you are really stuck, like me, and you know that he doesn't tell any one person the whole truth, or the full story of what is going on in that awful mind of his, well then you are stuck doing the best you can. It will be similar to plugging a leak in the hull of a desperately sinking ship. You know they are multiple leaks, and you know you are bailing out the ocean with a very small, slotted spoon, but all you can do is fight the demon in front of you.

He has demons, awful ones that I don't want to think about too much because if he's spent this much time creating them I know they have to be demons that would make H.P. Lovecraft proud. I know this because he lets slip about the demons under the bed, the demons at the door, you don't know if they are the same, if they are different, and I don't know how many of them there are. I do find it funny that for a man who professes no belief in a higher power uses the term "demons" but I suspect that is a language issue and not a belief issue. The small glimpses he has (mostly by mistake I believe) given me of these demons has lead me to believe that they are very, very real to him, and whatever name he wants to give them doesn't matter to their existence. I've known him long enough to know the identity of some of his demons, and those are the ones that I think he will carry around forever. I do not think (and I hope I am right) that these demons are killer demons. If they haven't done him in yet, I am hopeful that he has enough control over them to prevent them from ever managing to do him in. However, my fear is the new demons, the freshly minted demons that have caused the recent downward spiral will be the tipping point. They will team up with his long serving demons, and make the game no longer worth the candle to him, and he will do something truly untoward.

I don't see him as the type of person to resolve what is a temporary problem with a permanent solution, but one can never be completely sure, and that "permanent solution" can be a siren's song that even the strongest of people have been unable to resist (and there is a history of it in his family). He has, and has had for years a self-destructive streak that is quite impressive to see. Self-sabotage, and the ability to cut his own nose off to spite his own face is something that he has taken to an art form. It is not pleasant to watch, and myself and the others who I know care about him have 'cut him off at the pass" of self-destruction several times. Our fear is that one day we will arrive too late, that he will bottle up the demons long enough to fool us into thinking he is fine, and get out of the range of our help (or ignore it entirely), and self-destruct in some spectacular  fashion. We think it appeals to the "poet" in him, the ultimate denial of himself by blowing himself up like a bridge the enemy needs in order to invade some neighboring country.

He hides them well for the most part, he didn't get as far as he has on the stages of life's way without being able to fool people into believing things he wants them to believe. Maybe he believed some of those things himself, or maybe he didn't it is usually difficult to tell, and asking him is an exercise in futility that I learned long ago not to attempt again. But he can't hide it all. I can see the two major emotions at war within him in his eyes. The anger flashes out pretty easily, and he doesn't try as hard to control it as he does the other emotion in the war. That emotion is hurt/pain, I can see it in his eyes in the moments he doesn't think anyone is looking, and it is a painful sight. It is not something he shows much of at all, and rarely if ever on purpose, which makes it all the more heartbreaking to see. I know he's fighting to keep it at bay, and when I see it I realize he is losing. His is a suspicious mind, and those suspicious thoughts are tearing him apart. I don't know whether to believe him or not when he gives voice to them, they seem to be flights of fancy of someone not sleeping enough, but then he starts with his "theory" and even I begin to waver. If I am wavering (because I do deep down think he's wrong) then what chance does he have at 3 a.m. when the demons come out to play? During the daylight hours, the hours I see him (thankfully, his nights sound a horror) he laughs these suspicions off like they are nothing, but I can (just barely) tell that he is trying to convince himself of that more than he is trying to assuage my concerns.

 Losing the ability to keep the hurt at bay, is what the serious unraveling looks like. It is becoming more and more frequent to see the hurt winning out over of his self control, and rearing its ugly head in his eyes. The shake in his voice when he talks about the latest demon is difficult, but not impossible to hear. He tries to talk it out with me, not because he thinks I can help (I really can't), but because he thinks that saying it aloud will provide him a way to answer the demons' questions. I don't think it will, but I don't have the heart to tell him that. He is probably clever enough to realize it won't help either, but I think the trying is more important that the succeeding. The anger has mostly faded, but when (in the beginning) he let it out, it was not a pleasant experience to behold. He is, and he knows it, a bit of a hothead, but most of the time it is the "letting off steam type of anger" nothing that will leave any permanent scars, and will pass off after about ten minutes. This anger is not that type it is colder, more severe, and the look in his eyes when he shows it is not something I care to see very often, if ever again. He makes the joke that when he is truly mad you will notice because the temperature in the room will drop by a couple of degrees. He's not wrong.

I will sit here, and watch him unravel because I don't know what else to do. Pulling at any thread seems a bad idea, and much like all the king's horses and all the king's men were unable to put Humptey Dumptey back together again, I don't think me, or anyone else (other than maybe himself, if he's willing to try) can re-knit him. He hasn't (yet) fallen into the simplest trap that people in his situation fall into, he hasn't climbed into a bottle full of rage and stayed there with no plans of ever coming out. Maybe he thinks he's too old for that shit, or maybe he's gained a little wisdom, or maybe there's something going on in his head more awful that anything contained in a bottle. I don't know, and can't know until it is too late, which is (I think) exactly how he wants it, so he gets it. I will grant him that wish because I know his defiance disorder would make any obvious attempt to help him result in even more self-destructive behaviour, but that doesn't mean I have to like it.  I suppose all I can do, all any of us can do (other than him) is wait and hope.

Down the River of Broken Dreams

Ever trusted someone? Well of course you have because you are a fucking human being (unless you're Spock or a Klingon), and therefore you've trusted someone. And more than likely, eventually that someone betrayed your trust. That's the beauty of betrayal only the people you trust can do it. You gave them your secrets, and they may have returned the favour, but that was then, this is now. Now is there someone out there with your secrets that might no longer be a fan of yours? They know what you like, what you don't like, who you like and who you don't like. Are you concerned you will suddenly see them talking to a person that you expressed your utter disdain for to them? Maybe they are friendly with that person, but more than likely you can sort out if that conversation goes on for too long what the topic will eventually come around to, your secrets. Or maybe you sent that person you trust some stuff (emails, letters, plans to rule the world), and are now concerned that all filters are off in regards to the secrets you gave to them, you know back when you trusted them. No one wants their door kicked in by some version of the Gestapo vaguely waving around some papers (containing your plans to rule the world with your army  of cats) and "saying now we've got you, you bastard!"

There exists a school of thought, and I should know because I belong to it, that the problem you are now facing i.e. the fear that the person you trusted will put your secrets on blast for the world to see, is exactly one person's fault, and that person is you. It is what you get for trusting them in the first place, it is your own fault. If you get hoisted on your own petard, well you should have left the damn thing in its scabbard in the first place.  Sure the more common and widely held belief is that if the other person puts you stuff "out there" it is their fault for being a cunt, and betraying your trust. But remember we are now talking about someone who has already betrayed you to begin with, so what do you expect them to do? You can hope that the human decency you believed they possessed (or you wouldn't have trusted them in the first place) will be enough to keep them from sending you down the river of broken dreams, but are you really that sure of your judgment? After all, you are still trusting them in some odd, dangerous way, and they've just got done betraying you.

That river, the one of broken dreams, is a river of grief, and just like rivers it can come in all types of sizes, shapes, lengths, and depths. It can have a swiftly moving current (if you are lucky), or it can meander, slowly along its way taking you for the longest, most brutal trip of your life. Each river has its own signature, its own DNA, and very rarely are two rivers alike.  Like all rivers, the river of broken dreams doesn't exist in a vacuum, there are "towns" dotted along its course all the way to the end of the line. I mean rivers were the earliest superhighways for all sorts of things to be traded. Wheat, barely, hops, honey, grain, monkeys, etc, etc. They help the free flow of commerce no matter what the trade is, be it dry goods, or secrets. That just what rivers do, and when you get a batch of defective monkeys, or if someone starts trading your secrets along the river, you can't blame the river. It's a river and that's just what rivers do. They just simply exist, it behooves you to try to stay out of the river of broken dreams.

Some people jump into that river, fed up with the circumstances that life has created for them, and probably in denial that they helped create those circumstances themselves. Those people want the deep, swiftly flowing river with all the rapids and rocks involved because they don't plan on coming out of the river. They are not waving, they are drowning, and it is what they want to do. There is no need to follow them into the river in a misguided attempt to save them. They don't want to be saved, and if you try, they will more than likely drown you with them. They will fight you not the river, and it is best just to watch them go, nod your head in the eventual acceptance of their choice, and if possible recover enough of them to bury when the river does what they intended it to do.

Other people are pushed into that river (I would posit this group makes up the majority), and they had no intentions of taking a "swim" in the river of broken dreams, either that day or any other in the near future. But we are humans, not Klingons, and we all live in fairly close proximity to the river of broken dreams. Generally, we know the person who pushed us into the river, and generally it is a grand, unhappy surprise to us. Maybe if we are clever enough, we saw it coming, but eventually the river claims us all. The "surprise" guests of the river aren't here to drown, they aren't looking for some quick, painless (we hope) resolution, most of them are shocked at how cold the water is, and bemused by the identity of the person that put them in the river.

