STICK WITH HEMMINGWAY or NONSENSE OF AN ENDING

STICK WITH HEMMINGWAY or NONSENSE OF AN ENDING

 

1.

A novel idea about oh I don’t know remember as Mallarme warned Degas poetry is not about language it’s about words oh the reclining nude of Matisse the artist’s studio far from strife lest the bombs fly overhead then really it’s hard to pretty picture but here the flies bomb upon my head & my struggle is with boredom another bad idea for a novel but remember words not ideas the more you think about it doesn’t make easy sense but of course when you have whiplash conversation you know is the crackle of the craic & the ideas generated oft forgotten quite soon after of course we do remember somethings generally is deep emotions are raised or felt what do we remember really? & it will make a capital no?! now it will no word is well behaved so what’s happening? Ah yes that forces the capital to bear on things & I can live with that because we want to get beyond mere text Marvellous m was a horny fellow mad as a hatter I really loved him it didn’t bother me I mean is it really so unrelatable who of us at various times have not been overwhelmed by sexual excitement but this 2024 melbourne & the arts culture is in a neo-victorian period where elvis must not be shown below the waist anyway this sounds more like an essay really geez I have a limited imagination & may such is the theme of this novel it is called the author without imagination Artaud spoke of the bad dreamer like a stoner whose dreams are just barely formed images of somnambulance & not even a moment’s narrative ah that’s right I was a teacher & as I would teach but rarely heed dialogue is key I said to which max said I thought this was meant to be fiction? Marvellous m was intimidated coz he lacked self belief wildness grew through the carpets into jungle like henri rousseau & st Kilda anne steered very clear of the place all together she wasn’t sure whether he wouldn’t jump her & she hadn’t even heard of marvellous m & I simply said I wouldn’t stress I’m merely trying to write a novel because I think it would be a good use of the winter I like the spell of the cold grey & bare trees outside & the heater on & the sounds of classical music & then a wee drinkie in the even & plus this novel is so haphazard that I don’t think it matters whether I’m intoxicated or not whether from substances or even st kilda anne I’ve gotta remember these names so I can build up something debussey’s preludes sang of winter all the suspension & rests & reverberations & then entwhistle pointed out that you’re nearly up to hemmingway’s magic number of words a day count & I said good point my triage nurse surely it’s time I had my next dose of anti-psychotics to which he said tonight well we’re over 500 words for the day but so it’s possible that we can try & build up relationships under the schizophrenia & the tranquilizers from one day to the next else we remain amnesiac like harehound hilda all of us in the group should repeat our names who would like to go first why don’t we go back & listen to the tapes? Offered marvellous m he being a musician first & paranoid way down the list cool I said as I am the author max came next then marvellous m then st Kilda anne entwhistle the true facilitator the author merely delusional & finally harehound hilda who was mostly absent or was it absent minded she can’t remember.

 

2.

You said we wouldn’t do this under the influence? Said Marvellous M. Thank you said Max who had asked that I the Author would punctuate. Marvellous M walked away. Max winked he’ll no doubt be back. Far out the sentences are short as Steinbeck, clipboarded Entwistle the nurse, I thought crazy people wrote like James Joyce. Evidently you don’t know the author joked I. Not sure why I can get pretty verbose. I don’t wanna get too involved in dialogue scenes afterall I’m alone, except for Max who pops round for a ciggie & a yarn. She’s the only flesh & blood here. The rest of you are kind of Jungian archetypes. Fuck you said Entwistle, hardly becoming for a professional, added as he made me see it’s equally plausible that I have created Max, projected her & how am I sure if Entwistle’s a man or a women? Kindergarten stuff said Kev Carmody. But he was on tv. It’s somewhat unnerving when the television talks to you but that’s kind of its point, the illusion of intimacy & why it’s proved so popular for ‘light entertainment.’ It’s great said St Kilda Anne, & I preferred being lower case & I’m not really one for punctuation so yunno maybe we should put on some music & dance?! & thanks a bloody lot for making me not exist. All my life I’ve had men phantasize about me like Derek Walcott’s Helen of Troy. Wait who’s speaking? I just said I like light entertainment or whatever the hell you call it. Why are you My Fair Ladying me?, pervert. Typical intellectual. Easy fall for a nice piece of tail & try to turn me into your perfect sexdoll. Fair play. But I did say there was only me & Max here, punctuation or not & as I’ve already stated she might be a delusion too. There’s really no way of knowing for sure, you included.

St Kilda Anne stuck out her tongue & said “well whatever, still see you tomorrow,” kiss kissing while at the same time giving me the finger.

 

Excuse me while I have a cigarette.

Tomorrow I’ll ditch the dialogue. It’s getting a bit stiff, it needs to flow better, so Max will have to please herself. Of course she exists. She rolls killer smokes, whereas I roll like a chump. Plus she’s a rationalist. She’ll put me straight. Enough psycho self doubt. I’ve never been diagnosed with delusions. Actually yes I have. Hard to shake off & regain innocence. Max & I were talking about whether it’s possible to regain innocence, but really I just need a cigarette. Max is more serious than me. I might heed her talk a while without my interference & self doubt. She’s on the war path & won’t back down to fear, at least today. Few of us are consistent.

 

3.

Where’s this going? Good question said Max.

All good I wrote. Your turn to speak, I’m sick of my shit.

Max: see this is what I wanted to avoid, all this punctuation.

I: but you just said…

Max: I’m harehound hilda & I have no memory remember?!

Only messing with ya. See I’ve changed again. What we were saying, when you thought you were monologuing about human inconsistency I think I’ve worked out some patterns.

I: I don’t know

Max (no longer looking for permission to speak): you’ve inspired me but you need a plan to do this. What you are doing is of extreme importance. Not to the news of the day, but in terms of the human brain & DNA.

I: don’t I have to have kids?

(harehound hilda shot me daggers & I shut up.)

But I really just wanna write in a slab like Kerouac & not think about punctuation silencing Max if I have to the whole lot of them thinking me a cunt for being so self absorbed that I thought them all figments I’ve barely had more than a puff of that amazingly crafted cigarette thanks Max & yet though when I’m being fair dinkum of course she’s real I just saw her & one has to take a leap of faith or a belief in a world being of one’s making else the world turn to shit as another missile strikes Gaza & Congo mired in neo-colonial horror I just need to travel more & get into having some experiences. Being a book worm has grown toxic & … we really gotta call time, said Entwistle, well done Max, you spoke well. Group, we’ll meet up tomorrow again, thank you Marvellous M for your restraint, no don’t cry I know how hard it is for us musicians, we’re treated with contempt. People want the music, but do not want to credit us. I’m sure someone’ll hang out with you tonight, I know you’re not really horny, just lonely, I don’t know mate said Marvellous M & then the tape ends.

