More of my writing, a recollection.

[crim son]

I like the after-midnight audience because it's small & quiet.

This is me on the very morning of the end of life as I knew it:





Rather prim, yes? (and thin, though I hated my weight at the time but that is an aside).

I would leave this cafe having had a wonderful breakfast and two bottles of fanta in a glass - with ice. A fool's mistake but I felt confident never having been sick before. Imagining I was immune I had had roadside fruit, fruit purees from the market, authentic stews - ick - from vendors in Valladolid, and all the regular foods one eats with trepidation while traveling where hygienic standards are different from what's accustomed. But it was the accursed ice. Had there been no ice I would not have fallen off the stool (ah, Freudian slip!) in that internet cafe. I was shocked, I was grieved but it was the timely, violent illness which put God's seal of Vengeance on what was happening to my world. Could I ignore that vengeance, any more than I could ignore the sudden and undeniable urge for an extended visit to the toilet? The cafe had none so I staggered home after Big C who must have believed that if he walked very fast, we'd get there in time. This memory hurts, ah well. We got there in time because back then I still possessed innate dignity! It soon vanished. How I paced that place... the cockroaches I killed, unknowing, with my bare feet as I embarked on my alcoholic odyssey! P and J had left us bottles and bottles of wine and though I wasn't eating I was indeed drinking after my companion went to bed. I wrote my journal and contemplated the wonderful painted borders in the livingroom of the old house. Elsewhere too, but I preferred the livingroom. It looked out on the tiny back yard and it's simple pool. Inevitable hibiscus and bougainvillea littered the water and the pool's edge with discarded blossoms. I played many games of scrabble there, in my stupor, and won none of them. Gone were the days when I win though at this moment that truth isn't obvious.

***

People who post their writing here, I have felt sad for them before. I could feel sad for me now but instead I enjoy the tiny thrill of making my words public, deliberately. In my blog I can pretend I'm not noticing but here it's a risk. Therefore, keep yer damn mouths shut. :P

Thank you.

[Danger Mouse]

1. Thanks for sharing. The thing about the cockroaches was particularly vivid

:)
it's nice to read something of yours.

[crim son]

2. It's nicer to read yours.

I'm just starting out and am trying to build confidence. You are already *there* IMHO.

You are also a good friend, responding to this. It doesn't go unnoticed.

[Danger Mouse]

4. Aww...I'll gladly share more of my writing with you...

as it becomes available.

[crim son]

6. I read your blog

... as it becomes available.

[Danger Mouse]

8. i'll keep that in mind.

:)

[crim son]

3. Also, I don't edit.

That may make you feel a bit better. I'm capable of it but... don't do it.

[Danger Mouse]

5. And why the bare feet?

:) I'm bad at editing myself, don't check for spelling or grammar. I'm bad like that.
I'd like to encourage you to share more of your writing.

[crim son]

7. I am always barefooted unless it's impossible.

Even in Mexico.

[Danger Mouse]

9. but...but...cockroaches!

:cry:

[crim son]

11. Cockroaches,

fried plantains, bougainvillea, utter simplicity. It's part of the package. Dem bugs, I mean.

[some guy]

10. nice

a bit bleak. This is the second of your writing posts I've read.

You do a realy good job of drawing me in, making me want to read more. That's what the best writers do, lure the reader from one page to the next. It's kind of sad to read other posts by you, and be aware of your struggles in life. You have the time, I believe you have the talent. I'm not sure why you don't embrace it, and give it an opportunity to take you to a happier life.

:hug:

[crim son]

12. Do you write?

If so, you're one in a billion. I have embraced the pointless all my life and taking this seriously would be foolish. But thank you for being kind. I do appreciate it.

[some guy]

13. no.

My brain seems to bound from thought to thought, and if I try to slow it down long enough to get it down on paper, the thought just vanishes. The kernel of it may remain, but it's all isolated from everything that seemed to be around just before.

You don't really have to take it seriously; you just have to embrace it as something you enjoy. Then when you have several hundred pages that seem to have a bit of cohesion, send it off to a publisher, with a note saying you'll let them publish you for many, many dollar$. :D



or you can just keep publishing in the lounge, and I'll :applause: and :yourock: and stuff. :P

[crim son]

15. Hmmm.

My daughter is published. She has the STBE's brains and my... thoughts. I can pretend it's me. :)

[some guy]

17. there ya go!

Or you could even publish under a different name, and create a safe zone between you and your writing. 'crim son, she's a terrific writer, but that's not me.' :)

[Redbear]

14. It certainly doesn't make me feel sad.

It sounds like life. Its not always pretty, but it is definitely living--as opposed to simply existing.

You definitely have a way with words, but I already knew that.

[crim son]

16. Thanks.

I wasn't aiming for sadness but merely life. Your comment is appreciated!