How real is the sheer nonsense presented before you? In the short stories that appear, how real are the occupants, the protagonist, the narrator, the villain, the damsel? How much of it is true? How much is purely fiction? Well the author of this verbal diarrhoea has no fucking idea.
It spins about from truth to bullshit quicker than the mouse living in your sock drawer. That mouse that lives in that drawer considers your regular visits to be a god like interference. Like that movie where a city lives in a locker (it be called Men in Black – MIB) the mouse has its version of reality, as does the so called writer of this so called nonsense. Reasonably recently an insult was fired at the so called author of this nonsense, the author of the insult thought it was an insult, the author of this nonsense took it as a compliment. Funny that. He was labeled a writer. Thanks.
So here’s some writing …..
Things were not very good for Simon. Simon tried to say, indeed to anyone that listened, but it was becoming such a downer talking to him. About how he was ? How he was going? or even if he was coming. Simon hadn’t had any success at all in getting the response or results he needed. He’d been incommunicado for such a very long time and he couldn’t seem to fly, let alone land in today’s world. His world seemed to have disappeared and a new altered out of kilter one had replaced it. He’d gotten older, looked older and found that despite his heightened wants and needs, and even though his mind and tastes remained the same, his interaction with the world had dramatically changed. Forced upon him it seemed.
Poor Simon decided that he’d have to make some more major changes. He was going to seriously consider a compete change in direction to a new location. A shift to greener pastures that might resemble the paddocks he ran in so many years ago, a clouded memory considering that it was like a young bull tripping through the herd. A wild and free ranging herd.
The author sat there looking at these last two paragraphs and wondered how he could write more without it becoming weird. Or indeed even weirder. The writing of the short stories is supposed to be cathartic, entertaining, sometimes funny and worthy of repeating. Google wondered about the repeating part. The author considered deleting the whole thing, but like a wanted child it deserved to grow, maybe to develop into something worthy of repeating, maybe children of it’s own.
So on he wrote …
Swashbuckling sexy rants aside, while roaming about in his box like domicile, Simon seriously sought company to fulfil his need for serious companionship. He searched high and low and in between on a number of online sites, with different approaches to the obvious selection criteria, Sites that offered a world of opportunities, with snazzy and sometimes sexy photographs, while actually providing none. An over abundance of delectable opportunities if you were a fair person of the fairer sex. The sites were over loaded with overloaded young men keen to unload their overloaded’ness. The fairer sex were able to greet and meet their needs at will. This reminded Simon of the paddocks long since closed. Sydney’s lock out laws had seen to that.
Fair enough, that’s how things are, but the slant against Simon discouraged further active participation. He had met two less than fair members of the fairer sex. One was very critical of Simon, and she used the online connection for some very strange reasons, while the other lady although nice enough, in the face to face get together felt just like his mother. Both were simply not a match, no spark, lack of a click or whatever else was declared when either party found no attraction. There was none. The first one managed to find a tax accountant. Simon wasn’t sure if that classified as a match, click or spark, maybe it was a calculated exercise.
This new world was soul destroying, an ego shattering, physically squeezing experience. Simon was less than satisfied with the results, and that was an understatement. He could not get any satisfaction. Devo was so right.
Simon wondered about when, what, where, who, why or wobble would change. The wobble just crept in there while he ranted about in the box. He’d remembered about things just happening when you least expected them, in fact he’d experienced that a few times and thought he’d slip back into that receptive position. Those moments changed his life. He felt like he didn’t have much time to wait. He was not a patient man, far from it. He sought and remained eager to be caught. He even thought he could still catch what he was looking for. It seemed his bait and net were not up to the task.
It was becoming very clear that no matter how many messages he’d send, how many photos he added to his selfie collection, how many ladies he stalked or creep’d out, he wouldn’t land a catch and he hadn’t yet been caught. He realised that the young bull had gone and he was now the old one sitting up in the shade waiting for something to happen. He wasn’t able to run down to the sought after lower paddock area and make something happen.
Fuck it … thought Simon.