 

4.

Tomorrow’s a new day. Hang on, today is a fresh day & we’re out for a day visit. They went to the moon, they went to a fun park, but then it was clear that they were always stuck indoors, so they went out for a smoke. & a glass of wine. But it still hasn’t happened yet. You’re still at the computer. “Go out or don’t but leave us out of it!” St Kilda Anne you are gorgeous. I really dig you from a distance, but you’re starting to get annoying, requiring this novel oh greedy muse, grabbing her by the finger in his mind. “Walk or walk not. Smoke drink go outside or not, it’s all talk. Blah blah blah…”

Well that cigarette fell apart & the wine tastes like vinegar & there’s nothing really new here & I’m sure it’s the same day it’s always been since the beginning of this thing, it’s hard to tell when it’s grey & cold outside & grey & cold in here & grey & cold in my heart & all of us I’m speaking for all of us, it’s only the beginning & we’re sick of it & I never gave my permission for this & neither did Anne Hilda Max or M they all said in unison it’s only becoming a bit of a blur over the identities as the carpet rises like a jumping castle & we are all very young like children born to an unlucky set of cards & the chorus of Africa & South America hi fiving Asia & a Mount Rushmore of poor white people & you became all about a very such-and-such story which is assisted by b-bender guitar but really is about a people & their poets whose job it is to speak their pain & joy & it’s become very individualistic & who is speaking for the greater, the poet has lost his position in this colony of prisoner Britain ah… only a few for 1788 Entwistle.

Very good, St Kilda Anne?

I do not know where I come from & harehound hilda, who prefer’s lower case continued yeah it’s all very good this ancestry dot com, we were slaves & our names are our slave owners. I the authored agreed.

Did I say everybody in this is like Royal here, I beg you roll me a spliff.

Won’t you get in trouble being a psych nurse?...

Haha laughed Entwistle, it’s nice finally to get out of the cocoon why didn’t we choose a tropical location, it’s freezing here, as some birds fly overhead it’s impossible to make out & whoa, they’re all flying so fast & this aeroplane man, that was quick, I’ve enjoyed the tropics, the main concern will be with all the men & two sorry Max, 3, it’s just I don’t think of you that way, you’re too smart, Anne & Hilda are just too hot to be seen in swimwear, I’m safe said the author I know I’m fat & white in these boardshorts which barely fit me. The women in concert wince, that’s too much information, leave it on! & anyway I’m bloated in this humidity.

Who’s been at the thermostat yawned Marvellous M.

We’re in the tropics now M.

Yeah right mate. Do you guys ever sleep. Clearly our illnesses are different. & someone’s right it isn’t me but illness in the tropics is no better than illness in the cold.

Hilda called out from the water, you’ll feel better in here. You’re like the least gross man here Marvellous.

We’ll naturalment pardon ma poor Martinique.

He’s gone, who’s left?

 

5.

Does anyone know what those birds are called? & I’m aware the irony that I’m the author & that I’m the only one who seems to get the Dr Livingstone, Gauguin in the tropics exoticism etc. Hey do you reckon I woulda got my Nobel were I not from somewhere so exotic chimes in the self doubt of Derek Walcott, but when he was in his right mind he knew he was only writing about his people, naming things the colonists had missed, that didn’t fit their narrative.

This is not a narrative said Walcott. Yes I know you exist Walcott & you’re better than me etc, as is Hemmingway. Hemmingway was a misogynist said Hannah Gabsby. You’re dead in this act said Hilda who’d always liked that quote of my dad’s, personally I had feared it, coz it generally meant someone was gonna get hit. Anyway, he’s dead in this act & I love him mate borrowing from Marvellous who was swimming naked with the local women. “Good times, simpler times,” parroted Max. Max, why don’t you swim. “I’m a bit body conscious.” Who isn’t? rejoined the by now high as a kite Entwistle the psych nurse who’d joined Hilda after Marvellous M’s fashion. So it was just me & Max, until she tiptoed past to write her own book. Good old Max, everybody agreed & from her shower St Kilda Anne spontaneously said: Man I love life in the tropics. For the horrors of colonialism, speaking personally,…who else would be speaking? came Hamlet’s father, mine, … speaking personally as I am an author, so authorially speaking?... oh I don’t know. All I know is I’m glad that I grew up in a warmer climate than my ancestors. So, that’s the problem? Personally vs authorially, interjected Marcia Langton, actually me, but with Marcia’s face with raised eyebrows or was that Hilda’s imitation during shits & giggles?

 

6.

Fuck that was strong spliff Marv groaned Entwhistle the next morning. We all groaned. It’s not even the next morning, the author is tired… I just wanna eat. We’re getting a bit familiar aren’t we? Offered up St Kilda Anne. Yeah I’ve gone native as they say, I feel like it’s not long till I get unmasked, defrocked & locked indoors here. Can’t we just stay in Martinique a while longer? the chorus sang. Hell no, the Psychiatrist is about to come round. The reader you mean? added Anne. No way, there won’t be many of those, said I, the Author. Fuck we’re doomed. We’ll be stuck here forever. No, I said, I can stop whenever I want. Everyone laughed.

6 words to 2500 words today.

Soft said Tolstoy. Learn to dance! chimed in Anne & Hilda & Marv. Learn to write! rejoined Tolstoy. No one reads, we all said, but it pays to tread lightly with ghosts, especially my father & Russians in particular. & then I lamented irony, the only hollow victory of this consumerist sedentary age. Maybe I should’ve believed Marv & Ent that we really were in Martinique & what else should one do with beautiful women. But Max & I were writers. She has her fella & I my hand. I really wish I hadn’t watched porn the other night, coz the disgusting sight of a penis has killed my libido, hence I write. Also there are few emotionally available women here. There are beautiful women, but it’s a well tried truism that crazy people are best with sane ones. Of course even Ent has gone mental & he’s meant to be running this show. No he says, you are. Oh fuck, we’re doomed said I as my legs bend like impossible reverse candy canes above my head.

Hilda: now you’re ripping off who’s that guy? Hunter S. Thompson.

