Serge and his Apples

"She told me I would find you here" the skinny kid who just slid into my booth on a bleary Thursday afternoon said with some smugness. "She? who in the actual fuck is she boy? That is what the stricter among us call an unattached pronoun. I know and have known a lots of "shes" in my life boy, and I've no time for guessing games with some whelp such as yourself." That took a bit of the smugness out of him, and he tried again "s.s.she said to say the one without brown eyes." I narrowed my own eyes at that comment, and replied "well that does shrink the field considerably, and given that today is Thursday, I believe I know this mysterious "she" of which you speak. Alright lad you up for a walk? Where we need to go is about a 4 mile walk from here, and I need the exercise, or so the quack that pretends to be my doctor tells me." He nodded silently and slid out of the booth, as I did the same on my side and beckoned him to follow. I had hoped that he wouldn't but I was already resigned to the fact that he would. They all do.

I was taking the piss out him on purpose the "hike" I  took him on was twice the length it needed to be, I took the scenic route, if such a thing can be said to exist in this shit hole of a city in which I dwell, but I figured that I really did need the exercise, and if he gave up after 2 miles or so I could just go back to my bar, and my pints.  Sadly, he didn't give up and we eventually arrived at our destination. A market square, if such a thing could still be considered to exist in this world, and the stall we were looking for was where it always was, tucked away in a corner leaning drunkenly against the wall of some pawn shop, and trying to look respectable.  It was not doing a good job of it, and when I pointed it out to the boy, it took him a minute to find it. I begin to wonder if "she" had sent me a dunce on purpose, it would be just something "she" would do. We had that type of complex relationship, or at least I thought it was complex. I never really got around to asking her, what her views on it were. Probably because I was afraid the answer might distress me, and I try not to cause myself too much distress.

"That, boy, is Serge, and that is his apple cart/barrow. Not much to look at is it?" He took a long look, now that he was looking in the right direction, nodded and replied "this is what she sent me to you to find, a fucking apple cart, manned by what appeared to be a homeless man? What in the actual fuck can be so important about an apple cart?" I sighed, and cursed her under my breath, she was really going to have to start sending me people with at least a modicum of common sense, or I was going to have to find a new place to not be found. "Take a closer look, you mouth breathing idiot, and see if you notice anything unusual about Serge's cart of apples." He squinted a bit, probably half blind as well as a half wit, and finally after what seemed an eternity said "wait he's not selling apples is he? No, lad he's not, our boy Serge despite outward appearances is not a seller of apples." I tapped him on the shoulder, "you've seen enough I think, and the walk has made me thirsty, I know a pub around here that pours a proper pint, and you owe me one for all the education you're about to receive. Let's go before Serge spots us, he's a little bit more observant that he looks."

Safely ensconced in the new watering hole with two half way decent pints in front of us, I looked at him and said "so, junior what do you make of our boy Serge, has "she" told you anything of substance about him, or am I going to have to start from the beginning. I hate starting from the beginning every single time she sends me one of you lot."  I could tell he wasn't fond of me referring to him as junior, and made a mental note to continue to do it just to get a rise out of him. "No, she told me quite a bit about Serge, like for starters that isn't his real name, but she has no idea what his real name is. I smirked "few of us do, and that is the way Serge wants it, and Serge isn't exactly the type you want to cross in some back alley, hell I don't want to cross him in the middle of a public square in broad daylight. I happen to be one of the few who do know his real name, but you'll not get it off of me."

"One thing to never, ever forget junior, is you can't trust Serge. As far as I can tell Serge cares only about two things; himself, and his apples. Forget that, and it is all likely to end in tears, and those tears will be yours not his. That is the best advice I can give you in relation to Serge, and it might be the only bit that is worth following. Serge is a slippery bastard, and he treats every person he meets differently. He has some long winded explanation as to why he does it, but over the years I just stopped listening to it. He generally treats me a like I'm a proper cunt, and he's not precisely wrong. I just don't take it too personally, because one thing Serge isn't is too personal." I wasn't sure how much of what I was saying was sinking into his thick skull because he kept the same neutral (or was it bored) expression on his face, but that wasn't really a "me" problem. He could listen to any, part, or none of what I had to say and take any, part, or none of it as truth. I certainly couldn't care less, and besides part of it was certainly not true. Never tell the entire truth to one person, it just makes things complicated when things go tits up, and thing almost always go tits up.

