“Fuck him man, I’ll kill him, I'll slit his fucking throat,” showing his fear through aggression about the boyfriend who wanted his head.
Here he goes again, writing himself away to another victory. Head all over the place, tired, hungover, probably still drink. Breakfast ordered, horrible coffee half drank, joint there that’s not a good idea but we will find out ourselves. Spew on the bathroom floor. Did the carrot know its destiny. Growing in the fields. Picked and washed. Bought and cut up. Put into a Momo and fried. Consumed. Sitting in a stomach that gets full of beer. Up again onto the tiles. Washed away with the bidet. The carrot falls into the drain. The carrots destiny. My destiny.
Two nights ago I met up with Browny, my friend from Australia. He was riding through the mountains with a group of lads but broke his foot. So now he is here for six weeks until its better again. The place he is staying at is a place for gangsters apparently. What's a gangster but a faggot? Scared little boys teaming up together to hide from the real world. Don’t tell them I said that though!
I want to close my eyes. There's serenity beneath this chaos. I don’t attach myself to the chaos but trying to cling to serenity confuses the body. I use others to miss myself. Miss the self they summon. even though I could just be him. Be the love I yearn.
Every day is a Sunday, but your Sundays feel a little different when Monday never comes. Sometimes you miss Mondays, the demands she cries. To sharpen back up. Through pain you go, watching it fall off, praying for all the happiness you consumed from the future that has now arrived. I think I hate Sundays. The way it makes you feel. The way it reminds you of all those hugs with someone who took the pain away. When your heart was open because it was broken through indulgence. Indulgence of alcohol, people, places, laughs, and the indulgence of not caring. Then you feel caring come back. Compassion like a freight train. Searching for the girl who last night didn’t exist. Thank God she exists. But is this what for? To save me from myself once a week. Maybe the Sunday trickles through a few more days. Until you're standing proud and strong again, having it all figured out.
How can I hate Sundays now, when every day is a Sunday?
How can I love Sunday?
Or enjoy it.
What is Sunday but a feeling. Walking home in the rain with memories forgotten. The rain feels nice now. I don’t need to remember anything. The colour of the clouds matches that of my aura. So together we float, together we cry. The rain falls on my hair to make it curl. I like the curls. Few other people like the curls too. Soon there's nothing left to fall. The darkness from my eyes turns to a blue sky. Green even. Like a healthy lake in snowy mountains. Waiting for the thirsty to come. The hot to bathe. Waiting for their needs to pollute me. It’s so fun clearing up and how could things clear up if they were always clear. I don’t hate Sundays. It’s too much of a thing to hate all of it. Maybe I don’t like a few feelings. But who am I to judge?
Sometimes I get my way,
sometimes,
and when I don’t its usually better.
Anyway, we sit in this gangster place and a man spoke in broken English, a man from west Nepal and because of his broken English he sounds innocent.
“I am a little bit drunk, I'm sorry man,” he says and then cheers whenever there's a silence, and with me, there's always a lot.
I just don’t talk. I've just got nothing to say. But I dissect the world out there. Hopefully without a sense of superiority but that’s hard sometimes.
“I can’t play pool too well any more cause I got stabbed with a sword,” he nonchalantly said, “and hit here with a Kukri,” pointing at his shoulder.
A kukri is a Nepalese knife. Police have them, security have them, gangsters have them and soon, I will have one.
Another gangster looking man walks in with a woman, they’ve just been to the movies. She is all bouncy. To cut it all down.
The older man was with this girl. This girl was sleeping with the guy who got stabbed. Now she was telling browny she wanted to sleep with him too. Then there was this big girl. She was jolly. She wanted browny too. They told him to add her on Instagram and her handle was @your_fav_chubby. Ha-ha.
Tension was brewing. Someone was going to die over this girl. Maybe Browny, but definitely not me. She wasn’t attractive, she was wearing shorts underneath her dress. Imagine getting stabbed over a girl wearing black shorts under her dress. An old man walked up and handed browny a joint. Then handed me a few nuggets of weed wrapped up in a napkin. What a world.
We left to go to a bar and play pool. I hate pool. I suck at pool. I hardly spoke but watched on. Watched the alcohol do its best to expose everyone’s secrets. Told Browny to stay out of it, these girls are trouble and the guys get off on it. Its toxic masculinity!
The old man who showed obvious dismay towards his girlfriend’s fascination with browny stood up and puffed his chest on the pool table. As if he was an anime character, he took over a game where Browny was 6 balls up and beat him. Putting all his anger through the que. As they all got drunk, I sat with my greatest trait, tolerance. To alcohol, to these people around me and even to myself. Browny fell asleep and the girl laid on top of him. The younger guy slapped her on the ass to say, ‘Show some respect to your boyfriend’.
Then they all went home. I walked home. Hungry and horny; walking past food and whores. Self-governed, self-respect, self-loathing.
The next day browny told me that they went back to his hotel. Then after he fell asleep, he heard crying, then a stir from the bottom level. The girl wearing shorts was in the hotel with the younger guy, the same night as her boyfriend took her to the movies; what a shame. Browny let him hide in his room and watched him put on a front.
“Fuck him man, I’ll kill him, ill slit his fucking throat,” showing his fear through aggression about the boyfriend who wanted to kill him.
The next day Browny told the head honcho and he just laughed. Didn’t care at all. Like his children having a fight in the backseat of the car.
Again I sat with browny, both tired and falling asleep, music too loud to bother with talking. He got a cab and I walked home.
Fat monks was still open so I decided to pop in for a couple. Sitting in the corner where the girl who works there thinks I'm famous cause I told her about my poetry book, an old man invites me to sit with him. Why not? I think to myself.
He was as old as the hills that surround us, no teeth, small head and gigantic ears. Has lived in London for 35 years.
“I used to love London, now I fucking hate it” he said,
“What happened to it?”
“All the black cunts” he told me, without any humorous intent, “We need to get rid of the monarchy, they’re all fucking paedophiles”.
“They’re not just fucking the kids, they sacrifice them too” I told him, and his eyes lit up, knowing he was in a safe space to spill the tremors in his heart.
He fell over twice when I was with him. He was a good man. The oldest of seven and had not had any kids, never saw the point of it. I told him what I'm doing when he asked me what I do back in Australia. Gave the spiel. An electrician but sold my house to pursue writing. His face lit up again,
“That’s fantastic!”.
He kept hugging me. When he did, I could feel just how skinny and frail he was.
“I do photography. Its not much but pays for itself. Sometimes people buy them sometimes they don’t. But that’s what I want to do, be a writer”.
I think we all do. Our thoughts want to live on forever. We want to have something to show for this life, for the pain and the joy, for the endurance. Some have kids, some write books. I hope I do both.
I said goodnight and walked home. Stopped in another place out of curiosity. A girl sat beside me and asked me to buy her a drink and I said no. She revoked her interest and left. I said goodbye to her on the way out. Walked home and spewed in my room. I am a sucker, sure, but a special type, one that moves alone.
