dark thoughts on a train and family hell
I love travelling; even this simple journey to north Wales is a breath of fresh air, a break from my random routine. Ok the thought of spending a few days with all my family is not one I actually relish, but as I said: I love travelling. As much as I love travelling - I hate waiting; unfortunately a large portion of travelling IS waiting. One of the reasons for my distain of dead time are idle curious thoughts, these thoughts tend to meander down the wrong paths, dark corners of my synapses get explored. And, if particularly horrific, repeated.
At the moment, for reasons that are totally beyond me, I am imaging standing over my brothers prone body delivering punch after punch into his head and face, I don't want to think this but the more I rest, the vivid it gets, I am biting back tears on a full train, trying to exorcise the thoughts by pining them to the page.
I can smell the sticky copper scent of his blood and can feel the bones in his face each time I hit him, in my head he is not fighting back, my fantasy self remembers kicking each shoulder while he was down so he cant lift his arms.
Christ! this is elaborate, in real life this would never never happen, not only does my brother and me love each other dearly, but also he has about a foot in height and a couple of stone in weight on me and could probley beat me senseless without breaking sweat, but now, in my head, he's unconscious now and still I carry on, fantasy me is a sick son of a bitch, I can hear the sound of meat. I wish I could close my minds eye because I am disgusted with myself.
My idle thoughts have always trod down the wrong turnings normally I fill my life with spectacle, distraction and of course beloved booze, booze slows the thoughts down first to a dull plod and eventually a stop, coffee too, coffee does the opposite though, sharpening and speeding those bastards up so they never stay anywhere for long.
In the Australian fields with only the vines and a pair of pruning shears for distraction, I gave eulogies for everyone I knew, I planned every word, Mom, Dad, siblings, friends, everyone. Under the 40c sun, hot fat tears mixing with the sweat.
Escaping into a book now, my other distraction.
I'm in hell; this place is like Northfield-On-Sea, a dysfunctional families twisted theme park designed by a neon fetishist, I have momentarily escaped outside away from bickering family, bawdy man jokes and enough cigarette smoke to power a 1930's steam train, I need to get pissed to even consider surviving my family, I'm at a holiday camp making a cameo at a family holiday, guilt and plain curiosity forced me to attend. I need booze but have no money to buy it with, as I said - hell. I may even resort to stealing my Nan's heart medicine, this is not a joke.
Another roving pack of scouse kids has just bopped past, bored of the antiquated arcades five minutes distraction looking for something to stab, steal or fuck. I'm in the main hall or "Lunar bar" it is laughable referred to this is a large hall filled with tables and a stage, the place holds about 500 people but over half of these are kids on the dance floor, dancing, running round, skidding on their knee's and generally acting like children that have done nothing all day but suck down confectionery, which in all fairness is probably true. Sitting around the hall is dour looking builders in catalogue bought smart/casual sportswear itching to go to the bar, ignoring their whiny kids demanding pound coins and frozen sugar drinks. On stage is an impressionist that obviously hasn't changed his act since the very early nineties.
Morning now, I don't mind being hung-over after a good night out, after a really good booze I even enjoy my hangover, but after a spectacularly bad night out, a complete utter fuck up, a family Armageddon of a night out, the hangover I have is proof that not only is there not a god, but he hates me.
It's to many other peoples business for me to plaster over the interwub, but I will tell you that my glorious brother had another night in a police cell (undeservedly) and I spent the night mediating between drunk unreasonable people.
On a camp full of low rent chain smoking unclassy brawling proles, it turns out that my family are the most low rent chain smoking drunk unclassy brawling proles of all.
At the moment, for reasons that are totally beyond me, I am imaging standing over my brothers prone body delivering punch after punch into his head and face, I don't want to think this but the more I rest, the vivid it gets, I am biting back tears on a full train, trying to exorcise the thoughts by pining them to the page.
I can smell the sticky copper scent of his blood and can feel the bones in his face each time I hit him, in my head he is not fighting back, my fantasy self remembers kicking each shoulder while he was down so he cant lift his arms.
Christ! this is elaborate, in real life this would never never happen, not only does my brother and me love each other dearly, but also he has about a foot in height and a couple of stone in weight on me and could probley beat me senseless without breaking sweat, but now, in my head, he's unconscious now and still I carry on, fantasy me is a sick son of a bitch, I can hear the sound of meat. I wish I could close my minds eye because I am disgusted with myself.
My idle thoughts have always trod down the wrong turnings normally I fill my life with spectacle, distraction and of course beloved booze, booze slows the thoughts down first to a dull plod and eventually a stop, coffee too, coffee does the opposite though, sharpening and speeding those bastards up so they never stay anywhere for long.
In the Australian fields with only the vines and a pair of pruning shears for distraction, I gave eulogies for everyone I knew, I planned every word, Mom, Dad, siblings, friends, everyone. Under the 40c sun, hot fat tears mixing with the sweat.
Escaping into a book now, my other distraction.
I'm in hell; this place is like Northfield-On-Sea, a dysfunctional families twisted theme park designed by a neon fetishist, I have momentarily escaped outside away from bickering family, bawdy man jokes and enough cigarette smoke to power a 1930's steam train, I need to get pissed to even consider surviving my family, I'm at a holiday camp making a cameo at a family holiday, guilt and plain curiosity forced me to attend. I need booze but have no money to buy it with, as I said - hell. I may even resort to stealing my Nan's heart medicine, this is not a joke.
Another roving pack of scouse kids has just bopped past, bored of the antiquated arcades five minutes distraction looking for something to stab, steal or fuck. I'm in the main hall or "Lunar bar" it is laughable referred to this is a large hall filled with tables and a stage, the place holds about 500 people but over half of these are kids on the dance floor, dancing, running round, skidding on their knee's and generally acting like children that have done nothing all day but suck down confectionery, which in all fairness is probably true. Sitting around the hall is dour looking builders in catalogue bought smart/casual sportswear itching to go to the bar, ignoring their whiny kids demanding pound coins and frozen sugar drinks. On stage is an impressionist that obviously hasn't changed his act since the very early nineties.
Morning now, I don't mind being hung-over after a good night out, after a really good booze I even enjoy my hangover, but after a spectacularly bad night out, a complete utter fuck up, a family Armageddon of a night out, the hangover I have is proof that not only is there not a god, but he hates me.
It's to many other peoples business for me to plaster over the interwub, but I will tell you that my glorious brother had another night in a police cell (undeservedly) and I spent the night mediating between drunk unreasonable people.
On a camp full of low rent chain smoking unclassy brawling proles, it turns out that my family are the most low rent chain smoking drunk unclassy brawling proles of all.
posted by Puck at 9:04 PM
2 Comments:
A vivid imagination is nothing to fear. Putting it into the proper channels is your challenge. You gotta take all that beautiful, horrific and descritive imagery and put pen to paper.
and makes me lots of money, momma needs some new shoes....
Sadly, this brings back too many memories. All the dysfunction has driven me several hours away...
Anyway, thanks for the illuminating narrative. Your writing is always full of ethos and wit.
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