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this place

Thinking about my writing and what I actually want to do with it makes me feel quite crappy. I’ve got to get this shit on somewhere else aside from my blog, particularly since I feel like I need some truly constructive criticism. Of course, there’s the annoying bit about my total lack of confidence and self-belief…

This one is, well, quite different from my usual tripe. There’s no plot to speak of (not that my “stories” have plots anyway), and I think it would work better as a single chapter in a novel, or part of said chapter or part of a short story. Or, hell, even a Burroughs-esque “routine”.

Now there’s an idea (which I will probably never actually get to work on): construct a narrative thread and write roughly 1000-word “routines”/chapters like this to slowly expand on that thread, move forward and tell a haphazard, slightly odd story, skipping here and there as my fancy takes me, have other people help edit the tripe I churn out and make it slightly more cohesive.

Kinda like Naked Lunch . . .

. . . but crappier.

Anyway, enjoy?

everything about this place is shit. the food: either too bland or too salty and oftentimes downright disgusting-tasting; always looks like utter shit, all sloppy and grey and dull and utterly depressing. I can’t even get myself to lift the fork and knife when my plate is set down in front of me with all the grace of a palestinian throwing a rock through a van’s windows. it’s that depressing. but hunger always gets the best of me and I end up eating regardless. the vegetables look like pathetic blobs of green somethings and the chicken is rarer than rare and sometimes still bleeds when I cut through it with the knife. delicious. very, very delicious indeed.

I nearly always have to wash down that tripe with beer . . . beer which tastes like — in the immortal words of the specials — piss, and has no redeeming value whatsoever. if I could urinate enough to fill up a whole jug (I need to drink that much just to wash the food down, even more if I actually want to quench my thirst) I would just drink my piss instead of drinking something that only tastes like it, but isn’t actually it, but I can’t urinate that much. unless I make it into a once-a-week thing, maybe then I could manage it. surely I can urinate enough over the course of a week to fill up one jug? perhaps I shall try to find out.

I would rather drink tap water, even, but no-one here seems to understand that there is such a thing as that. plain, clear water. who’da thunk that? not them, definitely, oh not them. I never mention it to them because I know that they’ll look at me with that strange look they give homosexuals and drug addicts . . . that look that says “are you crazy?” without them actually having to say anything. that look. I hate that look, so I never bring it up and drink my piss, sorry, beer in silence. admittedly, after a few glasses the taste becomes less disagreeable, probably because by then it’s laid (temporary) waste to my taste buds, like an emp shockwave does to electronics.

the people are shit, too: the living dead have more charisma than them, except with worse skin and hair and body odour and mental capacity, although I have a feeling that most days you’d be hard-pressed to tell the difference between your average mindless, putrefied zombie and the mindless fucks I have to deal with here. but their limbs stay firmly attached to their bodies, which is a good thing, I guess, when you’re trying to force shit (read: food) down your throat and into your stomach just to stop from dying of hunger. beggars can’t be choosers, though, and I am the worst, most pitiful kind of beggar there is. so I’ll put up with them, it’s the least I can do, and the most I want to.

particularly, significantly, and horribly, the girls aren’t even pretty. how sad is that? anorexic deluded bulimic supermodel-wannabes with aspirations to be able to “walk in the snow and not soil its purity” and look like kate moss in the 1990s heroin chic phase, all jutting bones and dark circles under their eyes, dressed in panties with their bony legs for the world to see. you’d think they’d at least actually pick up the habit, you know? it would help with the authenticity. you can find heroin on every street corner these days, it’s no big deal. hell, I could help. I would. just walk up to the man in shades, head glancing down each of the roads that intersect in front of him, looking for a customer, a friend or looking out for The Man, out to get him. always out to get him.

walk up to him and tell him what you want. he tells you to wait, and you do. until he comes back with what you want, whereupon the both of you re-enact a scene from shakespeare’s hamlet (or any other overrated play by any other overrated, long-dead english playwright) before going your separate ways, drugs in your pocket and money in his. and both of you dance little jigs of delight at getting what you want, what you really really want.