I wasn’t talking to you, get out of my head I said.

Get out of mine then, rejoined Hilda, you didn’t invent me, you just appropriated me.

I: well what am I meant to do, I’m an author afterall.

Marv: I love ya mate, but you wish you were an author.

Anne: Marv, now you sound like that dead Russian guy.

All: eyyyyyy!!!!!!!

 

Oh, thank god we’re all laughing again, it’s got too serious. Marvellous, we all want to go to Martinique.

What about Max?

I’ll ask her?

Sure!

Ok then, as you were saying Ent?

All: Marv roll us another spliff!

Marv: Done, but are you sure it’s safe with so many psychotics?

Entwhistle: It’ll be fine, it’s only a book.

 

7.

I’m getting my kit off, with everyone else. Even Max is in on it.

Max: if you can’t beat em join em!

Society & the Martinique constabulary: lock em up.

Anne: We are locked up, as are you. It’s a mental institution in a book & you guys are going to melt in the sun like a couple of paddle pops!

Everyone including I, the cops & society: bwhaaaaah!!!

Hilda: Ah life, what a funny trip.

The characters other than I the author: only 100 or so words to 3000 for the day, sorry for the novel…

I: novella I think, it’ll be too dense…

Characters: where are you going to put us?

I: What about a beachfront bar with a dancefloor?

Characters: Cliché!  Delightedly.

I: what kind of cocktail you want?

Characters: we can choose our own.

But how. How to allow others under your influence over to have freedom. Like love. How do we love without controlling, or being controlled? The problem with every relationship, romantic, I’ve ever been in, not to say I want to fuck my characters, but of course I’m attracted to them & why not man, in this neo-Victorian age, aren’t poets allowed to write about sex?

 

8.

Hello

You’re drunk fuck off.

But Hilda & St Kilda we could…

Don’t even think about it!

St Kilda I thought you might be able to get some spliff for me.

Blah blah, male slob. Writing a novel for the benefit of his knob. This whole thing is in the male gaze, no matter the whitesplain.

Yeah but…

Fuck it, just have a wank we’ll smoke a spliff another time,

Honey, you & I are over, both of us, you talk to much, there’s no sensitivity. It’s all ego ego & your dick’s not that big.

It’s near enough.

Yeah but not for your guff.

Well what should I do then?

Start being a man & stop putting your 90 year old mother in the way, have energy & then maybe we can lay.

On that St Kilda Anne separated from her sister & I relaxed & went to bed. I was drunk.

& so the women spoke freely without me, oh shock horror that man was not privy! & I know they smoked a spliff without me though they knew it was what most I craved.

So what do you make of this guy? Said Anne. Bullshit buddy we’ve got hotter men than you to talk about. & You’re dead in this act. What?, a tradie, sportsman, Jason Malmoa. You wouldn’t have a clue. Fuck off or I’ll knife ya.

Fair enough. I was pretty pissed. I just wanted a sweet kiss from Annie. Either that or her spliff. Both, to be honest. Anyway, yes I’m dead in this act.

We’ll never get anywhere in this novel girl. It’s just the phantasies of a middle aged man. I’m sick of men. As Max pointed out I’m sick of people. Let’s just zone out & watch Magic Mike. If only they didn’t open up their mouths…

Then they talked about what women talk about, about why was she going out with him? & maybe it would be better to be a lesbian, maybe it’s not what women talk about I let it go on & tried not to steer it.

That was a great swim today. I wish I didn’t swell so much in the Martinique heat. What was Marv thinking? He’s ok, I like him. But of course, the pomegranates are so red & the sunset was so ripe & I just wanna sleep, I like the salt on my skin. I’m glad I’m not in this novel for a while. Any time outside the tunnel is significant. Finally we’re not working. Are you hungry? We could order room service. I advise you to stay out of this novel as long as you can last. Everything’s on tick, get what you can out of it. What did my mother see in my dad? I don’t even know my parents. Funniest thing, we both have more white friends than black. Hang on, I’ve got Caucasian lungs. (Both laugh).

Do we really have to face tomorrow? & where’s Max? I like her. I think we all do, though she’s so distant.

I’m not said Max. Hey! Let’s sing. Badly/well-ly they sing “All the single ladies” by Beyonce. I’m not there.

“Max”

I call.

Wanna cigarette?

 

(so is the whole point here to keep Max from her sisters I don’t think so. Though it’s crossing the ‘sacred’ racial lines. She’s tight with everyone. As we all are. As I’ve proved in the next chapter. Identity politics is laziness.!)

 

9.

“A disappointing chin.” Laughter.

But off record, outside the novel, Max talked about breaking new ground, so I’m not worried about those rice crispies who have power over me & the femme fatale Harehound Hilda. Were I in my right mind, I never would’ve included her, except she’s under my skin. Max & I are friends you see & it’s a hell of a lot easier talking about male/female relations with a friend. The other two I fancy.

Clipboard in hand Entwistle, I haven’t even settled upon his spelling yet, quizzed me: is it a black thing?

What do you mean, a black thing? No when I watch porn, it’s usually Asian, coz it’s less rough.

But the significant women in your life are black.

My mother was white, but she was a nudist & once you’ve demystified the white body, there’s nowhere to go but black. Plus I’ve always been an outsider & so we have something in common.

Hilda & Anne: I liked him because he was upfront.

Thank you. As I’ve said before, not on tape, for some reason, black women like me.

Max are you feeling left out of this?

No, I’m in love with an incommunicative man, so the author is ok, coz he’s open.

Anne: I just wish he hadn’t have been so sleazy with me.

I: I was experimenting. Having been so mocked by Hilda.

“Ah I see a pattern here,” Entwistle now feeling proud as punch said. Sexual politics. Men not allowed to be friends with women in mainstream society. Petty jealousy & only 100 odd words till 200 hundred for the day.

I don’t really care, said the author. I’m tired & want to call it a day.

 

10.

“It hasn’t broken through to the other side.” I said. We got from Castlemaine to Martinique, but we haven’t broken through. That's our quest. Now that our author has seen us all undressed, whether Marv it was who gave us the idea or not. We gotta get out of this asylum & out of this novel. It’s only a day old & it’s tiresome. I wanna people to cry & that’s why I’ve always been a poet. & that’s why the oppressed peoples like me & my own kind despises me. But it’s gotta change. The white is growing colder & poorer & soon he’ll be as beautiful as Max, who’s a harbinger of the near future. Australia is growing poor. & soon the race war will be seen as nonsense, coz we’ll all be in the same boat. All seeking asylum. All victims of corporate wars. & so together, now that there’s a few of us, we can build a movement. Whether together or merely as cousins. The main thing is that we don’t atomise & be vanquished, & vanish.