"The point of Serge and his apples, as far as I am able to tell, is that he collects them, like little kids with baseball cards or spinster aunts with matchbooks of bars in exotic places they will never visit. He, as you were correct in pointing out, does not sell his apples. Whether they be Akero apples from Sweden, Golden Nobles from England, Granny Smiths from the US, or any of the other 750 plus types of edible apples in the world, once Serge gets it, he keeps it, or so the story goes. He raised a questioning eyebrow at this last bit, and before he could open his mouth to say something particularly stupid, I raised a forestalling hand, and said before you start with your idiotic questions, I'll go ahead and answer them for you to save me the trouble of listening to you stammer over them. "It is more likely the reason you've been send to me, and I guess she didn't bother telling you that. Typical of her sending a fool off on an errand with as little information as possible. Did she at least tell you what she wants you to do in regards to Serge?"

"Only vaguely" he replied." She seems to have some sort of grudge against him, but wouldn't tell me what it was about or what exactly I was supposed to do. I don't know if she wants him kill, in which case I am not the man for the job, or she just wants some type of vague revenge on him." I smiled "no lad, you are not the man that will take Serge out of this world, that person's identity has already been decided, and you'd be a damn fool to try it. Of course she wouldn't give you too many detailed instructions before she sent you to me, she does that just to annoy the shit out of me, and as usual it has worked." He arched an eyebrow "wait, you mean I'm not the first person she has sent to you about Serge and his apples?" "No you damn fool, you aren't and you probably won't be the last, but that isn't exactly the point. Though I am not sure exactly what the point is anymore. But, since you are here and are paying for these pints, whether you know it or not, I'll give you a quick crash course on Serge and his apples. Speaking of go get us another pint junior, this is going to be thirsty work."

He wandered off to the bar, and I began to wonder how much she wanted me to tell him, I didn't know him from Adam, and even though I'd known her for years, she had become a stranger to me recently, and I wasn't sure if his visit to me was a genuine request for help, or some sort of test that I was surely destined to fail. One of the many things I have become skilled at in my lifetime is failing tests, especially ones that I wasn't sure I was taking or not. Luckily, the line at the bar was long enough for me to formulate the answer to the self asked question of how much to tell him. It was going to be dicey to tell him anything because first of all, he seemed a bit of an idiot. Secondly he was going to run back to her and tell her everything I said which I was sure he would garble, and lastly I wasn't exactly sure about Serge's role in all of this. This being a very broad term for life in general, and mine in particular. He finally made it back to the table with our pints, sat himself and them down, and with a look of expectation said "You going to tell me the mysteries of Serge and his fucking apples or not?"

I pointed at his beer, and said "Don't let that liquid courage let you get ideas above your station junior, I don't owe you a fucking thing. My loyalty, such as it is, is to her not to you, so calm down, and try, just try, to keep a civil tongue in your head." He seemed to understand his misstep, and merely nodded his agreement. "Good, now that we've an understanding of the general situation I will give you the information you need. It might not fully satisfy you, but I really give fuck all about you or your satisfaction. As you so cleverly noticed, Serge doesn't sell apples, or at least he's never sold one to me, nor have I seen him sell one ever in the time I've known him, and I've known him a long, long time. No, our boy Serge is more of a collector of apples than a merchant of apples, and I am fairly certain that by now he has a fairly decent sized collection of apples to his name. However, the story goes, and I've not been able to confirm it yet, that Serge once upon a time trusted someone with one of his apples, and it ended poorly. Very, very poorly for Serge. The precise details are a bit fuzzy, and a couple of them can't be proved or disproved with any degree of certainty, but the general theory is that Serge, the man who didn't trust anyone finally made the mistake we all make, and trusted someone. It was, for that mad bastard, quite the Kierkegaardian leap of faith, and like most leaps of faith it ended in tears."

