Professor Bedclothes

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None of your keyholes for me, Sonny. - Black Dog - Treasure Island

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I was thinking of the days of being in a band myself, and the culture of violence and anxiety. I tho…
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Have you ever written or planned anything where the antagonist says basically nothing and is still i…
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This began from a dream, I think dreams are unfair on reality.Third Daughter – Samaulle EsunI was st…
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I heard once, that the best way to plan, is to just do everything you can, chopping the draft, here,…
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In a profile, there is a "Posts" button, that is not working. Does anyone else have this problem, or…
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I was playing around with a story, about a boy on a tenant farm. It was a writing exercise, pushing myself to the limits. Here is some of it....

The fellow were a deep aboriginal, with the spectacles of a teacher, and the rugged look of an adventurer. He were dressed, in khaki, with a belt buckle of a ram’s horns. He were smiling, with his fists on his hips, and he spoke with the scent of tobacco. “Well, would you like to view my photo album? I bought negatives.” He proceeded, to wipe across a spare spot on the busy kitchen table, and placed a large black folder upon the surface, making a flop. There were a mug of coco, by the time that we had reached that far into the vestiges of time, the ancient black and whites of the first world war, with plans for the second. 

The photographs were unique, wrought with time in the libraries across the world, with small whiteout indexes in the corners, detailing the prices. He caressed the sleeves, like they were a watery grave, to be sunk by a finger. Those fingers danced the halls of time, like a pianist, or like the banjo that accompanied my grandfather’s violin, the evening before around the bonfire, with the echoes of the bats, flying high overhead. That night, had been spent, with the comforts of a rug, despite the conversation that could be had. I kept to myself the hot broth and savored it, the real life of an outback farmer’s romance. 

Each snap, had an accompanying tale, and he took pictures out of the sleeves, to let me bask in the reticence myself. He could recite each turn in the war effort, with ease, as he were subliminal, like a stink bug, or a cicada. His memory, were as a spider’s web, flinching with the tension, like flies on a pie. Where he would look, I would follow, and studied his face more than I ought, as his reflecting were peculiar upon his countenance. He paused, at each height, sighed at each low, and wondered with every sniff of victory, as the asphalt were laid upon some distant road, or the cut of a scalpel through the flesh of some recovering soldier, that I might be, or may have been, in different circumstances. 

I was thinking of the days of being in a band myself, and the culture of violence and anxiety. I thought I would have a go, after this writers block, but it is written in conversation style, and wasn't edited, I thought it better to leave it stream of consciousness, with a dash of self deprecation.

A Dash of Cream

He was ready before he was sure of it. A handsome man, swathed in sweat and stubble, a Hawaiian shirt, covered in blood. The stretcher, wrapping his shaking body, the night screaming with siren fire. There was a look to his face, when he had entered upon the supposition of a stranger to the throne room. That was what it were called, and the walls were full of graffiti, and posters, of bands and texts that belied belief, and poured out of the walls like Moses and the snake. The girls were prudish, and snaky, not knowing how to heal their addictions, nor their flippancy. It were like the band, were full of shit. The look on the lead singers face, was greasy and graveling, adhering to a lower form of wit, like semantics or sarcasm, and the brother to the feminine presence, hiding in the corner with her rolling eyes, were like the anxiety were full of shit too.

But the ambulance, fired through the night, with the winding roads of rain and wet, weaving through traffic, oncoming and stagnant, like a needle weaving through a haystack. The brother, had come into the room, and had placed his hand on the bong, and he had taken it to his lips, and he had pulled a hit. That were the beginning of the conversation in his head, and the fellow had just come off the streets, sleeping in the park, and wondering about the murder of his parents. His sister, were next to the heater, and she had her legs boiling in the waves, and were too numb to notice, but at the sight of her brother she retreated like a snail, retreating into herself. 

The conversation, were mixed, after that, and she heard some yells, some thing nastier, coming from within the bathroom. The knife, had flashed like lightning, through the cries of bloody murder, through the haze of tobacco smoke. A deal later, were a shirtless fellow, on the lawn, in the night of the news cameras, and the petulant public, on their evening news. The fellow did not make it, but the two siblings, were charged with the murders of both the parents and the gang leader, who were a suspect, but were now rotting in a grave. 

