OH HELL, OH SURE!

Going to try and include the various loud shouts passing around my mind by incorporating them into a small story. Sometimes it's so easy to get frustrated over very small things. 


"Walk left, son!"

The darkness bore witness to the shouts of a family of blind people. HERECOMES ANOTHER YELLOW DOLLAR. PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT HER. They were shuffling dangerously close to the edge of the mountain peak. OH BUT I REALLY DOUBT IT. PLEASE DON'T WORRY ABOUT IT. The youngest of the family, a small boy aged around ten years was confidently striding left, right towards the peak. His family seemed to be warning him about the huge drop he was so confidently striding to. However, listening a bit more attentively to the overwhelming darkness, it was clear they were edging him on. WE'RE SURROUNDED. THE CAMERA WASN'T SUPPOSED TO FIND YOU. YET THE MOON STOPPED SHINING THE DAY I OPENED MY UMBRELLA INSIDE AND MY EYES BURNED OUT LIKE A BAD PHOTOGRAPH. "Keep walking left, son! Keep going!", screamed his father. I SMELL BUBBLEGUM. TOM WAITS HAS THE VOICE OF AN ANGEL. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. The boy stopped his footsteps immediately before the peak. He could hear the small, infant stones he had displaced with his innocent toes hurtle towards their untimely and unfair removal from the rock cycle. The small rocks would surely die. The boy stood for a few seconds. Stood, waited, acknowledged his life. He was hesitant and a nauseating, sickening sensation ran from the base of his spine, right into his eyes. He was shaking. The air was like needles, like partisans from the war hiding and waiting for their time to strike, to distrupt. I could feel that the whole thing was disgusting and grey and dark, dark green. He knew what he had to do and the wind was just right. He threw himself after the rocks. CITY ON DRUGS, THIS CITY IS ON DRUGS. A tear came to the eye of the father, arrived without saying anything and then left. The salty taste of pain was in his mouth and I could clearly see that he was blank. LITTLE BLANK FACES. I WISH YOU WOULDN'T BE SO FUCKING WEAK. IF WE DON'T STICK TOGETHER, THIS DIES YOU FUCKING MORON. MOROSE. THIS GRAVEYARD IS COVERED IN TEARDROPS HA HA HA. If I could have had a violin at that moment in time, the overwhelming emotion in the air would have taught me well. However, the family would have heard and their trance would have been broken. The father shuffled further left. He wasn't as confident as his youngest because his eyeshight was worse. He moved with the wind, rather than with his feet. They were tired and uncertain, but the wind knew him and knew his destination. THIS IS A FUCKING CARTOON. YOU MADE ME VOMIT! HA HA! THERE'S STOMACH ACID ON THE TOILET SEAT! SIT DOWN CARLO! THIS BAND SOUNDS JUST LIKE SPARROWS IF THEY WERE SHIT. After arriving at the place that he knew would be his last, he called out to his remaining family, "We did good, huh, guys?" He smiled. Happiness filled him. He felt so fulfilled, nothing was as satisfying as what was going to happen. Point break. Better than the best sex, the best food. Better than the best drug. All his life it was cats on wheels, television dogs, paedophiles and blurry skies. Well, no more. He smiled again, and felt the air against his euphoric body as he plummeted to meet his son. I'LL MAKE IT BETTER. WE'LL TRAVEL ANDOUR CHILDREN WILL LEARN! If Presidents could cry, they would never cry as hard as he did as he fell. The mother thought she heard his bumpy ride. She thought she heard a dull thud as skeletons entagled and embraced inbetween a pulp at the base of the mountain. She ran. All her life she was a follower, impressionable and weak. Some people succeed and win, but some go along copying ideas and feigning character. She was a complete fake. A lie. So she ran. She knew she deserved everything that had happened. The accident, the fire. The wails of a toddler trapped in her cot, suffocated by black death, by smoke. The blindness. The vacation bought on the last of the family savings to see this mountain. The daughter implying there was nothing left. The daughter. Her daughter. As she hurtled through the wind to greet her husband, she realised something and the intensity of the shriek would puzzle county Rangers for years. The daughter stood above. She smirked, removed her glasses and walked back to the cabin to meet a friend and get drunk.