"Serge himself will tell you, if you get him drunk enough, that he was wrong for what he did. In a rare case of accepting responsibility for what he has done, which for him is very, very rare, he will say that the reason he has amassed so many apples is because he didn't trust anyone, and that people who knew him, knew that. That was his selling point, it certainly wasn't his sunshine like personality or good looks. But it would appear that our boy Serge is, despite his repeated attempts to not be, human and therefore a sucker. He gave away one of his apples to the wrong person, and his whole apple cart had a terrifying moment of near complete upset before he (barely) managed to keep it from collapsing entirely, at least so far. There are those among us that aren't exactly sure that Serge is keeping his apples in nice little stacks like he used to, and that makes quite a few of us nervous, myself included. For you see, junior, Serge has a considerable number of my apples in his collection, and that is why she sent you here. To make sure that I don't do anything untoward to Serge to trigger the complete upsetting of his apple cart. It is her making sure that I am still stable, and on the path of the "righteous" smart people, and not going off the rails entirely. Therefore, lad, finish your beer, pay our tab and get the fuck out of my sight. Tell her that I've not gone as crazy as she thinks I have, and that, for the nonce, I am sober, sane, and safely under control. Whose control I am under is not, as of yet, any of her business."

He nodded, finished his beer, and got the fuck out of my sight. I don't know if he will get the full message through to her or not, because again I think he's an idiot, but if the gist of it gets passed along then it will have to do. I hope, for my own sake, that he gets it through to her that I am not quite the fool she used to know, and that the slumbering loyalty I once had to her has re-awakened, and perhaps that will be enough to repair things between us. I don't hold out much hope, but then again I've never been the hopeful type, hopeful types, even one time hopeful types like Serge, end up with bastards like me looking over their shoulders, and the last thing I need is a bastard like me in my affairs. I wandered back to my usual watering hole, ordered a pint, and thought well at least I should have some peace until Monday, because Monday was the day the other one usually sent their lackey around to check on Serge and his apples.

précédent titulaire des mêmes droits

He is asleep, it is something that he hasn't done much of in the recent months. The months you've been killing him slowly, but for now he is asleep. While I've gotten him asleep, and it took a whole lot of alcohol to do, I am going to write this down for him. In fact, the only way I've seen him sleep in the last three months is either getting him black out drunk, or just finally becoming so exhausted that he collapsed. This is what you've done to him, I hope you are enjoying it.  What makes it worse (in my opinion) is you know you're doing this to him, you know what it is that is keeping him awake at all hours of the day and night, you know what is gnawing away at his insides like a dog at a bone, and yet you refuse to give him the truth. The answer he knows, but still somehow needs you to confirm in order to move on with his so-called life (his words, not mine). Of all your crimes, and he has told me about them make no mistake,  this is your worst one. I can only hope that it is worth it and that you are proud of yourself.

Given the stories about you that he has shared, and the things I can suss out for myself, I am convinced you are proud of yourself. It is what you do. The thing(s) you did to him that is. He is overly fond of the expression "if people were horses, I'd be rich", but I truly think that his prediction of you is accurate to an amazing degree. However, that is his story to tell, this will be mine. You won't enjoy either one, and that is ever so fine with me. I don't want you to enjoy them, I want you to "suffer" for your crimes, we are not friends, we will never be friends, and I don't think, even if the chance presented itself (which it won't) we should ever meet. I am not exactly a member of your fan club, just to be clear.  There are people who are (you know), members of your fan club, people you've bamboozled into thinking you're the kind hearted type who loves her mother, Jesus, and America, and are the dutiful employee/daughter/friend/lover that is above all the dirty little secrets that seem to permeate your environment. You're not, and from what I can tell of his, mostly drunken, ravings there are a surprising number of people who agree that you are not the saint you externalize. Few of us are, but you seem to take a particular pride in attempting to occupy the moral high ground. Just make sure the moral high ground doesn't turn into a "hill to die on." Things look different from higher up, or so they say, but it is from high terrain such as the moral high ground that a lot of people fall, and the higher the ground the further the fall.