“Now” said Anne, I see you’re alright. & not just in it for the ticket. Yes, agreed Marv, the guy’s alright. Agreed said Hilda. Max said just be quiet a while & let me speak.

 

Max spoke I don’t want to paraphrase. I preferred to listen & she changed me & she changed us all. The greatest scenes happen off stage. All the characters shut up & even I the author. Trust me, the highlight so far was Max’s unrecorded speech. She brought about reinforcements of our relationships. All the characters reassured me that they were on my side & I reassured them I was on their side, Entwistle included. He was one of us now & are we to break on through to the other side, he’ll be with us.

 

Best I go to bed.

 

11.

Wow Author, that was a lot of wine last night. I wonder if anyone will make an appearance today, said Harehound Hilda.

I: what about I stop writing & we use the laptop to watch a movie or something.

Hilda: yes, but if you stop writing, I’ll cease to exist. (before laughing hysterically, whether at life or at literature or at herself or at me I didn’t know, but it sure did unsettle me. There was a real sound of distress in it.

Do you wanna hug Hilda? Hilda nodded. So we hugged, & I could feel her warm & 3 dimensional. You exist, I shouldn’t have claimed I was your author. I was just being a fool. I’m sorry.

Hilda wiped some tears from her eyes & I was tempted to manifest some magic, like turn the room into a native garden. Hilda would have enjoyed a turn in the garden, afterall I’d do it for her & her problematic sinuses, but it would have also undermined her feeling of being someone else’s creation. She was Atheist & felt uneasy with emotions of awe. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was on the spectrum. But maybe not.

“But it still doesn’t answer the question of what is real & what is delusion.” Which struck Hilda as strange, because she wasn’t privy to my daydream of the native garden.

But what happened next was even stranger, because then she said “to cheer us both up do you want to go for a walk in a native garden? I have bad sinuses, I’m not sure if you knew or not.” “Sure. Why not?” I said. & then something amazing happened. Hilda sang some operatic notes (well) & the ceiling vanished, & we were both standing in a native garden. Want to go for a walk?, I, Author, sang, & Hilda & off we skipped & slow danced around the garden. A parasol even appeared for Author the Redhead.

I’m fond of native gardens. I love the space of Southern Australian natives & the fact that they suit a drought prone region. Surrounded by kangaroo paws & other semi-desert shrubs, I started singing & Hilda joined in again. We sang Pointer Sisters’ “Jump,” then as if out of nowhere appeared Marvellous & one of his Martinique ladies, bounding around the garden. “I feel like I’m on a trampoline!” & Marv started flipping somersaults in the air & the waving woman who merely called out “Catherine”, started laughing at Marv & bouncing close to him.

Eventually, after about 15 minutes, there was flashing lights & a siren repeatedly. “Jesus” & some whitecoats appeared yelling “shut this down! Shut this down!” & the sky started disappearing & we were back in the reality of the institution & the even starker isolation of our rooms & some tranquilizers. But worse than any of this was the fact that I was alone & my imaginative powers & those of my friends were finished.

The next few days were spent in isolation. Sure, I wandered the institution but I didn’t talk with or see anybody I knew. It was as if I had always been alone. Not exactly. I could still see Marv summersaulting with his friend & the look of pure joy on Hilda’s face, but that’s all I had. Like the aftermath of a dream.

 

12.

Well I’ve hit a snag. Writing a novel is ill-suited to my poet’s temperament, which is to build up the psychic energy & release, maybe a bit of tinker & move on to clear space. These characters have to live in my head while I presume to know them yet this while I have barely touched on them & at the same time, they’re not real. I don’t like writing fiction, I like writing poetry which has something of that ancient confessional transformed by myth & language with illusions to different traditions & yet Entwistle thought it would be good therapy to survive the Winter by having a project. I think it was Entwistle unless it was a dream or someone who’s real. But it’s getting to the point whereby I’m living so many lies, as no doubt so many of you are, that it’s easier just to play along with the fiction & follow those dressed in professional garb or who have name badges or business cards with lots of letters you don’t have at the end of their names. But as …Anne!... would you repeat that? “But the real people you trust are your loved ones & your heroes, surely?” “Well not all people are as lucky with their families.” “But loved ones don’t have to be blood relations.” “Ok, ok.” “Let me think a bit longer on it.” “Why do we always have to think so much?” “Coz I’m an analytical guy.” “& I’m a good time gal, who’s fed up with sitting around talking our thoughts out. I wanna have some fun!” “We had some fun the other day & that’s why I’m here under heavy sedation.” “I know. I felt like I didn’t exist for a few days, & neither did anyone else. A void.” “What should I avoid?” “That’s right, talk in riddles, joke around, while I’m pouring my heart out. I’m done.”

Later re-reading the conversation in my mind I realized: a void not avoid. See I’m a bad listener. When I have a crush on someone, it’s like they don’t exist & are only a creation of my mind, so when I meet them I can’t listen fully, coz I’m scared they’ll say goodbye. I think I kind of have a crush on all my friends. It doesn’t have to be sexual. Just a fear that another person will leave me & I’ll be left alone. In certain occasions, it can be a self fulfilling prophecy.

 

13.

I was about to, I still might seek out St Kilda Anne, I should never have propositioned her before getting know her. I feel about 35 odd years of relationships have taught me about the whole Promethean problem & the havoc it’s wreaked on the world. I’m too old for relationships. After 2 broken marriages I probably am made to live with someone outside of a novel, but inside is too hard. One falls in love with one’s characters, one’s creations. “I’m not a creation.” “What, you tell me you’ve been here all along while I was writing & talking aloud?” “Talk about the self-involved artist. Jesus! No wonder you can’t get laid.” We both laugh. “I don’t know sister, I think I’m just a Malaka.” “Dr Malaka.” “Yeah, artists are in their heads. They make terrible lovers & friends. It’s always about them.” Max appeared “everyone’s a terrible lover. Relating in this atomized age is hard. You’re ok, you both are.” “Oh yeah I love yas!” chimed in Marvellous M, “Who’s up for some spliff? Fuck Entwistle, I think he’s been reported & will either end up committed here or if he's still got a job he'll have to be on his best behaviour.” “Hey guys?” “speak of the Devil.” I bless myself. “G’day Ent, how are you? Superego? Jailer? One of my creations? Or our mate?” “Just Entwistle, not sure why you compartmentalize so much, I should probably tell Dr Crook,” with a mischievous yet enigmatic grin. “Fuckin gangsta,” laughed Anne. Anne changed my view of her then, making me see I’d underestimated her… “& women in general!” continued Anne. “Stop reading my mind,” I spat back at her. “Stop reading mine!” “Everyone's!” picked up Entwistle. Marvellous calmed the scene. “You guys make me laugh. Tripping!... how bout you chill the fuck out & smoke what I’ve been smoking,” he grinned, pulling out a mind blower of a J.

