Upon Being Taken Away

I’ve just caught a glimpse of a chubby woman writing insanely neatly into a notepad at a desk in the library. Seriously, little insights like that into the female persona stoke the soul. It’s so fulfilling to see a fully developed woman sat down in comfort just chilling out and taking the time to write. I say ‘chubby’ because build or size or shape has got nothing to do with it. She could have had 5 chins and a kebab but it wouldn’t affect the story she was masterfully narrating, if indeed it was a story she was writing. I imagined her penning about a wartime child survivor stuck in a room, like Anne Frank.

She’d be about nine years old with her hair in a bun, dressed in black and white like a nun. When I think of conflicted children, I always picture them as emaciated but clean, clad in Newcastle United colours, hanging around near bomb shelters. I often look at photos of kids from bygone yore in the ‘olden days’, as my gran used to call them. Their personalities inspire me. Their jolly-heartedness is uplifting. I love everything about children (apart from their snotty noses), and especially so children from the distant past, when they had to rely on their intellectual wits to pass the time instead of spending the whole summer holed up over a PlayStation.

Maybe the chunky chic wasn’t writing anything about a child in a room.

But I’m in the mood for doing so. If only I was capable. My higher power, Stephen King, I feel can write about anything. He’s writing about O.A.P kidnappers and poetry prizes at the moment, in his latest novel. I love the way he transports me into a different world. One of my goals is to do the same on this blog, but I know for a fact that I fall short by a long way. I’d love to swing you (yes you) away for a departure from the mundane, for a vacation away from the ordinary, to reinvigorate you with the possibilities of the kosmos, with tales of the stars, with fables and parables from the dominions and terrorities hiding just over your horizons. I long to sweep you off your feet and take you there. We’ll stop at the fairground on the way, and eat salted caramel candy floss, dressed in piped chocolate and sherbet.

I currently listening to some GREAT music at the moment, which is having a similar effect on me. It’s taking me away to somewhere pleasant. I wish I had the wordplay and the vision to do so with my readers using language, I’d take them somewhere beautiful Lord and remain them there so, balanced in perfect harmony between one satisfaction and the next gratification, until they grew sound and sleepy with entertainment overload. It’s difficult to find a subject worthy of such praise though, apart from big dippers and carousels and boat rides in the sun and BBQs on the beach and all the rest of it. Where would you like me to take you, as soon as I feel like I am skilled enough? Answers on postcards if you feel up to it.

The thing I like about my higher power is, he takes us nowhere other than halfway up east of the ordinary. His detective, Holly, speaks wonders when she’s simply sat in her car having a smoke. Why can’t I write about someone having a smoke, and cancel all your reservations while I’m doing it, to whisk you away somewhere on the wings of a dragon into fantasy? While being totally saturated in normalcy? I can’t. I can’t write about natural people doing natural things. I have to include attack helicoptors with precision-guided anti-tank missiles, or terrible prehistoric alligators with ridiculous bite forces.

My life is a trip, it’s always been this way. I’m so different from the also-ran that they don’t even call me Johny Ethnic anymore. It’s got nothing to do with being bi-racial, after I inherited a blood gene type from an African father and an English mother. I call black people Dark Heartlanders, because I remember being a primate deep in my biological repressed memories overseas. There are no such evils as vast and as somber under this blanket of firm sky as those which occur on the main continent, aka Darklands Afrikaans. Mein homeland, mein ballpark, mein district, mein locality, mein precinct, mein turf.

Many folks just have done with it and label me a f**king disgusting mongoloid black tw*t, which I don’t mind at all. I see the funny side of racist insults. I racially insult others for a bit of a laff sometimes. You should see what I shout at them, it’s quite unrepeatable, so fair is fair. It’s good to unleash some bitter and twisted rage off one’s chest from time to time.

Pleasing to know however, is that I have the white blood of my mother coursing thru my veins. So I’ll always belong in both camps, according to me (explains my ex-fondness for interracial),even though none of them are any much interested in me enough to question how I am or give me some spending monie pennies. The government keeps paying me benefits, I suppose, which I should be thankful of. But it also keeps detracting my liberty when the time suits them, i.e when I get ahead of myself and become a dangerous dissident with loads of love and peace in his heart which can strike out at the kingdom of darkness, instead of ascerbic acidity, which only adds to it.

I truly believe (and know from past experience) that harbouring LOVE inside the heart chambers can get an edgy nonconformist locked up up and away.

When he tiptoes around hatred and other negative emotions, he tends to unpeel himself layer by layer, and has to be very careful about not depleting his entire repertoire of positivity in one fell swoop. Once that Devil has a pipeline to extract goodness, like a porn or drug addiction, he’ll go to town on it every time. Even when I go to the effort of deleting dealer’s numbers from my phone, they have a habit of magically reappearing. This is dark arts, I put to you, and must be dealt with quickly and efficiently. So good luck with that, if you are currently up against it, and any other endeavours also too. Peace out.