It is from those drunken ravings of his that I have gleaned most of the information I have about you, watching him, the person I now know as the Romantic, desperately try to explain to me (an almost stranger) that "he's going to kill me you know, he is going to murder me" was very difficult to understand, and as I began to know him better, very difficult to hear. Of course, he was raving drunk, and going on about the Rationalist, the one he thought was going to kill him, but even his amazing ability to predict people isn't infallible, and he didn't realize the identity of his killer would be you. We can't all be perfect, but I suspect you know that already don't you?  The biggest problem with that particular rant is that it was in public, and getting his drunk ass out of there was a task that I did not particularly enjoy, I blame you. Not that I suspect you care, sure you told him you did, you told him how worried you were about his not sleeping, and you knew him well enough to see him unraveling before you, but I just don't think you cared enough to help stop it. I am fairly convinced you could have, stopped it that is, and it is a bit of a puzzler to me why you didn't just tell him what he wanted to hear, and move on with your story, it would have helped him move on with his.

Instead, you kept silent and now his story seemed to be stuck in some sort of self-destructive loop. Many people have told him to stop kicking the shit out of himself (me included), but as far as I can tell not one of us (me included) have figured out a way to make that unhappen. He is, as you and others know and like to point out to him, his own worst enemy, and the biggest explosions generally come from the inside rather than from an outside source. You might be the fuse but, the jumble inside his head is the dynamite. I can see that you know? I can see him when we are out having the drinks required to get him unconscious the moments when he 'disappears' inside his own head. He thinks he hides it well, but then again why wouldn't he think that? It is a certain far away look that appears in his eyes that give away the fact that he is trapped inside his own head tearing the mental furniture to shreds, and engaged in yet another vicious battle in the war against himself. The problem with that war, the war that is probably still raging in his fitful sleep as I lie next to him, is that the only loser possible is, in fact, him. That is tragic to the rest of us, but for reasons he can only explain, he seems to find funny.

He likes to think the lack of sleep has made him numb, he's wrong but I don't have the heart to tell him that. Maybe if I had your ability to walk away from disasters of my own creation I could tell him, but I have yet to figure out that skill.  He's not only not numb he's emoting like a godsdamn 15 year old schoolgirl, it is (so I've been told) quite unlike him, and I don't know what to think/do about it. Perhaps all those emotions just need to come out like the water behind a dam, and when the flow stops, he will be back to as normal as an emotional cripple like him can ever be. Or maybe the flood will drown him, and anybody in his path. I rather hope the latter isn't true, because I am, clearly, in his path. I can see what a number you did on him, and the hard landing he is trying ever so much to soften has, as he likes to put it, "broken the springs of his soul." But you know that already, because he told you that. He has to turn you into a monster in the hopes that eventually he can heal himself. I am not sure the world is sweet or tender enough to allow that to happen.

He's muttering now in his sleep, and most of it is utterly nonsense, or too unintelligible to understand one of the only words I can ever hear clearly is your name. Have you ever had a man utter another woman's name while in bed with you? Even if I know the reason(s), even if I understand it is a by-product of the struggle within, it still smarts. Maybe you've never had that experience, though for reasons I'll not share, I rather expect you have. If you have (and I rather hope you have) you will know that it doesn't endear you to me, I don't hate you exactly because hate is something best reserved for people that have wronged you in some major way, and in theory you've done me no actual harm, but I can certainly say there are several not so nice words I would like to say to your face.

It is a tribute to your destructive skills, that I am able to even get to write this, his control (which people have told me is iron clad) is slipping so much that I gained access to his computer because I found him passed out in front of it. He had written some half of a blog post before he drifted off to sleep/passed out, and so here I am with unfettered access to the kingdom of him. He will probably be furious when he finds out, and I will probably get a slating, but I felt the need to write these things down on his behalf, because he could never bring himself to do it, and it needs doing. Not for you mind, I don't care one little whit about your feelings (if you have them), but for his sake. The sake of the fellow you left behind to do what it is you're doing. Make no mistake, he knows what you are doing, has known, and that is the rub. It is the awful realization that he was right that is tearing him to shreds. I can only hope that when he is done, there will be enough of him to put back together again. However, that, as he would put it, is "a J___ problem" and it need not worry you overmuch. I somehow doubt that it does, but I thought I'd be polite (this once) and let you know that your input in the rebuilding is not necessary.