The rest of the night passed largely in silence, as we stared out the stars. Max produced a telescope, & merely, barely audibly said “see Science has it’s good points, Author.” The rest of the night was spent staring out into time & space. Entwistle kept the fire burning & we all woke the next day rested, clear headed & mellow.

 

14.

“I might lay off the spliff simulations for a while,” welcomed Harehound Hilda. We all assented & were glad to part company out on the streets of Castlemaine, headed in different directions. Me home again on my chair with a hot water bottle, writing happily, in no rush to pick up where we had left off before this all started. But first, to listen to the hilltop springwater sounds of The Heptones’ “Cool Rasta.”

 

 

 

End of Part One.

 

Part Two

1.

Well, I’m quite exhausted & emotional. Carrying characters around in your head is too much for me. I write to release & all those adventures did not really give me the orgasm I needed. Lonely & horny. But really being around people’s too much anyway. I’m surrounded by new people & I don’t feel the safety I had with my ex-wife & her whole community. I liked my role there. Of being the friend to my father-in-law. I knew what my role was: to make people feel comfortable, I trusted my sanity most of time. Once one has had a psychosis, it’s really hard to be sure that your people are in fact what they seem & not in fact your doctors, nurses & fellow inmates in the asylum of your mind, & that even possibly they are all figments & in fact your illness is so severe that you’re deeply psychotic. That Shutter Island film or A Beautiful Mind. Do those films even exist? Or are they just figments. That’s why intimacy & sex is so important, because one gets held & one holds. I miss the loving touch. Of even a deep hug & then to be diagnosed as Schizophrenic even if we know it’s largely an attempt to get me some financial assistance, because clearly I can’t work, because I can’t follow schedules anymore. I am broken with grief. Oh loneliness & anxiety.

I was electrified there for a moment with my character St Kilda Anne, who was only a creation of my mind. I didn’t really know her that well & basically created a woman from a few small details/anecdotes. & basically, we caught up one day & her beauty stunned me. And that’s all it took to create a wild fiction, when really she was just a confused 40 odd year old, who struggled a with articulation.

 

Marvellous M I like. But he’s a far more complex character than my quick sketch or one expression. He’s a remarkably sensitive & tender man, of profound creative intelligence & he doesn’t even smoke pot much.

 

Anyway, I’m not going to go through all the characters. I mention those two merely as a point of illustration. I hope you get the point. I’m not overly interested in signposting. I think there’s too much of that in art & letters in this country at the moment. When one goes to a gallery, everything seems to have an exhaustive explanation. What about trusting the audience to work out the piece themselves. The life of the heart & mind is one of discovery. One should be intrinsically motivated to seek it out, otherwise you should stick to the footy.

 

On another point, I’m with Bukowski on popular music as the moment. I feel like I only want to listen to classical music at the moment, with the varied tempos & fluid sequences. Today’s flavour is later Mozart. Piano Concertos 21 & 24, later solo piano work – beautiful. It well befits these cooling Autumn days with clear or overcast skies, a hot water bottle & water with an evening whiskey.

 

& so this novel might well wind up quicker than anticipated at certain points, time will tell. I began it as an exercise, as I tend to write shorter verse. Anyway, I’ve spoken of this I think. Writing is therapeutic as when Ben Okri noticed when writing the first time “I had ceased to exist.” I’m not sure I feel that absolutely, but it’s nice to be engaged in an activity that at times I am completely engaged in & the Hegelian sublimation of negative feeling into a feeling of ease. Maybe as much the Catharsis of the Ancient Greek. Shedding a dead layer of skin.

I dreamed of snakes in the desert last night. After facing up to a rattlesnake (not sure how it got there, as I was not in the Americas) infact it didn’t rattle but I don’t really know snake names. Anyway we watched one another for a while & I didn’t really feel scared but a harebrained idea arose to milk the snake of its venom which I did but right near the end it bit me & I went on a wild goose-chase, much like Part One of the novel idea & never made it to hospital, which hooked up to my previous evening’s dream of hooking up with an hermaphrodite nurse & I dissolved calmly & fatalistically.

 

2.

Why are so many people talking about cassowary at the moment? That’s what I’d like to know.

What else would I like to know? In fact no, I don’t care. For some reason a fad has been invented by commercially interested parties. I’m sick to death of it all. I’m incurious. & when I get irate, unlike many people today who use that as a springboard, I know it’s time to stop writing & take a break.

 

I’ve only seen cassowary in cages. They can kill you. Big birds. Beautiful birds, linked with Aboriginal dreaming for certain peoples, so leave em alone. Stop avoiding yourself or intimacy. Have a real conversation with someone. Or I’ll set a cassowary on you & it’ll peck out your brain.

 

“Hi Dr Crook, how are you?”

“It’s more about how are you feeling today?”

“I’m just writing in my journal”

“Do you mind if I have a look?”

“Yes, I do mind?”

“Why this hostility to people who are trying to help you?”

“I don’t have hostility to Entwistle”

“Ah yes, Mr Entwistle”

“No, there’s nothing Mr about him. It’s just Entwistle”

“Why this hostility to me then?”

“You really have to ask a psychotic why he would object to someone named Dr Crook”

“Do you want me to change my name? How about Dr Cassowary?”

“Oh Jesus, I just wanna lie down. Can I go to my room please?”

“I’m not detaining you?”

“Then who is?”

“You came here voluntarily. You checked out a month ago & came back remember? Life on the outside too scary eh?”

“I just wanna go to my room please.”

“OK. I’ll see you again anon.”

“Don’t get me started on anon.”

“Off you go. Rest.”

 

3.