And that person will watch from the banks of the river broken dreams as you struggle to comprehend why they did what they did. The torch you were carrying for them, and make no mistake you were carrying one, extinguishes itself in the river, their eyes will be lit by its flame for the last time. Gone are the days when they would rescue you from life's drains. They knew this long before you did, and that is the pity of it.  They will never break your fall again. They have now become your betrayer, your own personal Judas as it were, and as you drift away you would do well to remember that, and turn your focus on the problem at hand, and that problem is the river of broken dreams. Maybe you've been here before (it is more than likely you have), but as Heraclitus tells us, you can never step in the same river twice, and the river of broken dreams is no different. And the river of broken dreams is chock full of broken reeds.

Again, like most rivers, the river of broken dreams, is going to be dotted along its course by "towns" these towns are going to be familiar to you, after all you've been in the river of broken dreams before. And like most "towns" they have names, after all, they have to be distinguished from one another, and what better way to distinguish them than to give them different names. Each of these "towns" have their own character, and their own purpose, and your knowledge of them hopefully isn't entirely complete because if it was it would mean you've been in the river of broken dream way too many times.

The first town is pretty much right next to the point where you entered the river, it is the "town" of denial. You want to deny you are in the river to begin with, but here you are wet as a June bride on her wedding night waiting for her newly minted husband to ravage her for the "first time." Denial is not a pleasant city, and the less time you spend there the better. Denial also usually consists of your disbelief of the identity of the person that put you in the river to begin with. The largest "building" in the city of Denial is the Identity Bureau. The place where people in the river line up to hope against hope that the identity of the person who "rivered" them is a horrible, horrible mistake. It isn't and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you can leave the unpleasant town of Denial. Most people stay here quite a long time, after all the line at the Identity Bureau is long, and the other popular hang out in Denial is the Pourqoui Department. It is an entire waste of time to go to the Pourquoi Department, they don't speak your language (no matter what or how many languages you speak), and it is fruitless to try to understand them. However, that doesn't stop people from spending way too much time in the Pourqoui Department, and by extension way too much time in the sad town of Denial.

Once you float past Denial the next "town" you will encounter is Anger. Anger is a very dangerous place. All sorts of miscreants walk around in anger, and most of them intend harm upon their fellow citizens. Of course most of their anger is directed at the person that "rivered" them in the first place, but if you happen to be in their way, they will settle for gutting you like a fish on their way to get revenge on that person. The people in Anger don't really give much of a fuck who they hurt, they just want to hurt someone. Sure they have a person in mind, but collateral damage is not really their concern. It is best to get the fuck out of Anger as quickly as possible. After all, you might commit some atrocity here yourself that you will later deeply regret. Anger has its charms for people who are on their first, or second trip down the river of broken dreams, not as much for people who have been here multiple times. Anger is a dangerous, sometimes deadly place. The river is the lesser of two evils, and that is saying something.

Jump back into the river and thank the god you've chosen that you survived a lot of people don't and the graveyard outside of Anger is full to bursting. The next town you will encounter on your journey in called Bargain. And it is just like it sounds, it is a merchant town that exists solely to trade. It is full of market stalls and bazaars full to bursting with all sort of commodities that you think you need, and you probably do. But here is the problem with Bargain, you've got fuck all to trade. You were surprised when you were pushed into the river of broken dreams, and you didn't think to pack anything to trade. Few people do. Think back to the god you've chosen, and ponder is he/she fair? Have they ever listened to you before? The answer is mostly likely either going to be "No" or "I don't know." Neither one of those answers is helpful to you in the town of Bargain. You've got nothing they want, and whatever you do have, they've already got plenty of. It doesn't stop people from lingering in the alleys of Bargain, vainly trying to concoct some deal that will get them back upstream to where they entered the river. It won't work, it hardly ever works, and if it does work then the next time you are in the river (and there will be a next time I promise), will be exponentially worse. Anger is a physically dangerous place, Bargain is a place that takes your soul. Get the fuck out while you still have what's left of one.

However, the next stop along the river of broken dreams isn't exactly an improvement. It is a town called Triste, and it is a gloomy, grey, and joyless place. The great sad clown Pagliacci, would make a fortune in Triste. His plays and performances would sell out the largest of venues. And Triste is a very, very large venue. There is no joy in Triste, there is sadness and sadness alone. Some of the greatest creations in the world have been forged in Triste, but unless you have an sturdy constitution, or a death wish, Triste in not the last stop on your trip down the river of broken dreams. It is a solitary crowded place, a paradox to be sure. Triste is full of people to be sure, but those people have little to no desire to interact with their fellow citizens. It is a place full of Eeyores, not a Tigger or Pollyanna will be found in Triste, they don't exist here, they can't exist here. No matter what your disposition or outlook was before you entered Triste, Triste will impose its sadness on you whether you like it or not, and trust me, you will not like it. Most people stay a very, very long time in Triste, and a great deal of the ones that do leave (and you will really have to leave) leave with a unfathomable reluctance.  Stay as long as you want or need to in Triste, it has a little something for everyone, and a little too much for a lot of us.

Your final stop on the river of broken dreams, the last town before it enters the "Bay" is Acceptance. It is an odd town. It is like a "twin city" in many ways. There is the one side, the side you generally enter first that is, at first blush, a bit like anger. It seems to lead back to Anger in some ways, and sometimes it can but don't fall for that. That just leads you back into the river in the wrong direction. It is the side that says "well here I am, I can do fuck all about it now, so I accept it, that doesn't mean I have to like it." That is the wrong side of the tracks in Acceptance. It is a faux dream, and don't fall for it, there is nothing there for you on the wrong side of Acceptance. If you make it past the wrong side of the tracks in Acceptance, well good for you, because a lot of people don't. A lot of people see the 'posh' side of Acceptance as defeat. It isn't but it sure as fuck does a great imitation of it. It is hard to see, and a lot of people refuse to see it, but Acceptance is the place you need to be, whether you know it or not. It isn't surrender and don't confuse it for such. It is, in many ways, the top of the mountain that Sisyphus reaches with his burden of a rock just before it falls back down to the bottom of the hill he has been pushing it up for so long. You might not stay long in Acceptance, it is a gloomily happy place, and your stay here will be both joyful and yet still very, very sad. It isn't the overwhelming gloom of Triste, but they are neighboring cities, and sometimes Triste's clouds block out Acceptance's sun. You have to leave Acceptance whether you want to or not. It feels like a final stop, but it isn't. Acceptance is a bit of fool's gold. It gleams, but it really is quite as real as you want it to be.

Your journey on the river of broken dreams is over, whether you know it or not. You're probably still wet, and probably still cold, and each of the towns you went through have left a little of themselves in you. It is just what they do, and it is just what the river does. Crawling out of the river of broken dreams must needs doing, and it is now your job to do it. Sure there are people on the banks who might want to help, and maybe in someways they can. But those helping hands are not always as helping as they seem, and take hold of them with a degree of caution. Caution that you should have displayed in the first place, after all a lack of caution is what put your dumb ass in the river of broken dreams in the first place, and even though you survived your trip (if you survived your trip) it was not some river cruise that you want to take again anytime soon (or ever) again. But of course, that won't stop you, it never does, and sometimes the trip into river of broken dreams doesn't end in tears. Sometimes the river adds an odd strength to a relationship you thought was weak in the knees. The river may drown certain expectations, but it rarely fully drowns hope.  It is rare,but it can be done, and it is incumbent upon you to try. I wish you luck.

J____s' Plan??

Comrade S______v,

You address me as Citizen now do you? What the blue fuck is going on at the Central Committee? I do not even know you, and you address me as Citizen. Be aware COMRADE that until I am put against the wall and shot, which may happen sooner rather than later, I do not response to the honorific of CITIZEN.  I am aware that out here in the provinces we are behind the news rather than in front of it, but where is this Citizen coming from? Has there been a "fronde" that has been successful and we are now are going to be required to wear powdered wigs, and short breeches?

I am also informed, though not by you shockingly enough, that the J____s' Plan has been renamed the "Imperial Plan"? I guess because it carries a bit more gravitas, and sounds better in official dispatches? Or maybe you lot finally put the author of the plan against the wall, and while the plan can still be used his (since he is now a "non-person, and doesn't have one) name can not be attached to it. What sort of madness is this? Are we all drunk on our own sense of power, and somehow still cowards at heart? What happened to the boisterous debates among the party rank and file? Where is the intellectual rough and tumble that gave birth to us as an organization? Buried in some history book that no one bothers to read? Trapped in old photographs in worn leather frames in some sweethearts attic with no identifying postscript on the back to tell future generations who we were? Strangers without a name in a picture torn, tattered, and stained, faded to yellow in that worn leather frame? Have we, while somehow being present, already become history?

I even obtained a rather tattered copy of the newly minted Imperial Plan, and again I see no difference from the original plan named after that newly minted traitor J_____.  Perhaps I am a bit thick, but I do not understand the direction the Committee is taking, is it to lead us into a new(er) glorious future where we call each other citizen, and prance around with our dogs on fancy leashes, and push our babies in jewel encrusted prams on the Prospects that our previous generation bled out upon for the principles that allow us to choose our own futures? Would they know why they died if they were to peruse the Imperial Plan, or would they roll over in their plainly marked graves, disgusted with the last post and chorus of the band playing the dirge over the plan they so painstakingly formed all those years ago?

