title in post....

[Axanderdeath]

HAUNTED AND DEJECTED REJECTED DEPRESSED

HOLDING ON


HAUNTED AND DEJECTED REJECTED DEPRESSED

HOLDING ON

















HOSTEL


I got up this morning with the taste of stolen wine in my mouth. The bells for the
children in the adjoining school were going; I looked at my watch and said to my self ‘how the fuck is it so late (12)’ which seemed extremely late to me. Work had already begun. I got up and looked around. The usual ghastly surroundings that occupy my dwellings:
Bags from the deep, clothing, beer bottles, and cap of beer bottles and socks, stolen wine bottles. I was freaked out last night when I opened a bottle by smashing it that I had accidentally drunk shards of glass. I think I am fine.

When I got back to Montreal, a few weeks ago, the first thing I did was get my old job back; but after that it was straight to drinking. The first night I got a 20 Bag of coke and went to a bar and got kicked out for Charles in induced conversation (Charles; this will make sense later.) I was drinking every day since. At first I thought is was kind of cool. ‘The lone drunk’ sitting on my bed with a book in one hand and a beer in the other. Studying writers and their craft I thought.

But last week end went out with a printed off copy of my latest bit of writing and went to some bar on st. Laurent and sat down at a table with some lesbians and gay men that looked like artist to me. Got an interior designer name Sharon (although a man) to read my story. He kept saying that it sounded like a movie script. Which I did not get what his meaning was to that. With my subtle drunken promptings he thought, as well, that it was stream of conscience for sure!

I woke up in the hospital—I barely looked around unsurprised by my surroundings, having seen them sooo many times before. The nurse woke me up around 7 in the morning. I changed from the hospital gowns to my clothing and walked out. I walked through my favorite drinking park the one with the fountain in the middle on sherbrooke street. It was as I said 7 am and cold. The park looked different in the winter. In the summer years ago I lived in this park drinking all day with my shirt off in the sun. Sleeping right by the water fountain. AH those were the days.

When I got back to the hostel I went to bed and woke up around 12 and got breakfast Togo at the café. At coffee my father hand sent me an email saying he had sent the money to an editor that was doing some editing for me. Dad said it was good I was doing it.

I got another coffee around 2 and sat reading “mile high club” by kinky Freidman which was a Xmas gift form my mother and father. At first I said “what the fuck is this fucking book?” But it turned out to be pretty good. Makes me want to live in a loft in new York with a bunch of Jewish eccentric friends—just like the kinkster, and of course I would want to be a private DICK.

Then I decided that I should get my drink on. So I went to get a 40 and sat and finished my book which had a surprising ending. Swimming around my head was ideas about how I was going to finish my book and about how my x-friends would wish they had put up with my behavior. About how the girls would finally want to give me a warm flirtasous glance in stead of the cold shoulder. Then realizing in a moment that that could not be the reason for writing (no matter how justified) realizing that that was not what writing was all about. I drunkenly scrolled in the moleskin note book:

“Art and writing should be free I shall never make a penny|!”

And:

“I marveled at her breast LAPPED WITH SPITTLE.”

BOTH WERE WRITING IN DRUNKEN SCRAWL. BARELY RECOGNIZABLE. THE LATTER LINE I THINK I WANTED TO USE IN A RACIER STORY SOME TIME. BUT THE FIRST ON I DON’T KNOW IF I REALLY WANT TO BELIEVE.

After all this hard work I was satisfied that the artistic flames were burning strong within me. So I decided to go out on the town. This meant stealing a bottle of wine from the super store and going down st. Laurent to see how long it took them to kick me out of bars and what not. Walking along looking for a bar that I think might open my bottle. I see Ian. He’s standing there with his arms spread out in a chicken wing kind of way smoking in his demonic back leather jacket. “Hey!” He says. In his best way to sound like he was happy I ran in to him. I did not care either way. He was not happy to see me. I bummed a smoke off him and he told me his band was playing that night. I asked him if he could get my bottle of wine opened in the bar and he said that was kinda “sketchy…” I asked him “you are not calling you old friend Geoff scratchy are you?” I told him to get back in side “it’s cold out here. Only a mad man be walking around in these temperatures” I told him walking off.

I walked a couple blocks and started bumming change:

“Spare some change for beer”

“Hey, spare some change fore the eccentric people that make Montreal an interesting place.”

“Fucker how about some change?”

I made about 3 dollars. I was drinking the stolen wine it was about then that I went back to the bar where Ian's band was playing. Into the mosh pit and took off my shirt and coat. Ian grabs me and says “what the fuck you doing?