I dreamed of cassowary, cassowary, cassowary, cassowary, cassowary…

A mantra that took me to the heart of the green tropical north. The weather improved. Then it rained.

I ran with the cassowary & she showed me her cave.

I saw inside her mind.

I looked with her eyes at me.

I felt eclipsed.

I felt transformed.

& when I awoke, my pillow was stained with tears of blood & her egg was on my bedside table, balancing in a nest.

 

4.

One must start each poem as a beginner. Something like that, is what Rilke said. Else things ossify, is what Max added. The problem in our world is that organisations write codes or purposes/manifestos/contracts, & stop discussing the conditional questions from which these agreements were forged. The conditions, the questions which predate the contract are forgotten & over time are erased. Man stops asking what (s)he is & who we are?

I’ve started to internalize my creation Dr Crook & I know what he’ll say, after all he’s merely a composite of other authority figures who’ve sought to break & re-make me. Crook would say, so you want to leave do you? Just know that we have ‘dirt’ on you. That’s the blackmail of institutions & clubs, secret societies, you name it. Thanks Max. You raise some wonderful points. I feel extremely lucky to have these chats. Now write your own book.

That would be funny wouldn’t it?, for one of your characters to write their own book. “But you’re real.” Then why are you just writing this rather than talking to me? Doesn’t sound very ‘real’, does it?

…

 

… “see, what I’m trying to do is use the dominant myth of Western Society, the Jesus myth, as a ‘resistance’ (see Star Wars) to the mechanisms of control who pretend to be its sole & rightful caretakers. I can do that because I AM a follower of Jesus, but not a member of any official organization & I can celebrate that which is a challenge to Western Order, in that I wish to do what I’m so fond of talking about, of UNDOING KNOTS, because I’m a fan of DOUBT, I believe in it. Not a doubt without faith, but a doubt with faith. What Ginsberg might call a “Holy” doubt, or a BEAUTIFUL doubt, or what Nietzsche called “The holy Anarchist”: Jesus, whose revolution in Judaism caused the schism in the first place. We must be faithful doubters, useful people, in the faith in a cooperative Humanity but with a suspicion of ordering principles which ossify again the organic & intimate into the formal.”

Max: “I’m just going to write for a while. Bless you Mal.”

I: “Bless you Max.”

 

Ah, that was beautiful. Nothing like a blessing from a non-believer. That’s sacred. Not she’s a non-believer. She’s just from outside the Jesus story. She has faith in a cooperative humanity, a very strong faith, she just doesn’t call it “faith.” Which is great, because we’re talking about the same impulse/conviction outside a religious framework that feels infinitely more authentic than men railing from the pulpit. & the point is, it matters not the tradition one is emerging from, what matters is a commitment to universal humanness.

 

Now I feel good. Again I am out of the asylum & it matters not whether I’m only mentally/spiritually ‘out’ or actually physically OUT. I am out of the tunnel for a while. Like Ben Okri’s former prisoner, I am a “Freedom Artist.” I am free.

 

Now I’m gonna cook breakfast & eat. There is no assurance I WILL eat. An asteroid might hit or some state of emergency (big or small), but one thing at a time: I’m going to cook now.

 

5.

Well… that was magic. Baked potato, bacon, Turkish dried apricots, almonds & raw spinach leaves… fuel. Life is good… now… clean up… a cigarette & a rest…

 

6.

Cleaning up addendum: doubt is not confusion.

 

7.

& doubt need not lead to confusion. Doubt can be a release valve, where we can laugh at ourselves & at the absurdity of life. Transgressive acts like doubt & irony can liberate us…

“…unless that too becomes habitual…”

“Ah yes Urizen, I see you’re reading over my shoulder. I could smell ‘the evil stench of the white man proceed’ you.

“ha ha… very good I, the author, although I’m not sure whether you’re bantering, borrowing or babbling.”

“Ah, I never realized you were a poet, Dr Crook.”

 

I really don’t want to bore you, me or Crook, who I know reads my novel, with the details of our exchange. It was longer than was pleasant, tedious really. I explained Blake & Jarmusch’s Dead Man link, because I couldn’t be bothered arguing for my sanity, with him. Well not really sanity, more a sense of ease with my predicament. Then he wanted to elaborate “my predicament”, to which I responded that I was not a Philosopher, I was a poet; he was a man of science & that his science had the erotic leap of affect to it. To which he said “sex?” & I said “no, erotic, as in Eros, I thought doctors had to learn Latin.” & he said, “but now you’re talking…” & I interrupted him “Ancient Greek.” At the exact moment he said “Ancient Greek.” At which point we both said “snap!” & then “snap!” again & we both laughed, at which point he’d metamorphosed into St Kilda Anne & I said:

“You don’t hate me anymore, yay!”

“Anne, I’m so sick of sparring with Crook, but his fucking clipboard gives me the yips.”

“Who’s Crook?”

“I’m only competitive with competitive people…”

“That’s not true, & who’s Crook?”

“My Psychiatrist.”

“Oh. But you invented him.”

“Oh Jesus! Anything but this!”

“Ok, Ok…

 

… It’s good to see you though, though you look a little shaken.”

“I know. It’s this place… I was gonna say your head, but now we’ll say ‘this place.’”

“Thanks mate” (exhaling). I put my arms on top of my head & stretched a bit. “I’m just a bit sick of all this question & answer… I just wanna…” (tears start to well) “…I just wanna…”

“You want a hug?”

“Thanks Anne.” I let a sigh/groan a few times, “I’m tired of the struggle.”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about” (excitedly), “Marvelous & Entwistle have been talking about going on a holiday.”

“Where to?” I sighed again.

“Who cares. Away from here?”

“Entwistle. The fucker’s mad, he’s gonna lose his job & wind up in here.”

“Where’s here?” winked St Kilda Anne.

“Too-fucking-shay!” (as in touche)…

…Ok cool. Let’s go. When do we leave?”

“Tonight. After Crook knocks off” (she whispered.)

“I thought you didn’t know Crook?”

“Exactly!” she mouthed, barely audibly, winking.

“That’s weird, since when did you start winking.”

“Since forever,” she winked again & padded off. This is good. I like the new playful St Kilda Anne. I got so sick of this farce being serious. Jesus! Why can’t we lighten up a bit? I mean clearly this thing is all a joke. I yelled out a cathartic scream “Liiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiifffffffffffffffffffe!” & finally breathed deeply, I turned for my bed. Good. A holiday. Thank God for Marv!

 

8.