We (and I mean the collective we, not the royal we, Imperial Plan or not) broke with our past because we refused to be condemned to repeat it. We were stuck in a recursive loop, that led each successive generation to the same brutal (and ultimately fatal) destination. Certainly, there was hope as each new generation came of age, but that hope was quickly dashed as we watch helplessly that new generation make the same awful mistakes that the previous ones had made. We knew, all too well, the outcome. No man can be said to have the ability to predict the future, there are no tragic Cassandras among us.  But, we were clever enough to see the pattern, and that if that pattern remained unbroken the result would almost inevitably be the exact same as before. Prediction isn't the same as prophecy.

Like most men, I expect you to hear what you want to hear, and disregard the rest, but I hope for the sake of us all, that you keep an open mind, and make no rash decisions. You ask me to remain "loyal, steadfast, and true" but you neglect to tell me to what I am remaining loyal to? The Party? The one currently tearing itself apart with nightly debates that have ceased to become stimulating but are merely accusatory? To the State it created? The State that seems to be crumbling from the center outward, staggering from poor decision to poor decision like a punch drunk, broken down, old boxer that is merely doing what he has been trained to do for years before finally taking his final dive?  Or should I take the advice of Polonius and "too thine own self be true'? If we all do that COMRADE, then we have created a monster, and not only have we created it, we have taught it how to kill. These are not the "monster under the bed type" these monsters have weapons wrapped in burlap, and they are very, very real. They will laugh at how we feel, and will keep track of each of us as they track us down and exterminate us like the rats they believe us to be.

Or perhaps I should remain loyal to god? Should I say some prayer to some god I think is fair? Which god is that COMRADE? The one we torn down all those years ago? Are we now to place it back on the pedestal we ripped it off of nearly 35 years ago? How would we explain that to the people, or more importantly could you explain how I would explain that to myself?  The god that we were convinced abandoned us, and we in turn abandoned.

You say that "plans are in place to resolve tensions in the Empire." What are those plans? Where is the manifesto that delineates the plan(s) of which you speak? Platitudes have never won the day COMRADE, pretty words written on expensive paper do not a plan make. Plans are active, they do not sit around like the homely girl at a dance vainly hoping some dashing young man will ask them for a turn around the dance floor. That is not how this works, that is not how any of this works. Make your plans if you must, but action (preferably of the brilliant type if you can manage it) is required. Many a success has been obtained by action first, and the writing down of the plan of that action later. All it requires is changing the date on the top of the paper in order to be able to (with a straight face) say "See comrades, we had a plan all along, and it has succeeded beyond our wildest expectations!"

I hope, for all our sake that the "plan" whichever one it is, is adopted soon. You say the center is chaos, but if the center cannot hold, then we are all of us, every last one of us COMRADE, CITIZEN or whatever title you give yourself, are lost.

Yours,

COMRADE  U_______y

Sideshows

"Have a seat lad, today's the day I tell you some home truths that you already know but aren't going to like." That was the greeting that Sully gave me as I walked nervously into his bar after receiving his summons. A summons from Sully is two things, not something to be ignored, and probably bad for the person that received it. I figured I was two for two. I looked around with a bit of trepidation wondering if this meeting was going to end like the last one I had with Sully's "people". He noticed my sideways glances around the room, and chuckled "No lad there's none of that unpleasantness planned for you today, at least in the physical sense. I'm about to be cruel to you, and by the time I am finished you may have wished I'd just ordered the boys to give you another beating." I sighed, I had taken a couple of beatings from Sully's boys (as he like to call them, fucking goons is what they are), and if somehow this promised to be worse, then my outlook for having a super sparkly day decreased in a major way. "Ok Sully, I'll play the rube and bite, what do you have to tell me that is so important and so cruel?"

Sully looked at me with something akin to compassion, levered himself out of his seat (In case I've not mentioned it, Sully is a large, large man), walked to the bar taps, and poured himself and me two pints. That's when I knew it must be bad news, Sully is not exactly the generous type, and certainly not to mutts like me. We are not, and never have been known to be the share a pint, and talk about football and boobs kind of friends. In fact, I'm not exactly sure I call Sully a friend, not an enemy, but certainly not a friend. Coming back to the table, Sully pushes the pint glass to me, then pauses, pulls it back, takes a flask from his inside pocket, and pours a dash of some amber liquid into the space he left on purpose into my pint. He then takes the flask puts it to his lips drinks a good measure, and says "just a bit of a bracer to help the story along" as he pushes the now "enhanced" pint in my direction.

"Drink that, keep your gob shut, and listen to old Sully for a change, and maybe I'll give you another one, you'll probably need it." I nodded sipped my pint and waited for the cruelty to begin. "I am not the wordsmith you are lad, and I didn't have the proper schooling to teach me all those fancy words you use to try to talk yourself out of the debts you owe me, so I'll be as straightforward as possible. The main thing is this, you're a sideshow, and have been for quite a while. Me and the other lads have sat by and watched you become one, and at first it was a laugh. I mean, we made several bets on whether you knew it or not, how long it would last, and if you were the bearded lady or not." this last bit was followed by a laugh and another tug at the flask. "I get it Sully, and I am glad I could be a source of amusement for you and the baboons you call lads." He put up a forestalling hand "Now, now lad, no sense in getting up on your hind legs for no reason. I said at first. After a while I sorted out that you knew it, I mean I know you're a clever lad, and were okay with it, at least at first. Then I started to pay more attention to you, and your behaviour. I know you lad, we go way back, and I can tell, generally, what is going on in that maze that passes for your mind, call it a gift."

"That is why I've decided to tell you, that you're a sideshow. I think you know it, but just refuse to believe it yourself. That lack of self-belief has been one of your biggest problems all your life. Realize that you're a sideshow, you will always be underfunded, under appreciated, and under attended. That's the nature of a sideshow. You're like East Africa in the Great War (for Sully that meant World War I), and you're Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, the Kraut bastard. Sure, you give the people you have to merry hell, and you're fucking brilliant while doing it, but you're still tucked away in the ass end of nowhere, with ten percent of the time, attention, and material of the real shooting match going on miles away from you. It is that shooting match, the real show, the big leagues that you long to participate in, but you think you've got triple A talent, and the big show would chew you up, and spit you back out again. And you might be right, and that thinking is probably the problem. As long as you believe your talent is triple A, it will be. It is a self-fulling prophecy, you think it hard enough and it becomes true just by your belief in it."

Sully noticed my look of surprise at the Lettow-Vorbeck reference, and laughed "I said I didn't have the proper schooling lad, not that I did have some schooling of my own. But back to you, I watched the arc of your realization of being a sideshow, for those who know you, and who can be arsed to pay attention (both of which I do) it was a plain as a child's notebook written in crude crayon. For someone as bright as a new penny, as you seem to be, you can be amazingly dense at times, like a neutron star. It was clear when the particular circus that brought you to this situation came to town, that you were as smitten as a schoolboy. You ran amok among the cotton candy, and the funnel cake, gorging yourself on the attraction, and intoxicated by the novelty. Your mistake, and I place no blame on you for the making of it, was you finally thought you had made the "show." You were wrong, and it is a damn shame that I have to be the one to tell you, it does not bring me anything close to joy."

I nodded and pointed to my now empty pint glass, "well professor Sully might I trouble you for another pint of this piss you pass off as beer in this fine dining establishment?" Sully grumbled something that could have been confused for, in the proper dim lighting, a laugh, and pointed to the tap, "help yourself you daft bastard, not like you don't know your way around a bar, you've been going to them since you were fucking 8 years old." I acknowledged the point, got up and refilled our glasses, I did not leave room in mine for whatever rocket fuel Sully had added to the first one, I may be getting bad news, but there's no need for suicidal behaviour.

I sat back down, handed Sully his pint, and motioned for him to continue his surgical dissection of my life, it's not like I could stop him, and I somehow doubted I was exactly "free to leave." "Now lad where was I? Right, you and the funnel cake, you always were mad for funnel cake, even the real kind, must be your father coming out in you." I hissed "Sully", but he put up a hand "I know you hated the man lad, and that wasn't meant to get your hackles up, just an observation. But, as you know, too much funnel cake can make you sick either to your stomach, or in your case to your heart. I'm not clever enough to help you, or anyone in your situation find the right decision to make, and it isn't like you'd listen to me even if I were to try. I can provide you pints, whiskey, and maybe the occasional "revue" type distraction (the last said with a knowing wink), but I can't pluck you out of the wilderness in which you've stumbled. That I fear, is as you like to put it "a you problem". All I can do is tell you that you're a sideshow, and I doubt that is too much of a shock to your system.