(of course, I don’t know this for a fact. it’s what a friend of a friend of a friend of an acquaintance tells me, and as we all know, friends of friends of friends of acquaintances are always right. the farther away you get from the source the truer it becomes: it’s the way the world works now. my dear grandfather’s probably rolling in his grave right now. “what has the world become?” he’s saying while gritting his teeth and shaking his head randomly as if he was having a seizure, epileptic or something else. “what has the world become?” he repeats, over and over [he always did that, once repeated a phrase 20 times before he could think of another phrase. dear old grandpa, I don’t miss you one single bit.])

but I digress.

this place, wherever and whatever it is, it doesn’t look nice, either, and I’m not sure which looks worse: the food, the girls or the combination of tacky paisley wallpaper, (obviously) fake antique furniture bought at a garage sale (for a grand total of $50 [too much, methinks] plus a leaky aquarium) and pointless lighting (why is it that the brightest part of this place is the doorway?). in fact, the combination of all three elements might be enough to — given proper conditions like a perfect alignment of planets, a full moon and a flock of seagulls flying by the window at exactly 7.06 a.m. — end all wars, topple all dictatorships and resolve all conflicts, no matter how important or petty, via the forces of sheer, undeniable and uncombatable ugliness.

you don’t want to visit this place, I assure you. best stay away and visit the places you usually visit, enjoy your respective “this place”s and I hope to god they aren’t as bad as this one. if they are then I can empathise and sympathise . . . but you won’t get any help from me, no, ‘cos I’ll be too busy surviving this place. you didn’t expect anything less, did you? surely you didn’t expect me to reach out to you, stretch my arms (already an impossibility) and comfort you across the many, many miles between you and I? let you cry on my shoulder while I cradle you in my arms and whisper sweet nothings of reassurance into your ear?

no, of course not. what a stupid thing to say.

I know, maybe some of you are asking why I keep coming to and staying at this place, keep seeing the same people and eating the same shit and drinking the same shit and complaining about the same old things, and that’s a valid question . . . a question I sometimes ask myself and can never answer either. but there’s no other place for me to go to, no other place for me.

this is, after all, home sweet home.

I wrote this in pretty much one sitting (although I will admit that my first draft had a crappy ending which I re-did the next day, the only modifications I did after the initial sitting) with minimal thought and minimal fretting over my sentences and prose, like I was either dictaing or just letting my fingers move and type out whatever my mind came up with. In a sense, this was perhaps a bit of steam-of-consciousness writing. Didn’t even bother to capitalize properly either, and if OpenOffice’s writer didn’t automatically capitalize my “I”‘s then there wouldn’t be any capital letters at all.

It was also written under the influence of (haha) William Burroughs’ Naked Lunch (which I have now finished), and, thus, perhaps there’s a bit of Burroughs in there, and maybe even some Kerouac, too?

I really wouldn’t know for sure.

Categories: prose and poetry
  1. Ilyayaya
    May 6, 2008 at 09:54

    I absolutely love the whole “aneroxic deluded bulimic supermodel-wannabes” thing.


    Kate moss in the 1990’s heroic chic phase, ey?

    Kudos, much kudos.

    Question though. Is this how you sub-consciously view your life as? Hmm?

  2. azzief
    May 6, 2008 at 13:24

    Not directly. Sure, I’m not a happy fuck (far from it, most days) but I hold no hatred towards life.

    Just myself.

  3. peachdrug
    May 6, 2008 at 23:38

    I can’t confirm your comparisons since I haven’t read any from those authors (yes, I fail really bad).

    I prefer this more than your previous one because it’s not dragged, and it produces more ideas more frequently than the other. I prefer this one than the other, heh.


  4. azzief
    May 6, 2008 at 23:54

    You should, like, familiarize yourself with Kerouac and Burroughs, like, NAO.


    I can’t help but notice you said “other”. I’ve written more than just the last one, y’know. Unless you’re comparing directly, that is.

    And, yeah, I always felt like a lot of my work dragged on a bit. I like it, I guess, but it all drags so much, partly, perhaps, due to me trying to be poetic and stuff. And because I never have any real plots or stuff. I guess in my attempts to actually not write simple 500-word vignettes I kinda went overboard with stuff.

    It’s something I feel like I want to work on but really somehow never do. At the risk of sounding overly emo, I really do suck at actually working on things and improving or changing. Wouldn’t know how to, anyway.

    And, if anything, I write “scenes”, not “stories”.

    Also, thanks~

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