The far north of Australia was awesome. I’ve always loved it up there, if a bit terrified of the taipans & the jungle & crocs & cassowary, haha. Oh man, how obvious. Anyway, I have a limited imagination. I’m not as good as Larry David at pulling together all the threads. I guess this work is not unified & with only 22095 words left till its world ends, & ticking, I’ve gotta tie up some things quickly. But that’s not how it happened, 3 nights till the full moon, 2 days till the anniversary of my late mother’s birthday.

 

So Marvellous M & Entwistle set up a bangin party. Fresh seafood, cocktails, the chicks appearing rice crispy in their swimsuits, all us guys with semi boners throughout. Sorry, bit crude. But you know the beach. It’s a sensual delight & one enjoys one’s sensuality just as much as that of others. The only one missing was Max. She said something about not into baring flesh & disappeared before we left. We had to sneak out quietly, so we couldn’t call out for her.

Entwistle had got his hands on a stretch Hummer & we drove right into the rainforest till we had to go on foot. It was a long walk, looking for camp. The sun sets earlier in the North in the summer. But it was past the Autumn Equinox, so there was no drama. But that didn’t help us finding camp before dark. Finally, blistered feet, we found camp, just as the sounds of the forest were going boonta.

A bite to eat & then sleep in the cabins. Bunk beds.

When we rose next morning, the chopper was waiting to give us a tour of the coast. Skydiving. I’m not sure whose idea it was coz we were all shitting ourselves.

Thank God I copped out as usual & the escapist in me metamorphosed the cast of members into walking through an early 19^th century Budapest arcade. Fortunately we were dressed en pointe & no one batted an eyelid at us. The most disadvantaged were the women, who were dressed profoundly dysfuntionally in the pre-Suffragette triviality of the past: pre-Victorian, corsets etc, crazy.

I have to say though, we were fortunately dressed wealthy & the currency well afforded a bangin brunch whose dish names I don’t recall, I was expecting goulash.

We were giggling a lot, coz it felt so surreal, none of us knowing a word of Hungarian, so a finger point at a random menu item was enough. Fortunately, no one wound up with sheep’s brain or anything. The food was good. Bloody good.

& a nice Bourdeaux to boot.

 

& so we decided to explore the arcade. It started interestingly, but got a bit tedious really. I’m not much into antiques & it was really like looking through antique stores, before they were antiques, though Marvellous did acquire some snuff & a snuff box. Then Harehound Hilda said “let’s get the hell out of here, I’m bored,” when I caught sight of myself in the mirror & saw that I was Dr Crook. I read the gas lit sign on the door he was emerging from & it said (according to Google Translate) “Egg Shop.” As if attracted by a magnet, quite spooked at seeing Crook & fortunately him not seeming to notice me, I lead the others in.

What a strange shop. Everything from quail eggs, duck eggs, chicken eggs, to fish eggs, lizard eggs, spider eggs, everything that lays an egg till above a very strange 7 sided desk, I saw the sign: Proprietor Max Sometimes & realized just as she reached under the counter for her contraband for “VIP’s only,” I was back in my room & Max was holding my cassowary egg up to her eye.

For a very brief second I was both in Budapest & Castlemaine & there were two near identical Maxs, who blurred & became one. “I never told you I was a twin, did I? I looked stunned, again seeing my face in a mirror. “Ma-a-a-a-ax?” I stammered. “Yes”, she said, “Sometimes… My Moon sign, like yours, is in Gemini.” I felt stunned… “Only messing with ya...

Where you been? You look a bit high.” “No”, I shook my head, “Marvellous & Entwistle no longer need pot to get us out of here,” I nodded, tapping on my skull…

“… Where did you get this cassowary egg?” She asked.

“Budapest,” I answered.

 

Anyway, that was a bit lame. I kind off tried to will that a bit much, like when I tried to will St Kilda Anne out of her swimsuit, but that’s the whole Promethean sex doll crap. Fuck men make me sick. But as Max has reassured me, there’s a lot of female creeps as well. I’m sick of willing action & might just chill out a bit. Hilda & I had a really open discussion today that kind of left me a bit raw. It’s always been a bit like that with her. She plays rough. She’s too much woman for me, which is why I invented St Kila Anne, who’s a little lightweight but she’s cute & in this place, whether a case of just my fuckin head it gets pretty intense & a laugh is well needed. Hence we all like Marvellous M & Entwistle. They’re both crazy. & before you wanna level that at ME, let me just say I’d already thought of that, so if that bastard Crook appears again tonight… “Hello.” I scream & have to turn it into a joke, like a blues song, else I will know I’m,… sorry HE’LL know that I’M crazy. Or just a dumb cunt who’s bored.

Max/Crook: “Or both. The two are not mutually exclusive.”

 

9.

The whole travel thing is getting kind of tired, yunno Entwistle. I just feel like it’s escapism & bad writing & it’s getting a bit predictable & frankly little progress is getting made.

I mean it’s fun, but fun’s not enough. I wanna make real friendships, create a life, develop relationships, learn some things. The whole banter & comedy is a bit empty. I’m sick of being crazy.

“You’re sick of being a writer,” I think that’s what you’re saying.

Entwistle was dressed like a golfer in a red sweater & blue slacks, with “his wild eyes & flowing hair weave round him thrice,” as Coleridge put it.

I crave substance & novels are merely light entertainment. I wanna get back to life, to borrow from Soul II Soul. I’ve lost my wife of 11 years & I feel completely rudderless.

“Which is why you’re here.”

Well, I’m a bit sick of all that, I’m either in an asylum or in a novel or just stuck in my own head & poets have short attention spans & need constant change. This book is up to 9000 words nearly, & it’s getting stale.

“Why don’t you go out for a walk?”

Yeah I’d like to, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

“Why don’t you continue with reading Byron’s Manfred? You were enjoying that.”

Very true, I could even get out my guitar & sing some songs. Oh man, I got the blues & I’m having the after effects of the shock of seeing Crook in Budapest with my face.

“Shit”

Well, I didn’t have time for it to sink in, as I was preoccupied at the time. I was with friends, it was weird enough going back in time, there was so much weirdness that I didn’t really compute that that was the most shocking thing. You know how you take things in your stride at the time, I’m quite tough that way, but it’s afterwards when you think I’m going to fuck my brain. I really thought Crook was external to me, the way he’d look over my shoulder to read my notes & to see him with my face!