"What you do with the knowledge is entirely up to you, and is your business. I am not sure if this particular carnival is going home, or if its Ferris Wheel is spent or not. I am fairly certain that is something you are struggling to figure out as well. I do hope, for your sake, that you figure it out soon, and you don't climb back into that pint glass like you are wont to do. But, again that is a "you problem" and I will probably pour you as many as you need, or at least as many as I think you need before I have one of those baboons you mention throw you out on your drunken ass. Speaking of which it's time for you to leave, and go where ever it is you need to be. I've other business to attend to, and I think I've given you enough to chew on, and to drink for tonight."

I finished my pint, stood up, and said "as always Sully it's been an experience, at least this one could pass as pleasant." He laughed and waved me to the door, already moving on to the next "problem" he was tasked to "solve." That's our Sully, problem solver extraordinaire. If only...

Day(s) of Independence

Today is, as the (two at most) dedicated readers of this blog, and maybe the four people who listen to me in real life, is my Independence Day. The day, over a decade ago now, that the marriage I so foolishly entered into dissolved, or rather was dissolved by the court system. Today is the day that the paperwork was made official, like the publishing of an obituary weeks after someone had already died. It seems fitting, I suppose, that paperwork made it an official death after all, paperwork had to give its official "life" as well. We are drowning in both fables and paperwork. Fables in the sense that "death do us part" really means what we think it means when we say it, and paperwork to be filled out when we figure out that somethings are worse than death (i.e. staying married to me).

Of course the paperwork was merely the "death certificate" the patient (in this case the marriage) had been dead, though not quite buried, for weeks before the decree made it official for the world to see, not that anyone particularly cared to see. Very few people wait out these kinds of death with anything approaching happiness, those that do are a breed apart. I still keep my copy just in case disbelieving people ever doubt that somewhere in the world there was a woman daft enough, or naive enough (depending on your viewpoint) to ever expect that I was the marrying type. I guess she should have listened to the Wolf That Raised Me and I quote "you're (me) just aren't the marrying type." That was an honest if brutal bit of home truth coming from the Wolf, and it was topped off by being said to me on Christmas Day. Never let it be said I didn't inherit something of my personality from the Wolf.

Many days of "independence" have passed since the original one, and I figure it is time to move on from celebrating this particular day like it is anything special. After all, everyone has moved onward, and upward since then, and we do not speak. Maybe in someway each and every day is a day of independence or maybe I just changed masters and haven't the good sense to realize it, or maybe I just have one less master. If one was to ponder what went wrong with the whole idea, one reaches the inevitable conclusion that, for the most part, it was (and remains) my fault. The Wolf didn't raise me without knowing what kind of monster she had on her hands.

Most people like their independence, the ability to not wear pants around the house if we choose not to is a glorious thing. Independence is often equated with freedom. The freedom to eat what I want if I am hungry, to sleep when I am sleepy, to have a wank when I want to is the kind of freedom that most people can agree is a lovely experience. But is it really freedom? After all, you can eat that double cheeseburger laced with enough bacon to kill a bull moose if you want, but then when your pants (if you bother to wear them) don't button anymore what price freedom? Can you really sleep when you want? Well of course not, unless you're sans job, or independently wealthy, you probably have some sort of job to pay for those double cheeseburgers. I've yet to convince my bosses that a "napping couch" should be provided for the post lunch nap that I seem to require on a daily basis. And people generally frown upon wanking in public.

Society, whether you choose to actively participate in it or not, is designed to restrict your (and everyone else's) freedom. Rules, regulations, and laws govern our daily activity in more restrictive ways than a wife or husband could every dream to do. Of course, the paperwork that seals the deal on the becoming a wife or a husband isn't really necessary. There are a lot fewer dynasties to think of preserving the line of succession for these days, and it is unlikely any royals are reading this post. It is, in many ways, "just a piece of paper." But, for many that piece of paper means a lot more than the words written upon it, or the vows spoken aloud to as many friends as could make it to the actual ceremony where you proclaim them.

That paper doesn't mark your (or her) surrender of freedom, it doesn't mean you've restricted your independence (independence isn't like submarine warfare, it is very, very rarely unrestricted) Independence isn't all that it is cracked up to be, trust me. Maybe like Germany in World War I you chose and bad "dance partner" and sometimes that is a lesson that you just have to learn in person. People can tell you "Austria-Hungary is no good for you, and it is all going to end in tears." But, until you shed a few of those real tears after figuring it out for yourself, you just never really know for sure.

While you have become independent of each other, you (and presumably her as well) have not taken the veil or the monastic robes and sworn yourselves to a life of chaste, silent contemplation of the mysteries of faith and the gods. There will be other people in your life, and the trick (and it is a very, very difficult trick) is to make sure that you've figured out what freedom means, and what independence you require, and when you happen upon the next "one" (and there will be a next "one" I promise), you understand that people are not, in fact, like horses and past performances should not be a predictor of future behavior. I both wish you luck, and hope for a little luck of my own in this endeavour. After all, we are in this together. Bon chance!!!!

RE: J____s' Plan

To: Citizen U_____y

From Citizen S_________v


Citizen,

Your apologizes are unnecessary, it is clear that your information is outdated by several weeks, and to be honest it would be a surprise if you did know who I am. Events have overtaken us, and by the time you receive this missive I may well have been placed against a wall and shot (like my two predecessors). If that unfortunate event happens to take place (and perhaps even if it doesn't) my advice to you is two simple words "save yourself."

Your brief history of the Empire's adopting the Five Year Plan, instituting it, and then replacing it with the J_____s' Plan was helpful, but only up to a certain point. I was not around for the "Bloody Congress" of which you speak (and gloss over how intense it really was, I do read my history). The intricate details of both plans have seemed to escaped your attention, or perhaps you were just being circumspect in your recounting of events. Caution is a virtue in these troubled times, and one should take a "keep your powder dry" viewpoint in all their dealings with others. Especially others that they do not know, and aren't certain where their loyalties lie.

I do not know if you are an Elephant or a Bucatini, or a radical member of some splinter group that has yet to give itself a catchy name, thus I do not pretend to know to whom or to what (if anything or anyone) you are loyal to. This makes communication difficult, and since you gave me very little in the way of hints in your letter it might be best for a face to face meeting to obviate the need for putting things in writing.  However, there are certain things that are so well known that writing them down will do no one any harm, or at least that is the great hope.

The Central Committee as you clearly have yet to realize, has become a ramshackled shell of its former self. The glory of the Five Year Plan, and the brilliance of the super seceding  J____s' Plan have been replaced by shambolic chaos the likes that the Empire hasn't seen since the Peterson insurgency (during the years you refer to quite rightly as the "Death Valley" Years).  Those were dark times in the Empire, and it almost didn't survive, and I fear that a return to those days may well neigh be upon us even as we speak. It is a sobering thought that the Empire, so recently a place of prosperity, and progress, could be plunged back into such a dark place, but I fear that threat is all too real.

There does exist hope for the Empire, but it will require men such as yourself to remain loyal, true, and steadfast. We must cling to the ideals that built the Empire as we know it today. Ideals that led to the adoption of the J____s' Plan to begin with. Sober ideals founded upon simple things like justice, beauty, and a strain of large R romanticism that led to the flowering of the Empire's arts, as well as a reorganization of its finances, and governing bodies.  I understand that out (there) on the perimeter (as you place yourself) it is hard for you to obtain clear, precise, and truthful information. Up is Down, Black is White, and the whole world has suddenly turned smart.

Know that plans are in place here in the Center (if it can hold) that will hopefully resolve the tensions in the Empire as soon as possible. If the chaos can be contained, the infection cut out of the heart of the Empire, then it will be able to recover its balance and move forward on the path laid out for it in either the J____s' Plan, or it will have to evolve and formulate a new plan to replace it.  There have been rumblings that the Five Year Plans adherents have recently experienced a upsurge in popularity, but those rumors are, as yet, unproven.  If you have any information regarding any of those rumors, please pass it along, the one thing the Center needs (other than a backbone, and common sense) is information.  Information has been devilishly hard to come by in recent times, and the lack of it may be responsible for the untimely demise of at least one of my predecessors.

The ES, as you so rightly observed have not been eradicated, and remain a real, if minor nuisance. We lack the resources (some say courage) to monitor them too closely, and must always be on the lookout for any of their agents placed among us. They are a virulent lot, and have no love of the Empire, and we can only hope that the Black Hats can keep them in some sort of check. The Pellrin province may be lost to us (it is too soon to tell), but rather lose a finger than the whole hand eh?

I close this missive with the repeated advice,the best I can give during these troubled times. Keep your powder dry.

Yours,

Citizen S_________v

 

J____s' Plan

To: Comrade in charge of the Committee of Central Planning

From: Comrade U_____y

Comrade,

I apologize for my inability to provide a more "personal" address for this missive, but with the seemingly daily changes in the Committee of which you are the new head, I am at a loss to determine who, if anyone, is in charge. Again, my apologies and I hope you (whomever you are) have a long and successful career. But on to the reason for this report.