Tyranny, is like Fort Knox, and the devaluing of precious metals, in a bad economy. Rumour is, gold and silver scale dramatically, in opposite directions. It is like divination, and the trickle down effect. One gives, the other takes. It is hard to compute, but it is a game I play with myself, as a gauge and metre of what to do, to manipulate currency and opinion. I call it tyranny, but it is the hand that feeds. It is also a way to quickly earn or lose money, without the effects of inflation, over time. And one needs the other, but one cannot separate means and ends. It’s like homosexuality, it slowly nibbles away over time, and you end up rich.

It’s like my latest crush, Lorelai from The Gilmore Girls, or a new understanding of Kylie Minogue. Mothers... I dream of being with a girl, I have no interest in. We were talking at a party, I took a fellow I met there, and all of a sudden they were punching him. The wedding we were at, was a recommittal of my grandparents, but the girl visited me, and I showed her my archetype cards and athame. I wonder where she got to, in the end, with that story.

I am interested in spy novels. There seems to be three fazes: the facility, the target, and the fallout. The truth is someone dies, but there is the secret side of a secret agent, in that it is a secret, a very dark secret. One wonders how a spy gets on, in the natural world. Is it all dark? Can they rely on their secret society? Or can they fall back on friends and family, and have a child? It is mystifying, but sometimes the secret world is kept a secret, because of the ease of passage, that shall come on like a three course meal - but we all have our day job, even characters in spy novels, and that is part of the story, though not too many parentheticals describe every secret, that most readers would be machinating through their brains. So yeah, lots of things to learn.

It’s censorship that keeps you safe. Could you imagine the battle of the sexes, if the Pope spoke the truth about his iniquities, or broadcasted celeb porn on the evening news? Moses had the right idea with Passover. It is all about food. The whole fact that you dream at night, is the clue to your unhappiness. When Zac Efron comes to the golden gates, it ain’t going to be a maccas sign any more than it is going to be a welcome to Amish society. When you flout love, or kiss in public, the last thing you are thinking about is sex. The very last thing. You are wondering about where the bat is going to come from next! Are you gay because you like the same sex, or because you are a lesser being?

When someone comes to me and says, “What’s on your mind,” I always reply with, “Nothing.” The whole patina of script, and I come up with nothing, but they’re always trying to place the blame. In another way, one might ride on humour, and get a lot of flack from trying to discover something that doesn’t exist. Infinity, or eternity. I find it better to finish small talk with the old adage of witty repartee, because that can be related to solid ground. Equally, when someone starts the conversation, “How do you deal with animals,” you always respond with, “Go with your heart and get at their stomach.”

Does anyone every really grow up? I love Hook, I reminisce about it, but how is it that one would think Peter grew up at all, isn’t turning back to old friends exactly like it was? One can split the infinitive, or end up with diamond dust, but that isn’t the true war, it is the battle of the sexes, and that is attained by the myth of pain, or that black spot that is our universe, with little fire flies calculating pie or infinity. Humanity is plagued by racism, narcissism and hedonism. Then the problems get worse. Then they get better. Then they get worse. All I mean to say, is we are all here, sitting around a fireside, that turns out to be a wall, but at least that brings the family together, and believing isn’t so bad at all, even if we aren’t truly animals.

I saw something funny, whilst watching a YouTube infomercial about Covid, with little blue text that would appear, and the segment referenced toilet paper, and Christ was in the background. An interesting juxtaposition I told mum, to a resentful reply. My Step Dad is on holiday, because he wants to be at home for the anniversary of a family death, and I thought mum meant she wanted to go on a holiday. Jamaica or Thailand, I asked. Because with all these Covid furs, the neighbours can hear my niece cry, and all of a sudden the police are at our House, and they resent my Step Father’s Harley, and my smokers cough, so we pretty much all need a holiday, because aren’t we all just hedonists at heart?

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