 

I didn’t notice Entwistle move off & was scared out of my wits to see Crook walking up, with his usual neat & tidy & self-contained manner. The very antithesis of me.

 

10.

Crook: “How’s the writing going?”

I: “A bit shit. I’m low on inspiration. Full moons take a lot out of me & I feel tired during the day.”

Crook: “Have you thought about writing at night, once the moon is out?”

I: “Yeah, I did that last night, but I was a bit pissed & I don’t feel like it worked.”

Crook: “Why worry about it working? Just write for yourself. I thought you were doing it for the release? As a therapy.”

I: “Yeah, but you know my ego & there are moments it works as a novel & then moments it all kind of dwindles to dead words.”

Crook: “Do you mind me asking what are ‘dead words’?”

I: “Thanks for being kind with me today. I don’t have the energy to fight. Dead words are kinda… words without inspiration. A predictable plot twist. When the novel’s pattern becomes really obvious. Boring writing.

Crook smiled warmly, his mouth appearing vaguely feminine & then I noticed that his black trousers were in fact a skirt.

I: “Oh man, it’s happening again…”

“What is?”

“The constant metamorphosing of people into other people & places into other places & now even times.”

“Would you talk me through it?” said St Kilda Anne.

“Yep, it’s happened again” & tears welled up in my eyes, “I’m just sick of weirdness, mental illness, having a vivid imagination or a world that’s lost its bearings, whatever the hell it is this is.”

“But you have people who care for you. Never lose sight of that.”

“Anne. I have to apologize. I really underestimated you when I first met you. You’re a good egg. Thank you.”

“Would you like to go for a walk?”

“Yeah I would. Cheers.”

 

11.

We walked & I have no idea where it was. It was like a white page slowly filling up with black type & then more white page, I was absorbed in St Kilda Anne’s presence. She spoke to me of the metamorphoses & that why should bemoan them? Or diminish them? My dad used to say the same thing & as it neared the one year anniversary since his death, it was a resonant sentiment. Yes, why? Ovid was celebrated for his metamorphosis. It’s a wonderful book. I’m not comparing myself to Ovid but the ancients were right about human psychology. They saw the depths of passion & irrationality that drive so called sane people. Look at war, look at sex, look at violence & yet so many people try & keep the lid on so much fury, serving only to pressure cook us into either explosion or implosion. & part of the reason I read & write is to ease that psychic pressure, the human heart & mind.

 

Anne & I had filled up a big document by now, but so had other characters played their part. I had companions on my journey into the unknown & whether real or imaginary, it was better than doing so alone.

We hugged, though I wanted to kiss her. & we parted. I felt a thrill surge through me.

 

12.

When I woke the next morning, I was pleased to find myself in my own bed at home. I lit a cigarette & contemplated how long I’m to have to wait till, wait… tomorrow’s my mum’s birthday. It seems strange I can’t talk to her on the phone. She was a great lady. We had the same sense of humour so we laughed a lot & now apart from Marvellous M, there’s no one really to laugh with. What do you do when you can’t laugh? “You dance!” said Max opening the back door for a cigarette herself. You look relaxed Max. “Do I? You might be projecting.” I chuckled. Oh man! Glad to be home & a supply of psych meds & a relatively full fridge. “Want a coffee?” she said. Cheers.

No, I’m not exactly relaxed but relieved to be outside my head. “Are you? Both relaxed & outside your head.” Oh Jesus, here we go! I can’t Max. I can’t think about it. “Fair enough.”

I just wanna zone out. I mean how does one get out of one’s head? “It’s a leap of faith, I guess.” But so many weird things are happening, so maybe I am confused, not merely a doubter? I mean when I’m with you guys I feel ok that you exist & then people start metamorphosing & the location keeps changing. It’s disquieting. “But if you’re schizophrenic as a you tell me, then it makes sense to feel disquieted. When I went crazy I figured I’ll just ride it out. & it’s also quite possible that you’re just an author, who’s taking his novel too seriously for it to be funny. & the whole point of the novel was to write a folly & give yourself a project for the Winter.”

Cool, so nothing’s any clearer. Nothing is clear. Why do I expect things to be clear? Life’s never been clear before, I guess I thought a novel could be clear. Like Steinbeck. But of course there’s not much humour in Steinbeck & I feel both myself & the world could do with a laugh. But of course humour can’t be forced. Look I just don’t feel very funny today. That stuff with my ex-wife was hard. I still love her of course. “I know. It hasn’t been that long.” One good thing is that I’ve had kinder chats with people, even Crook. He was ok the other day & we weren’t so competitive with one another. It's just that thing of him prying, thinks he knows me. “But isn’t that what we all do? Seek to know.” Sure but he seems to think I’m real & he’s real, when in fact I’m just a narrator & he’s a figment of fiction. “Then what the hell am I?” You’re my housemate & I’m pretty sure you’re real, coz you made a bloody good cigarette, far better than I can roll. “Don’t doubt yourself.” At which point we both burst out laughing & danced around. Ah, the beauty, the healing power of helpless laughter, as Don Walker calls it. I guess this novel is about healing me of my recent griefs: my mother, my father, my best friend & the break-up of my marriage. Life got pretty fuckin big pretty quickly. Life got weird really, because I’d lost my lode stone. Living in a new place, a new life & barely an old friend in sight & then the diagnosis.

Still, good grist for the mill.

 

End of Part Two.

 

Part Three.

1.

So we were over at Mary’s house & I drank a bit of brandy & got a little bit sentimental. I made a speech in praise of we 3 & I felt more than a little vulnerable & a bit absurd.

I gushed “I’m so grateful for you Mary & Max, for including me in your circle. You’re wonderful people.” Max said “so are you Mal.” I returned with “I mightn’t exist.” Max returned with “I need you to exist Mal.” I felt truly moved & as Max walked away, I offered “I need you to exist too Max.”

& so friendship is more important than a novel. & maybe our era is not much for patience & things resolve & complicate more quickly. But we’re here. We exist. & we need one another for our stories & our comfort.

Max went to see her partner. Max & I are like sister & brother. I love my ex-wife & miss my mother & life rhymes in the end. You have to listen for it, it’s not regular, but life is beautiful, perhaps a joke? A painful joke then, but worth a smoke.

 

Not a novel, not a novella. Not what I’d aimed for but far far better is another: as Frankenstein’s monster in the old movie saith “Loneliness: bad, friend: good.”

 

 

The End.

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2024.