Morning is kicking in the door on this new day of misery for him, and my time in control of this blog is drawing quickly to an end. I am not the wit he is, I don't think I have the pithy ending that would both sting you (which I would very, very much like to do), or make you feel some sort of guilt for what you've done (maybe you do, I doubt it). There are many, many things I'd like to say to your face about this, but I know that will never happen, and isn't a good idea even if I had the chance. I can only hope that he survives this, he's a lot stronger than he thinks, and other than me he has some really, truly awesome people in his life.  It was his mistake (and he would say that it is his mistake, let him make it) that for a considerable length of time he thought you were a different kind of horse.

successeur dans l'intérêt

 This was, I thought, the last thing the Romantic ever wrote. It turns out I was wrong. It's not very good, but I feel it should be published. After all, he wrote it in the throes of dying, and we all want that "don't let it end like this, tell them I said something" moment.




You won't thank me for this even if you bother to read it, which knowing you as well as I do, I know that you won't.  I have been assured that I can't  know you because you don't exist and that you are a figment of the imagination of my demons. Demons that come out from under the bed, or out of the closet at 3 a..m. to raise hell with my logical, unsuspecting mind. If I am wrong, (which I'm not) the sentiment is the same to the eventual fool be they friend or stranger who takes the position I once held. That position will be filled, because that is just the nature of things, it is just a question of when, not if. The who only matters in the scheme of whether I'm as good as puzzling things out as I think I am (and I am, forget that to your cost). Therefore, this is mostly an exercise in futility, which is fine because you will, when you "exist" officially or not, soon enough figure out that your newly minted status will also be that as well, futile to the point of despair. However, that will be a "you" problem at the time it happens, and while I hope to be around to see it, I am quite sure I will give exactly zero fucks when it does. This is the only attempt at "help" you will get from me, and since I won't publish it directly to you, and you are too lazy to read it, it is the exact amount of help you deserve. Which is to say none. I never claimed to be a nice person, but (if you exist and you are who I think you are) you "know me so well" that you knew that already. I will do you the favour (that you don't deserve), and tell you what will be the outcome of your new adventure. She will do to you what she did to me (which is you), because how do you think I got to precede you? She will make a muppet out you just like she did me,because people are sometimes horses, and it pays to know past performances, they do sometimes predict the future. 

 You should enjoy being my "successeur dans l'interet." It isn't a bad gig at first, and you are in that first bloom. Everything is new, and whatever trick you pulled to become the new one is still working. I know the trick I used, but I am not sure it will work for everyone, and I am not exactly sure if it would work on her again. I suspect that the length of my "reign" would make her less likely to fall for my trick again. The good news is that I think she is more likely to fall for a simpler trick than the one I used. Whatever trick you use(d), it will work for a while,  and during that time you are going to have a whole shit ton of fun in the place where we all want these things to go. You'll get there (I suspect you probably already have, but I've no proof), and you will get there many times. It will be a mind blowing (among other things) experience. You will swear all sorts of lies during that time, and so will she. She will rave about the "best they've ever had" and all sorts of other nonsense that you will believe mainly because you want to believe it. You shouldn't because while I am sure you are a talented fellow (I was sure I was too), you aren't the best. No one is, in this case "best" equates to "latest." Forget that to your cost. We always believe every word that comes out of a beautiful woman's mouth, and while some people doubt the beauty of your oracle, you don't. Therefore, you'll believe that lie, and the many, many others you are going to hear, and trust me mate, you'll hear plenty of them.

The newness is sort of like buying a new car, it's shiny, it's probably a newer model than the one you had, maybe it goes a little faster, is a little sleeker, and has all sorts of bells and whistles you aren't used to because you've been driving the same car for a whole lot of years. Take the new one out on the "expressway" of life and see what she can do. Take a couple of corners too fast, and see how she handles. Spend some time in the fast lane with the throttle down, and see if you can red line it. The glorious noises she will make will add to the pleasure of driving her, and you might find yourself thinking you could get seriously used to driving this new car forever. Don't. That is exactly the point of a new car, they are fantastic to drive at first, but eventually that first payment becomes due, and the luster starts to fade. Of course, you will not be warned of that fading, in fact you will be told quite the opposite. You'll hear all sorts of wild tales (otherwise known as lies) about how you're the best driver on the road, and how you steer with just the right amount of pressure, and how amazing you are on the straightaways. Go ahead and listen to them, but never, ever believe them. Few roads are completely untraveled, and the title of this post is the title for a reason, forget that to your cost.