Four years ago (give or take) the Empire embarked upon a Five Year Plan masterful in its scope. At the time the Empire was drifting like a rudderless ship adrift at sea. The Plan (as it will henceforth be called) was the result of considerable thought by the, then head, of the Committee which you now chair, and was passed at the full plenary of the party by a vast majority. There was, and remains, some dissenters who believe(d) the plan was too ambitious for the Empire to undertake at the time, and that a scaled down version of it would have been a more realistic goal. I, along with the men of the majority voted overwhelmingly to put the Plan into place. Little did we know at the time, what that would mean for the Empire.

The first year of the Plan went relatively smoothly, or as smoothly as any newly implemented plan can be expected to go, and as smoothly as anything can be expected to go in this Empire. However, as you may or may not know (I have no idea who you are, therefore I can not presume upon your knowledge), shortly after year One, the Empire experienced a major upheaval in the form of the Elephant conspiracy. This caused a fair amount of upheaval in the Empire, and made it necessary for another Party congress to convene to decide how the Empire was to react. After a brief, but furious struggle the Elephant party won control of the Central Committee, and was able to implement a new plan to replace the Five Year Plan.

This new planned, dubbed the J____s plan after its leading proponent, was a sharp departure from the Five Year Plan. It was more open, more of a "leap of faith" than the previous plan, but it had (or so it seemed at the time) almost unlimited potential to make the Empire "the land where happiness is King" (or so the slogan ran). Again, there were some dissenters who argued that the J____s Plan was pie in the sky thinking, and that the unbridled optimism it entailed would lead to an eventual disaster on the scale that even this Empire had never before witnessed. They argued it was economic adventurism, politically naive, and diplomatic suicide. The Congress that eventually passed the J____s Plan to replace the Five Year Plan was nasty, brutal, and many old comrades found themselves on opposite sides of the aisle during the debate, and would wind up never speaking to each other again (or even about each other, such was the acrimony) has been called the "Bloody Congress." Even though no actual blood was spilled the Party had virtually bled itself white during the debate.

The J____s Plan after its implementation, promised a new dawn for the Empire. It held that a unprecedented age of prosperity, wisdom, and general happiness was going to reinvigorate the Empire, and that the Five Year Plan's age of gloom and doom was a thing of the past. And you know what Comrade? Those damn Elephants (as they came to be called) were right. The Empire opened it borders (some even say its heart) and flourished. Trade became easier, travel became (more or less) unrestricted (like submarine warfare should be), and a period of general good will infected the Empire. Certainly there were a few hold out to the general good mood that permeated the general population (the ES for example) but they were mostly contained in the Pellrin province, and were unable to gain much traction or cause too much upset to the Empire. After all the Empire had not become so intoxicated with happiness that the Black Hats were disbanded.

This "golden age" lasted for around three years, and it seemed as if the last hold outs opposing it had been consigned to the "dustbin of history." However, like most good things it could not last. As you (whoever you are) have to now the recent Bucatini insurgency has led to suspension of the J____s Plan, and many fear to its eventual total collapse. There are rumblings in my province, and the surrounding ones that the Committee has failed us. That it has become a shambolic, disinterested, bumbling shell of its former self, and that the Empire's very existence is under threat.

Out here on the perimeter there are no "stars" of either Elephants or Bucatinis to sway, instruct, incite, or lead us. Out here we are like stones, we have lost the senses to perceive what the "right" path is, we are lacking direction, and feel as rudderless as the Empire was before the Five Year Plan was adopted. Those "Death Valley" years, if you lived through them, are something that must not be repeated. Those few thinking men left among us know that a return to those years will surely be the end of the Empire as a viable entity.  Therefore, it has devolved upon me as the senior cadre member here, to write this letter, this cri de coeur to ask for guidance. To beg for some clarity in a world that appears to be collapsing in upon itself. The Empire, a beacon for many, is dimming, and is in danger of being extinguished completely unless strong men act with the courage of their convictions, and lead it out of the morass in which it finds itself.

I, as well as many, await further instruction/guidance from some member of the Committee for Central Planning, if such a Committee still exists, and it is our fervent hope that it still does.

Signed, with faith in the Empire

Comrade U______y






 

Imagine Me

This post is likely to be short, brutal, nasty, and not particularly good (that last bit should come as no surprise), for reasons that will be clear, if you bother to read pass this warning label.



"Hello, imagination, my old friend, how have you been? It has been a long time since we last "talked'." This was my way of attempting to re-introduce myself to the part of myself that makes this blog "tick" so to speak. It was, at first, met with a very loud silence. "I know it's 3 a.m. and you may be on holiday without me, or you may be asleep, or you may be angry enough only to "talk" to me in the increasing disturbing dreams I am having, but I could really use a friend right about now." I didn't know if the appeal to its "compassionate side" would work, like the fellow that it inhabits, my imagination is not exactly overloaded with a Florence Nightingale type bed side manner. As the seconds ticked by, I figured that my imagination wasn't ready for my foolishness, and was going to ignore me. Which was no great shock considering the neglect it has recently suffered from me, and the fact that many people think that ignoring me is a great sport and is the best way to get me to go away.

"Old friend?" I hear my imagination rumble. The good thing with imagination is that it can pick from any voice that I've ever heard in my life to use when it addresses me. Tonight it had picked James Earl Jones a la Darth Vader to reply. I figured that was not the best of signs, but I would just have to grin and bear it. "Old Friend" it continued "Let's us, and by us I mean me, unpack that phrase shall we?" I sighed because I knew that was probably bad news for me, and I've become a bit of an expert at seeing bad news. "Sure" I replied "and by let's I'm guessing you mean you?" It wasn't the wisest thing to do, to poke the bear of my imagination, but I've never been counted among the wise men of my or any other generation.

"Yes, I will unpack it, you just sit there, mouth agape and try not to say anything else particularly stupid or insulting" it replied. "Well, in my defense, I do have an awful cold, and mouth breathing is about the only way I can breath." A booming laugh is my reply "as if mouth breathing is the reason you're an stupid ape. If that were the only reason, then maybe we could somehow train you in the physical sense to keep it shut, both for breathing and less talking." I thought that was a bit cruel but by now I figured that my imagination was right, and I clamped my mouth shut and struggled to breath through the one non-clogged nostril I possessed at the moment.

"I am not as old as you "my friend' since you lacked me for large swathes of your life, you weren't born with me, and the formative years you spent shitting yourself, drooling on yourself (though that doesn't seemed to have stopped), and having the Wolf that Raised you wipe your nose (which still needs wiping by the way) I was not around for." It made a fair point I supposed, but I didn't need it pointed out exactly that way, but again silence was probably golden for me. "In fact, compared to you, I am relatively young at least in the guise you can access me. The good thing for you is that I am also, very, very old. I can when you let me loose access centuries of human history, and great amounts of human knowledge, the only thing holding me back is, of course, you." This was said with just the amount of bitterness it deserved, and did prompt me to quietly say "I am so sorry."

"We shall get to your sorriness later, but for the nonce, we are talking about 'old friend'. it replied. "I am not Spock to your Kirk (and here it switched to Spock voice) "I am now, and always shall be your friend." that is not how this relationship between us works. I generally don't wish you any ill-will, but I am not, nor shall I ever be 'your friend'." I guess it had a point, but to "hear" it put that way was a bit of a shock to the system, many of us like to pretend that we don't care what other people think about them, and whether they are universally loved, but deep down inside in the places that we can only go alone, we still want to be 'liked'.  "Stop trying to bring pity to this party, I have given her the night off, after your recent run of disasters, she's exhausted. Friend is an interesting word you have chosen, especially coming from you, a man who prides himself on not having a 'best' friend. You seem to forget that I am trapped in here with you. You are, for better or worse, my prison."

I couldn't resist, and replied "That would explain the fascination you seem to have given me for prison movies, books, and stories, and why when I let you loose 'we' write a lot about prisons." It laughed and said "yes Einstein that is a lot of the reason why 'we' (using the term very loosely) have that issue. You only know what it is like to be trapped in the meat prison that is your body. I, on the other hand, being non-corporeal have to deal with being trapped by you. The occasional flights of fancy notwithstanding, my prison is much, much worse, but you lack the capacity to understand that, and I have long since given up trying to make you. But, let us get back to that tricky term friend shall we?' I sighed, I had hoped that my interruption would break the chain of abuse, but as usual I was incorrect, "OK" was all I could muster.

