May 28, 2011 § 1 Comment
I heard a rumour I had died and I wasn’t sure if I believed it. Circumstance have seen me part with substances. My bloods clean and my mind pure. I heard that Rosey drove the Jag off a bridge in Parkipsy. I heard the owners of the drugs turned up. I heard the police pulled us over with illegal unregistered high powered firearms and a bag of cocaine. I heard a gun went off in someones face. To all who enquired I’m fine. It’s been a hell of a month. Thank you for any concern. All of the above are true. And kids. It’s quite a story. It’s heading your way in the following days. Stay tuned.
May 6, 2011 § Leave a comment
“I’ll wait for her on both my knees, through tidal waves and killer bees.” – Issac Graham – Photographs and histories.
I need to update you on our situation, but first a story Rosey told me on the long road to the East Coast.
It was called “locked up in that 45. Hope your feeling better.” It was about a soilder who came back from Vietnam. For obvious reasons returning American soilders weren’t very happy, if you don’t know why, read a book or something, I’m not here to educate you on the pitfalls on American foregin policy in the mid 60s. Why I am here? I don’t know. But I’m in the middle of a story, I know that much. So the soilder comes home, he locks the world outside and he lays down his standard issue Colt 45 pistol down at the end of bed. He just looks at it at first, not seriously thinking about it, but the thought takes hold. He tries books, booze, drugs the works to drown out the call of that pistol. He convinces himself that he keeps it around for protection, incase one of those fucking hippies turns up. He knows, in the back on his mind that is not why it is there. His friends don’t talk to him. His family are gone. And one day it’s too much. Just three weeks back, almost every second stuck in that room, he picks up the pistol in that smuggy drunk delayed blur and put it to his forehead. Tears running down his face. He doesn’t pause, not for a second, the decsion was made long ago, long, long ago in the rice field of domino state. The last thing he ever saw was his neatley folded uniform. Bang. But that’s not it. Rusted firing pin. Misfire. Uncle Sam let you down again. But not a flash in the pan misfire. The shot was heard by the upstairs neighbour, who called the cops, who kicked the door in. They found him on the floor. The discharge from the shot took out his right eye and the blast ruined his second. He woke up in a hospital bed. He cried for three days. It always stuck with me. That’s the lowest a human gets. He never spoke again, to anyone about anything.