 If the car analogy sails too far over your head, and it's possible that it will, think of her as a racehorse, not all ponies are created equal, and there is no Daily Racing Form to help you out in this situation. Sure she has a history, but whether you are privy to that information is up to her, and she is quite possibly an unreliable narrator. The only other historical source available to you, that you have easy access to is me. And I am certainly not inclined to help you out too much, and I am certainly an unreliable narrator. However, I will give you some tidbits to ponder over, and you can sort out which bits are true, if any, later. You will have all kinds of time to do that when things go pear shaped, and things will go pear shaped.

 Keep in mind, if you can (it will be difficult) that she is built for speed, not endurance. This is a critical thing to remember. Don't bet your money as if she's a closer, she's not, she's a front runner, and one thing that all the punters at all the tracks in all the places in the world will share with you (free of charge) is that front runners fade without fail. It is quite simply what they do, and she will as well. You won't realize that, won't want to think about it, and that will be a mistake. You have to remember the posted distance of this race. If  you get confused when you see her out in front at the quarter pole, and you start to count your money too soon, well then brother you are fucked. You won't hedge your bets, because you've been dazzled by the newness and the lies, and you'll be left clutching your, now losing ticket, as forlornly as a clown that has realized the circus left town without them.

You should be extremely reticent as to the fortune those bets you placed foretell. You aren't playing with house money. The bet you placed is your own and exactly no one else has anything at stake, and the only one that can lose when your horse doesn't come in is you. The horse just walks away to the stable and awaits the next race, it is a horse, that's just what they do. Forget that to your cost. Fast women and slow ponies will ruin your life, or at least that's how the saying goes, but you're smarter than that, smarter than me (she will tell you that), and she's your horse after all, you have to trust her right? Trust her assurances that this "race" is the best she's ever run, and the other horses can't compare (she'll tell you that too, and she makes a very compelling argument), and that even on their best day they would run a distant second to her, no matter how nice some of their legs are.

It is quite possible that you think your "finish line" and mine are different, and that it makes all the difference in the world. That may be true at the moment, but I can assure you my "line" at the beginning was the same as yours probably is now. The greatest trick she will pull, and she will pull it because that is what she does, is convincing you to move your "line."If you fall for that trick, and it will be hard not to, I wish you luck getting across it. Remember what kind of pony you've bet on, and if you think it can change its running or finishing style, then you my friend are living in a fool's paradise. If it is any consolation the population is not going to solely consist of you, the bad news is that the other residents might not be the most welcoming sort. Few of us like to admit we live in a city of fools, since that requires us admitting to be a fool ourselves. Some of them might welcome you, but do you really want to spend your time with a bunch of fools? Just because they lost their money the same way you did, doesn't make them boon companion material.

Of course, as I previously stated I think I know you and therefore think you exist, but even if I don't, even if we've never met or are never destined to meet (which I think would be the preferred theory for us both), the ideas expressed here are the same. I do not plan on welcoming you to the city of her fools. I may still reside there and there is a school of thought that says a part of me will always reside there (I feel this to be true, even though it angers and saddens me at the same time). Hers is not the only city of fools that I populate, and even though it feels like it right now, hers won't be the last. Ponies want you  to think they are running their hearts out for you, and some of them even do a bang up job pretending they are, but at the end of the day they run for themselves,and sometimes even though it will harder than Chinese math, you have to let them run away from you so hurriedly. Forget that to your cost.

Disintegration: A Fragment

Before you killed him, the Romantic wrote two last things. This one which is a fragment and I post with only the comment that the person on the stairs wasn't me, and one other that I am saving for a more opportune time.