"You lack them, you know? Friends that is, in fact one of the most pathetic sights I have witnessed (and I've seen all of your pathetic sights) was you struggling to figure out whom to leave your life insurance benefits to when you finally, thankfully die. The sight of you looking up on the internet on how to leave your life insurance to a charity because you lack friends, was particularly pathetic. I would like to give you the benefit of the doubt and say that you had decided to give that money to a charity out of some sense of 'goodness in your heart' but I have seen your heart several times, and have yet to locate the 'goodness' section. It wasn't any act of kindness, it was an act of pure desperation, and probably some form of spite." I had to interrupt to say "well I didn't want the money to go to my estate, and have the student loan people get it." "Yes," it replied that was the spite, after all they let you borrow the money, why wouldn't you want to pay them back, at least as much as you can. After all, the education that the money they let you have in many ways led me into being. Your backwater, redneck ass was never going to acquire an imagination (limited though I may be) as good as me without that education. You were on the path of living in a trailer park with a satellite dish, a pick up truck, 2 ex wives, and 3 bratty children before you took their coin and educated yourself"

Jesus wept I thought my imagination is defending the student loan people, and is doing it so well that I almost feel sorry for them. "Well, you have a point, and it is well made, but it distresses me a great deal to hear you put it that way. And since I am still, in theory, in charge of this 'meat prison' as you call it, I think I have a rebuttal to this conversation, at least for tonight." That was when I reached for the three glasses I had been preparing during my imagination's last speech. One shot of Jameson, one shot of Ginger Ale (for a chaser), and one shot of NyQuil, and it was good night sweet prince. But I knew it would have the last word, after all it wasn't going to be instant unconsciousness, and I knew it was coming, and it didn't disappoint. Just before the sweet darkness of sleep overtook me it whispered in its best Nicole Kidman voice, "I'll be here when you wake up big boy."

It's a Party

It's that time of year for all the holiday parties that people throw in order to observe the forms of tradition that were handed down to us from the days of yesteryear. Doesn't make it right or wrong, doesn't make it fun, maybe our ancestors were just as sodding miserable as we are at these events, so they made them a tradition as some form of exquisite revenge. Fair play to them, it worked.

It was a party, or so the overly cheery invitation promised us. An occasion for the group to get together, celebrate the season, pretend like we could stand each other, and snipe at each other from our respective corners of the room until the liquor ran out, or we were asked politely, but firmly to leave.

It was poorly planned, possibly by someone who secretly didn't like parties, but was tasked with throwing this one, and decided to make the biggest cock up they could as a way of getting out of ever being asked to organize another one. It was a pretty damn good strategy all things considered. It was to be "catered" by either people with the actual time to cook, and work at the same time, or some swank place that pretends they are high class, when the food they sell can be bought on any street corner in Prague for half the price with the added benefit that you aren't worried that the meat might be cat.  But, to not go is to be seen as a sort of dissident, and we all know that dissidents don't usually make it to the top, unless you count the top bunk of the shack in the Gulag they've been sent to as forced labour as the "top".  As someone who has a distinct aversion to any type of labour, forced or otherwise, I decided (after some "cajoling" by people who refer to themselves as having my best interest at heart) to attend, but I promised myself that I would not, under any circumstances, have fun.

The chances of "fun" were always minuscule to begin with, and as I stood in my well chosen corner that was by choice far, far from the maddening crowd with the obligatory drink in my hand, and the best fake smile I could muster on my face, I saw her coming my direction. I knew without a doubt as soon as we made eye contact that "fun" was no longer on the menu, and I was going to regret not getting the top bunk at the Gulag. I briefly considered jumping out of the window that was behind me, but I figured three things. one I was on the second floor, and not being a Bumble, I don't bounce, two that I would, if I survived the fall and the cuts, would be required to pay for aforementioned window, which I could probably not afford, and three, jumping out of a window (and not being Chuck Norris) would probably cause a bit of a disturbance, would probably be noticed, and would probably force me to take the bottom bunk at the Gulag, provided, of course, that I survived.

She had a look of determination on her face and a half full glass of wine in her hand, I figured neither of those two things boded well for me but then again Christmas, for me at least, has been full of disappointments for most of my life, and I figured this was but one more in a long line of them. I was not to be wrong. I sincerely hoped, but highly doubted, given my knowledge and experience with her that the glass she was holding was her first one of the night, and more absurdly that she was merely mingling in the crowd, and was just coming over to wish me Happy Holidays and would move on to the next person on her "list." I knew I was wrong, but hope springs eternal. I knew what she wanted, and I knew that it was going to be unpleasant, if people were horses, I'd be able to afford the window that I had eschewed jumping out of earlier. I sighed deeply, and then playing on the theme I took a deep drink of the fancy liquor that I had probably helped pay for as my "voluntary contribution" to the party. Sadly, neither of them would really provide me much solace in the shit storm that followed.

She sidled up to me and with her obligatory fake smile plastered (I quickly determined it wasn't the only thing plastered) on her face made the pretentious small talk that the Wolf that raised me never taught me the mastery of, and then launched her first salvo in the war I knew was coming. "You don't think much of me do you? she asked, her fake smile now merely a faint, distant memory. I looked around for any of the "people with my best interests at heart" but shockingly enough they all seemed to be far, far away, and heavily engaged in having conversations with others, and studiously pretending that they didn't see my current situation. The bastards, I vowed to exact a suitable revenge on each of them at the earliest chance that presented itself, making a mental note of what would be suitable for each of them both individually, and collectively. Sadly, that revenge was in the future, the present boded to be unpleasant, and here I was trapped with only half a glass, and no cookies.

Several replies to her opening broadside raced through my mind, some pleasant, some rude, some downright offensive before I settled on a quote from one of my favorite movies (The Lion in Winter) as a reply, it was not the best choice, but I didn't get to be where I was by making the best life choices. I smiled a bit and replied "Much? I don't think of you at all." It was, in hindsight, brilliant, but not the best reply for my immediate future, which can be said of many decisions that I made in my life.

Needless to say, but I'll say it anyway, she was not impressed with my reply, and I notice the furrow beginning to crease her brow, and the storm clouds brewing in her eyes. I held up a forestalling hand, and said "but since you asked I will tell you my view(s). However, I will brook no interruption, nor do I want a glass thrown at my head, or a wine stain on my fanciest T-shirt." She narrowed her eyes and nodded her agreement, which all things considered, was a break for me. If only all of life were this easy. Although easy is a relative term in this case, this was probably going to be a bit of temporary fun for me, but in the long term I figured I would eventually come to regret it.

"I think" I began, "that if you were a nation/state you would be what the UN labels a 'failed state'. Like Somalia or East Pakistan, you just never should have been patch worked together, and the pieces of your particular puzzle, when assembled, do not show a particularly pretty scene. Now, in theory this wouldn't be a problem if you were to buck the saying by Aristotle that "no man (or woman) is an island", and your failure as a state/nation/person was merely a "you" problem. Something that could be isolated like the polio virus and a vaccination given to people "exposed" to you.  But you're not an island like Sri Lanka or Iceland, and you border people. Which also wouldn't be as bad if you were like Portugal or Northern Ireland and you only bordered one person, but you don't your like the China of the world (which borders 14 other nations), you border a lot of people, way more than 14."

"These bordering nation/state/people are, whether they like it or not, affected by you and your actions. Like the domino theory of Communism espoused by Eisenhower in the 1950's, people around you are influenced by things going on in your "state".  If you fall (like Korea) maybe one of them falls too (like Vietnam), and the next thing you know, here we are fighting a godsdamn land was in Asia that we have little to no hope of winning. It is "hell in a very small place" you being the hell, and our mutual border being the small place. Like Communism, but not nearly as well defined, your particular brand of whatever "-ism" spreads to the people you love, the people you hate (a list which I am sure to soon appear), the people you are indifferent to, and the people who feel the same emotion towards you."

"Of course, You don't understand this, and that isn't all your fault. Perhaps you were indulged as a child, and got most of the things you wanted without a struggle. I don't know, nor do I particularly care. But, once you became what passes as an adult, one would hope that you would be less self-indulgent, and more self-aware, and begin to detect the glimmerings of the fact that the universe is not you-centered. I don't think you figured that out, but even if you did, I think the fact distressed you so much that you chose to ignore it. This has lead you to being a selfish, self-centered adult with very little compassion, and even less understanding of what goes on beyond your 'borders". It's a pity in many ways, but you are like a revolution or a stain on a Petri dish, you spread, and it becomes very difficult to stop you."

"You could at least try to lessen your "failed state" status, maybe take a lesson from the French in Vietnam, build roads, bridges, and schools for the natives, and hope that it pacifies them, or at least confuses them long enough for you to prop yourself up with your good deeds. But, as far as I can tell, you don't you don't build, you destroy. You come in, angry at something (I can't tell and don't care what) lay a field of mines, stand behind a line of tanks, and throw napalm at anything that displeases you. And, it seems that anything that doesn't revolve around you displeases you. So, I wish you happy "stealing from the cult of Mithras" holiday, and a fond fare thee well."

I could tell that displeasing her was exactly what I had done, but she kept her word and didn't throw anything at me. She just stood there mouth slightly agape as she processed all the mean things (but true as far as I was concerned) I had just said. Took one brief look at me, nodded, and walked away. Now it was a party, and I felt that I had "served my time" as it were. I finished my drink, gritted my teeth through the good byes to my friends who had left me in that awkward situation, and went to find a lower class of drinking companions. Ones that I could relate to, after all, low is still a class.

Birthing Day

Today is my birthday, or my anniversary, or whatever days that mark the creation of something such as me. I am sure that I share this birthing day/anniversary with a lot of people, places, or things, but that doesn't concern me overmuch. My creator, such as he is, is snoring away in the next room cuddled up to some playmate that isn't quite Nichole Kidman, but given his lack of money, talent, and good looks is quite the catch for him. He won't be awake for another hour or so, and when he wakes up it will just be to see his football team lose a match that he knows they are going to lose, but refuses to accept it. I call him my creator, because I was his idea. I was inspired by a buddy of his that is long since faded into the mists of history. My creator is the major contributor to me, he asked some lay about friend of his to help, but that friend is even lazier than my creator, and has managed a minimal of content. No shame in it, it is just a bit of a disappointment.