“Just checking out an old pals band!”

“Just go man.” A dark hairdo leather jacketed devil worshipers pleaded with me—some one square enough to take my shirt off in a mosh pit! And Ian grabs me and throws me out—grabbed me by the bare shoulder and through me out the door in to the freezing Montreal night, shirtless… I have had a chest cold ever since.

This brings me back to this morning and the meaning of art. Art vengeance, art anger. I was sick of drinking everyday so I did what any self respecting addict writer would do—I went to the hospital and got a prescription of Ativan.

Went in to work late and still made 3 deals between 4 and 7 got of work and went to the café and printed off some of the edited word, popped an ativan and read it over and the after reading my own writing I was inspired.


Getting back to my soulless telemarketing job was nice too. The amount of time hitch hiking and drinking and obsessive and crazy depressed dick headedness are behind. I have a nice office that almost feels like I’m at home—home with my folks sure did not at Christmas—no jack ass boss over my shoulder yelling at ya to make more deals. Always laughing at bad jokes. Charles is abit predates I must say but |I think he knows that most people would kill him for what he is saying and I suspect he does not mean a word of it. Having a conversation with Charles is:
“Jewish people control the world. They rule that world!” He says in a discussed way—a way I never had heard before I moved to Montreal “that is why Yuri was so good at getting deals.”

“Yuri was also a Russian. They stole all his families’ money in the old country.”

These conversations make me think about how stupid these conversations are. And that the thought that racism will ever be stomped out is stupid. I think that I have been feeling some racism towards my race—the evil white race. Do I mind being white? NO. My people are hateful evil fuckers. We act decent so we can get it on video and then we sell it—it gets on TV and the once that becomes popular we sell t-shirt that reads “look at my good deed” on them—and they are made by those nice countries that put black children to work—and that is what my race is.

Back to the office. The sales job. The selling the way you can. . With implications and suggestions about what could bring a person to think is correct because people are optimistic and think that people are generally trying to help each other. Strong-arm physiological tactics with old 80 year old women that have been scammed a thousand times before. Most companies in Montreal simple trade the names of these suckers to each other— and go on selling and selling them ways to protect the people against being sold stuff over the phone which of course cost 395.00./….

They trade each other a block of names each year…. It will go on forever…. It is sad and sick, and my job. But not that much different from any one’s else—the difference is I am being honest about what it is I do…

Some times we prank them tell them that they have pretty voices in our fake old man voices. Dave Chappell Esq. type shit. Call some one in a Missouri and ask em in a hick voice “want an nee pasume me an ma mum gots some on da high way?” A women was interested one time and asked how much—7.00—apparently too much for possum in Missouri. I done hung up.

Then there is Charles when he gets going while stoned on weed he smokes non-stop all day. When he feels like fucking around with people on the phone. Charles is a big black guy that always wears a fitted cap and is always talking about ultimate fighting and I use to go to mao-tai with him. It goes like this.

“Are you ha-white? ive seen some Negro children around and one of them touched me and I think it gave me warts.” And this type of evil dated racist shit. I get the phone from him and ask them what he’s said and the people usually say.

“This man was crazy he was talking about stuff that I did not understand.”

I tell them “well that just my dad. He is old and gets a little wound up some times—he is in his 90’s. He doesn’t mean the stuff he says I know it. He just wants friends.”

To which the people say. “Oh well that’s okay.”

Charles then is handed back the phone and in a scolded puppy voice he says “you want to come over for a steak dinner?”

[stilltrucking]

I enjoyed reading that a lot

keep on writting

[judih]

i like the description of the white race.

[stilltrucking]

I liked that bit too

also the bit about reason to write.

I liked lots of bits of it some more than others

I like the juxtoposition of these two lines:

“Art and writing should be free I shall never make a penny|!”

And:

“I marvelled at her breast LAPPED WITH SPITTLE.”

I like the ending a lot

I like the bit about the mosh pit
and being square enough to take off his shirt
and I was hoping he really didn't have a chest cold ever since.

I suppose I have said enough even for someone as ambitious for his writting as Geoff, may he never have the problems of a mid list author, or if he does I hope he will laugh at them.

speak of young writers j
that reference to mole skin notebooks reminded me of something someone on litkicks had wrote about them
does she still write anything like those stories on the old story board?

sorry geoff maybe you could tell me is their anything she is posting in the way of what you posted here. I could never get enough of her stories.