The world as I had known it, as I had believed it to be, as I partially constructed it, collapsed on a Tuesday at 1:30 in the afternoon. An odd time for a world to collapse I guess, but then again is there every really a good time for it to happen?  I'm not in some doomsday cult that predicts worlds ending on certain days due to the Mayan calendar, global warming, or too much methane coming out of cow's asses. My world collapsed when it collapsed because I found something out that I had suspected for months, and then the collapse. It ended more with a whimper than a bang, as these things are wont to do, but it ended nonetheless, and I fear that this might be the last thing I write for a while. Actually, Since  I both fear and know the Rationalist, and his feelings (if he has feelings). I am fairly convinced that this might be the last thing I ever write period. If you ever had any fondness for me, and since Tuesday I have begun to doubt that, you will read this and forget it. If you ever want to remember me, and I doubt that you will, go back and read the stuff I wrote for you back when I was wooing you. Some of that stuff is quite good, this will not meet any standard of goodness.

Knowing him as I do, and I do know him, I fear that I might not even be granted the time to finish this properly, but I will do the best I can (which has rarely been good enough), with the time allowed to me. I don't know why you did it, I will probably never know why you did it, because as I said, my time here in this collapsed world is drawing to an end. I am the Romantic, I am the guy who got you, kept you, and thought made you mine for a considerable amount of time. Even now, even after you collapsed my world like a ton of bricks falling on the first little piggy's straw hut, I won't "out" you. I will write in vague terms leaving out the identifying details that would lead to people sussing out your true identity. This is both the last favour you'll ever get off of me, and no promise that the Rationalist will do the same for you. He is a bastard, you know this, he knows this, and I know this. Bastards can be useful, and to give him something to do, I have left a lot of detailed records for him to sort through, and do with what he will. I can't stop him, but I am not exactly encouraging him. It really doesn't matter to me what he does with them, because when he finds them, I'll already be dead as dead can be, and will be past the point of caring.

Of course, there will be gaps in those records. No records are totally complete. He won't have provable evidence of the things we said to each other during those lazy, naked afternoons or those "stolen" trips out of town. He does have shared access to our collective memory, but as for those conversations well it will be his word against yours, and who is going to not believe you? Your carefully crafted, but ultimately fake, reputation for being "above it all" will stand you in good stead if the Rationalist tries to use the "my word" approach. After all, he's a cunt, and few people like him, almost everybody loves you, I did. The fact that they have the wrong impression of you, and of him for that matter, won't matter. You will smile sweetly, and say all the right things to get you through. It's what you've done for years, the several years before we were together, and several years that we were together. You're a well practiced, well drilled, well proven liar. I am certain you are of the opinion that your lies will see you through any trouble in your future, and maybe they will. You seem to come out smelling like a rose when things go pear shaped, and trust me sweetheart, this too will go pear shaped. It's what you do, make things go pear shaped with your lies, and then use another set of lies to walk away blameless. It is quite the talent, and we should all use the talents we have as much as we can, otherwise it is just a waste.

I can hear you (barely), and others (more clearly) saying "you're the Romantic your world has collapsed in the past, and yet you survived." This is entirely true after all, even I admit people have done to me what you did to me on Tuesday, but sadly for me it wasn't on this scale. You were at least three of those previous collapses rolled into one, final, devastating, and eventually fatal disaster. The awful part of it, the part that probably proves to be the fatal bit, is that you knew it.  You knew it, because my dumb ass told you. I told you the plan I was following when I met you all those years ago, a plan that would be almost 60 percent complete by now IF I hadn't met and fallen in love with you as hard as I did. I told you that too, I told you the new plan, the future plan, the happy plan, and I foolishly believed you when you agreed to it with me. More the fool to me. I won't live to see if the Rationalist reactivates the original plan or not, I suspect that he will, but again I will be as dead as dead can be (thanks to you), and I don't care.

I did say that "almost everybody" loves you, you do have people who aren't exactly fans of yours, we all do no one can live their entire lives without enemies (at least not well), and the Rationalist knows this too, I don't know (and again will be dead so can't care), what he will do with that info, but caution is a good word to live your life by, I wished I had. Ah but wait! There is the tread on the stairwell outside my door that I've been waiting for. I knew it was coming which is why this post is slip shod, I tried to get as much of it out as I could but it seems as if the devil is at the door, and since I purposefully left it unlocked there is nothing left for me to do but say good-bye my sweet.

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."