The major flaw, and he has a lot of them, of my creator in relation to me, is one of neglect. If I were an actual child rather than an idea, he would have the Department of Children Services called on him, and I would be taken away and given to a "nice" family who would love me and give me the attention I deserve. But as I am just an idea, not a child, I will languish here, content with the indifferent attention granted to me on the rare occasion my creator feels the need to stop by with his "brilliant" ideas. They are few and far between, but I guess I shouldn't complain too much. He does the best he can (or so he says) with the limited talent he has (on that point we can both agree).  All of his failings are not his fault, he sometimes thinks of quite exciting and clever things for me, but the demands of his "real" job, and sleep (sleep being the culprit most often) get in his way of writing them down. I'm aware of many a solid contribution to me that have disappeared in proverbial smoke because he passed out from life before he could put it in writing.

He lies there in his empty bed (well not at the moment but more empty than not), and composes lines that sometimes make him cry, and thinks to himself "I need to remember this, this is actually good." But, sleep claims him, and the idea, such as it was, is lost to history. Sometimes,. when he is very, very lucky, he will remember it and manage to overcome his inertia to contribute it to me. It is rare, but it has happened. The idea for me to take control today was his, he even managed a couple of lovely sentences to contribute, but then got distracted by his playmate, and forgot them. Such is the fool I have to suffer.

I am 12 today, 12 years of struggle for ideas to write down, struggle to remember them long enough to write down, struggle with the grammar Nazis that correct every little mistake made (and he makes a lot of them, here and everywhere) while not bothering to read the content for the sake of its own worth, struggle to keep the everydayness of it all out of here, and the struggle not to slander anyone that would be of a disposition to sue him back into the stone age. There are at present, several story lines in his actual life that would make for lovely stories, but sadly or thankfully, depending on your point of view, he lacks either the talent or the courage to put them here for the world to see and decipher. He isn't the greatest wordsmith in the world by any stretch of the imagination, and sometimes he likes to use the word "cunt" a bit too much, but after so much neglect, one sometimes hopes for any type of attention, even if it isn't exactly Proust.

Another failing of his, is that he has read Proust, and a whole slew of others that are actual wordsmiths, people that made their actual living by their pen, and are on the shelves of any bookstore worthy of the name. He tends to overlook the "50 Shades of Grey" type of books, books that were seemingly written by, and for a audience of mouth breathing, knuckle dragging, cavemen that only recently began to comprehend that fire is, in fact, hot, and focuses instead on the classics as his standard by which he measures himself. That standard, impossibly high for most writers, is the one which he wishes he could obtain, and when (unsurprisingly) he fails, considers what he wrote for me to be "dross" one of his favourite words. 

I suppose that, as yet unmet, standard does keep a lot of shit off my pages, but I am pretty sure that it keeps somethings that are by the actual standards by which he should be measured, quite worthy of a read or two.  A few people, some of which have opinions that he values, have told him that he is, in fact, a writer, and a good one at that. He usually shrugs off those comments, and has his own ideas as to the motive behind them. He is more than likely wrong, but there is a stubborn streak in him, that you may have noticed if you have ever been around him for longer that 45 seconds, and he mainly refuses to accept these compliments.

However, for better or worse, he does put me "out there" for the world to see, and pick apart or praise depending on the person, and I would suppose in today's world where everyone is offended by everything, that takes some measure of courage, or stupidity, sometimes the two are easily mistaken.  This anniversary of my birth will, like many others, have its share of disappointments, and its moments of grief, but there are signs for a positive future for my creator. Time, that tricky thing, passes only in one direction, forward, and the disappointments or grief suffered or yet to be suffered, have in them the germination of ideas that he can use to provide me with more content. He is of the opinion, and others share it, that his best writing, using the term very broadly indeed, happens when he is sad. He has, on occasion, tried to write whilst happy, and sometimes it has worked, but in the main, sadness seems to equal creativity for him.

Much like my creator manages in 95% of the additions he adds to me, I have forgotten several themes that I wanted to address in this post. I suppose that is to be expected as I am not really anything more than the sum of his parts, but it is still a bit of a disappointment, this post didn't turn out as expected, and some of the best lines slipped out of our collective consciousness before I could get the piece of shit computer that we use for our writing to actually work. A lot of swear words and anger can take the place of pretty, creative, butterfly like sentences in an hour of IT work for which I/he are ill equipped to perform. I will bid my massive readership of 4, maybe 5 adieu for now, safe in the knowledge that this anniversary, for me at least, will not be my last.

Birth of a despot

As some of you know, and maybe even a few of you care, 40 some odd years ago yesterday, I was brought into this world kicking and screaming by the wolf that raised me. I was clearly there at the end of the process, but my memory is a bit hazy about the actual details. I have been able to piece together a couple of them, and will just make up the rest.

I was "delivered" into the world by a fellow named Dr. Smith, the man who was to give me the first, and perhaps only slap (this one on the ass) that I didn't deserve. The many slaps after that first one, I for the most part, brought upon myself. Three major things stand out about the circumstances of my birth. One is that I was born with a club foot, meaning that my right foot instead of being parallel to my left foot/leg was pretty much perpendicular to it. This required without my knowledge at least two surgeries to fix (maybe three but the details of those are lost to history), and I still have the scars to prove it.  These surgeries were mostly successful, and by that I mean I can walk with only a slight hitch in my giddy up, and don't have to use a cane or anything. Though a cane at my current age might actually be a godsend. During the time of these surgeries I was in the process of learning to walk, and I learned to amble whilst I was wearing a cast. I guess it may have slowed me down from running out into traffic, but it might be the reason for the aforementioned hitch. I have been told, since I have no recollection of the event, that I somehow managed to kick one of the casts off my leg during this process. Some might say that was my first act of rebellion in a lifetime full of them.

Secondly, I was born two weeks late. I contend that this is likely the best decision I ever made, the fact that I didn't really make it or that if I did it was before I could form coherent thoughts also may say quite a bit about me. My theory is that at some level I realized that I had it made in the womb. After all, I had a bum wheel, and realized that the whole walking thing was both going to be more difficult for me than others, and that it is, at its core, a shitty way of getting around in the world.  I also believe that I realized that being carried around everywhere I went was a grand idea, and in addition to that I was having food delivered to me at my command. Sort of like a very early version of UberEats without needing a cell phone. Granted the menu was pretty limited, but what did I care? I didn't know at the time what type of food I disliked (fried chicken, green peppers to name a couple).

Thirdly, (and this directly relates to number two) is that I weighed a whopping 10 pounds, 7 ounces when I was birthed. I was a fat baby that turned into a fat child, and then a fat teenager, and finally a fat adult. I made early attempts to blame the wolf that raised me for this, as she is a stout woman, and I also blamed my metabolism which allows me to walk past a donut and gain five pounds (eating it would add another 3), but the real truth is that I am just a fat, lazy cunt that doesn't like to exercise, and likes to eat like a horse. However, being tubby coupled with a bit of a funny walk, did lead to me being bullied a lot at school. My early years were not exactly pleasant because of it, and in today's millennial world I could probably sue the school back into the stone age. Fat kids get bullied a lot, and the only real solution is not become a former fat kid, a solution that is easier said than done. Being chubby and bullied also leads to a retardation of one's social skills. The ability to make friends (even with other social misfits) is stunted, and usually you just end up reading a literal shit ton of books. This is how I handled being a fat kid.

The town in which I was born is M____, T*.  It was, at the time, a town of about 7800 people, and it was a shithole then and is a shithole now. Sadly, it was the "big" town in the county in which I was born, raised, and educated, that should give you a clue as to the wilderness it which I spent my formative years. Socially awkward, economically challenged, and physically stout is no way to go through life. Formative year birthday parties did not include 15 of my closest friends (since I had like only 2 friends), a clown, or a cake. They were not ignored, but weren't exactly an occasion. They were just a day in the life, not a school day, so I got to be unbullied, but that was a small mercy for the isolation of having no actual friends living within miles of me.

The other problem I faced became apparent to me only years later, that problem was the wolf that raised me had decided to have the progeny of an absolute asshole. The man that nature would have me call Father (but not Dad, that's a big difference) was a drunken dickhead, which I guess proves the theory that the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree. I didn't like him, and I don't mourn his death which happened several years ago. The world, such as it is, is a better place now that he is no longer around.  For reasons passing understanding the wolf that raised me stayed married to this dickhead until his demise. Perhaps she took the whole "death till we part" thing a bit more literally than the rest of it, or perhaps she thought he had a trust fund stashed somewhere that would make her wealthy when he croaked (he didn't), or maybe she stayed together "for the children", and by the time we were grown just lack the intestinal fortitude to leave him, or maybe she had to stay with him because his salary, small as it was, was the only way to keep my fat ass fed. I've never asked her, and I doubt that I ever will, mainly because I do not think she would tell me the truth (another inherited trait).