Phew, that was fun to write. I'm going to throw up some drawings and maybe photos and maybe even a song next time and I'll write the next part of Timbaca with more of the rhinocerous. This post was really just a roundabout way of whinging about how everything sucks LOL.


Peace x
G.Princip

Ruslativer/Timbaca

PART TWO:

So lonely. That's how it felt at the moment in time. I wondered whether this was one of those "dimensions" where your will bends objects and events to your own ideas and requirements. After several hours of hard, hard thinking I realised that I couldn't do that and all I ended up with was a feeling similar to having two opposing colours in my head. Not particularly pleasant. I wondered whether I would see the "professor" again, and whether he would manifest himself in the same form, or maybe as a bear. I'd like that. I wondered what my family were doing. Mourning? What if I had woken up at the end of humanity and this meadow was all that's left due to some nuclear holocaust radioation madness? I wondered about my friends, I wondered about people in general, I wondered about the red buses in London and Christmas adverts and infidelity and so much. I slowly, slowly melted into a puddle of yellow liquid metal on the floor and fell asleep.

I think I woke up as a woman except I had no sensation in my body. I knew I was moving because things were moving around me but I couldn't feel anything. Everything was so numb. I tried to pinch myself but my hand missing the target and I must have looked so uncanny standing awkwardly in the middle of a vast green expanse. This experience reminded me of all the times when I lied on my arms but no decent thoughts came to mind so I left it and began walking somewhere.

Timbaca/Ruslativer

PART ONE:

Falling, falling down.
And I heard her screaming when I was dreaming.
What was I drinking? What was I drinking?
What was she thinking?
When I was sinking.

A meadow.
I can feel the grass in my eyes but instead of hurting it feels calming, more like cotton wool. A brass band can be heard a few seconds away, the sound of Eastern European folk music rings. The sky is definitely coming closer and a warm, pulsating feeling slowly rushes over me, almost like when you were a child and you used to run away from the waves at the beach in the hot summers. There is nobody here and even though you'd think the brass band has people in it, there is definitely nobody here. The air is so still I can see the oxygen molecules float from the grass and pop in front of my tongue. It is so satisfying, like finishing a difficult book or getting away from a cardboard rhinocerous that chases you in your dreams. I realise I am slightly dyslexic which makes this all the more enjoyable. A mixing of senses and pictures and visions and feelings. Even better when meelings are fixed. Suddenly, a xylophone walks up to me out of nowhere.

"Pretty empty in this meadow,"
"Yeah," I reply.

I am unsure what the etiquette is on talking to personified xylophones. It's really quite absurd. I remain quiet but offer a friendly smile, hoping the xylophone has eyes to see this and acknowledge it in his (I assume it is a male xylophone through the presence of a beater laying gently on the top and the deep voice) wooden frame. Still, the warm feeling pulses through me but now tinged ever so slightly with a shadow.

"I'm the professor here," he says. His words seem laborious, strung out like a hungry drunk fumbling for the last coins in his coat, hoping to bite into some delicious meat. The xylophone seems anxious, but happily tired. Saying no more, I decide to probe this curious statement.

"The professor of what? Is there a -," interrupting me,
"The professor of history! I assume you're here to learn?" is the unpredictable reply.
"I don't even know how I got here. I want to ask 'what is going on' but I'm not sure I'll understand,"
"I see. Well, quite frankly, sir, you are dead. This is a realm, portal, dream, dimension, place, thing, cloud, city, field, river, lamp, tyre, string, whatever you want to call it and if you want to get it big time, go ahead and get it big time,"
"Dead..?" I was taken aback. I assumed when I laid to rest last evening after getting terribly stoned with my friends that I would dream heavily and that this was the predictable surrealist nonsense that my brain usually came up with. However, this just felt too real. Of course it did. Never before had I seen things or heard things with such clarity. And the conviction with which the xylophone has informed me of my death! Gone was the rolling, slurring prose I heard earlier. He was definitely a professor and I should respect that.

"You can have twenty-one sons and twenty-one daughters," he suddenly said.
"What do you mean?"
"Clearly you haven't studied enough, it's probably time you went to your lecture. We'll get to know each other very well, very soon." and with that he simply vanished. Just disappeared out of my field of vision. None of this silly childish magic poofs and dust and smoke, the xylophone simply vanished. No noises. Silent. Predictable.

And I stood alone in the empty meadow waiting for something to happen, feeling, once again, very warm.