Much like an actual wolf cub, as a child of a fractured household I was able to sense that fracture, and had to eventually pick a side. Children (in my opinion, I don't have any of the little buggers myself) are like animals in the way they can sense discord, and cake. I had an unique ability to figure out when "mommy and daddy" (terms I did not use) were fighting, and an equally unique ability to find cake. The shit show of my parent's marriage led me to the considered, and firmly held belief that "staying for the kids" is a sure fire way to fuck up your children. They will be forced to pick a side in the uncivil war raging in front of them, and either side they pick will be wrong. It isn't a Morton's  Fork or a Hobson's choice, it is merely a dilemma that has no right answer.  However, I recognize that this is a very personal opinion of mine, and I try (not always with success) to not foist that opinion upon other people. It is difficult because this is, in fact, a core opinion of mine, and I have precious few core opinions. Lacking both children, and a wife (had one, lost one) I understand that I might not be the best "life coach."

I also share a birthday with a fellow named Eric Blair, whom we all know better as George Orwell. My claim to fame, which doesn't really exist, will always pale in comparison. I have repeatedly said that the literary father of this blog is Dostoevsky, after all that is where my nom de plume is taken from.  However, recently I have become slightly disabused of this notion, and am beginning to wonder if perhaps this blog has two other "fathers" or at least kindly uncles. Those being Orwell, and Baudelaire. A bit of a stretch, and probably a bit of an insult to those two lovely fellows, but as one ages (which is what birthdays do to you) one evolves at least in theory. I don't think I will ever lose the love of Dostoevsky that I had as a youth, and Ivan Karamazov remains a "hero" of mine, but as time passes (and that's what time does, pass) the clarion call of Dostoevsky becomes harder and harder to hear. Maybe literary influences are like other relationships over a period of years you grown apart from them, or maybe I am just giving myself way too much credit, which is the more likely of those two scenarios. 

Therefore, as the years pass and you realize like Lt. Colonel Nicholson in "The Bridge on the River Kwai" that you are nearer the end than the beginning, you begin to look back at your life and wonder if your being here made any real difference at all. That if your existence had never been actualized would the world in general be one jot better or worse. Then you begin to wonder that even with your existence coming into being (which is, in fact, the case) has it made the world better or worse? Have you affected anybodies life in anyway. You like to hope that you have, you may, if you are not an actual villain, hope you've affected many people in nothing but positive ways, and that you are universally loved. That latter bit is unlikely, but it is a pleasant enough thing to hope for, even if it is pretty much impossible to achieve.  

Of course the circumstances of one's birth, and the short (or long) straw that life gives you need not be dispositive of your life. After all, at some point you get the option to throw off the shackles that childhood placed upon you and start becoming the person you want yourself to be. Sometimes that may require running back to the wolf that raised you and asking lots of tough questions, or sometimes it might mean cutting the cord from that period of your life, and reinventing yourself as something other that the sum of the parts life handed you. Becoming your own version of Frankenstein's monster is always an option, just be careful in the cutting.

Your burden, you bear it

My name is unimportant or rather it was until I turned him in to the Third Section. Now, my name is on some very incriminating documents that he, and the circle of friends that will soon be arrested with him, will read, and (hopefully) be slightly surprised that I am the one responsible for their downfall. Strictly speaking, that isn't true they are responsible for their own fate, just like the rest of us. Their little "insurgency" and the circle of people who were involved knew the risks they were taking when they started to take them. I don't feel sorry for them, nor do I bemoan their fate(s). They broke several rules of the conspiracy game, the main one being don't get too big too fast, the other critical one is to vet the people you are letting into your circle very, very, closely.

Conspiracies of the type this lot were planning are not meant to be fast growing like the bamboo plant. Too much, too soon and mistakes are bound to be made, and if you are the one making these mistakes the price is very, very high. If they were French, we would ship them off to Devil's Island, and France would be done with them. If they were Irish, we would transport them to Van Diemen's Land, and move on to the next group of wild eyed revolutionaries that need to be suppressed. But they aren't they are not getting shipped via boat anywhere, they will have to trudge thousands of kilometers to the Artic wasteland that the Motherland has deemed suitable as the world's largest open air prison. That, if they are lucky, will be their fate. The facts, as I reported them to the Third Section, are far from all being gathered, and it is my humble opinion that the majority of them will be stood up against a very convenient public wall and shot. An example to others as the saying goes.

As another saying goes, "that is them problem, not a me problem" my problems the ones that led me to turning my coat, and taking the sovereign's coin to send foolish (but brave) men to their cruel fates, are a bit more mundane. I am not, despite how this looks, a bad person. I am not, despite the number of times I've been called it, a cunt. Not that I am some angel either, I don't help little old ladies across the street, and I don't love my mother as much as I perhaps should. I am somewhere in the half light between do gooder, and absolute bastard, the half light that, in my opinion, bathes the majority of the world's population. A boy's got to pay the rent, and food is, on occasion, a nice thing to have, and the Third Section (those light blued uniformed bastards) know this, it is one of their main tools of recruitment, the other being people who just like to get other people in trouble, and don't care if the rumors they tell the Third Section have any basis in truth whatsoever.

Therein lies the difference, I took the state's coin because I needed the money. Don't for a second think I enjoyed it. Becoming a company man is not a pleasant experience, and I do not recommend it. However, I do not recommend starving to death either it is also an unpleasant experience, which is why I chose not to do it. My other defense is that they were actually guilty. Their plan to overthrow the regime, free the peasants, and start a New Order, while naive and destined to be a glorious failure, was still treason. This is something that I fear history will forget when it comes to be written, and I will be (unfairly in my view) be condemned to either its dustbin, or to a special place in its hall of villains. I am also fairly certain, that since at least one member of this group is a very bright literary fellow that he will make a defense that will be eloquent enough to throw some doubt on my reports of his treason. That is why you take good notes, and write things down. You might have a memory that borders on total recall, but you aren't going to live forever, nor are you going to always be around when your name is being mentioned as a lying, cheating bastard that probably doesn't love his mother.

As I write these words, they are somewhere in some dark, and dank prison cell trying to sort out how the actual fuck this happened to them. They have little to no clue as to how careless they were, and no idea who "betrayed" them. They will see it as a betrayal, they will curse my name (when they find it out) and damn me forever in their letter, diaries,and memories, if they survive to create any of them. That is risk I have to assume, and come to grips with once I became an informer. It is a dirty business, and you have to do some dirty things in the process, but again a boy's got to pay the rent. I am not so naive to think that the Third Section is done with me. After all, I got them their men, and that is what those bastards want. They don't care how, they aren't overmuch worried as to why, they just want results, and the day I stop providing them results, is the day that I either go back to starving, or the day I find myself in a cell of my own. It is the informer's curse be useful, or we will find a use for you, i.e. make an example of you for the encouragement of others.

It will soon become a fine line. I console myself with the fact that this particular group of fools was actually committing treason, and I take my coin not with pleasure, but with the knowledge that I did a job that needed doing, and I did it well. But what of next time? Treason doesn't, in spite of what the suspicious bastards in Third Section think, grow on trees. Certainly, this lot weren't the first group to want to rebel against the crown, and be cut down for it, nor will they be the last. But, are there really that many groups like them festering in our fair land? If there are not then perhaps.... (nice try Third Section, but I am not so foolish as to write down my "treasonous" thoughts). The enduring problem is that eventually I am going to outlive my usefulness to the Third Section, and will probably then starve, but at least the wolf is kept from the door for the nonce.

I can only imagine the terror, surprise and finally anger when the group of people I have turned in read the warrants and the reports with my name attached. A sense of betrayal will certainly sink in, and perhaps, if any of them survive, I may have to spend some time in the future looking over my shoulder for one of them bent on revenge. Luckily for me, the sentence(s) they are facing involve either them not being a problem for anyone ever again, or at least not for a very long time. The best they can hope for is exile to the wasteland that provides its own set of challenges to survival. Disease, neglect, and a less than sturdy constitution may take care of several, if not all of them. Still, I will do periodic checks on them (if they aren't shot) to make sure that I am not wandering down the street one day and walk "accidentally" into a knife that has "my name on it" fifteen or sixteen times.

For now, I will try to obscure my tracks, go back to being some relatively unknown nobody, and see if perhaps there is life after one turns one's coat. I certainly hope so, the good news, if there is any good news, is the turning of my coat is not going to be broadcast in the daily papers. That would defeat the purpose of the Third Section.. They will splash the lurid details of the "major conspiracy" that threatened the "very core of our government" and all the other buzz words that will make citizens feel safe in their beds. Those citizens don't have to know the more mundane details, that this group of people were so idealistic in their thinking that their "master plan" could  not have toppled a house of cards.

However, they will spend their time, if they are not shot, in the House of the Dead, and I will continue to be useful to the Third Section until am I not, then I may join them or I may sail away to Singapore in the hopes of finding a new life one far, far from the maddening crowd. However, until that day arrives one must just wait and hope.