infantannihilator
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jun 19, 2013
- Messages
- 899
I wrote these.. among many others during my post suidide attempt, when I was homeless and living in a shelter downtown toronto. The second starts at the beginning, and as you will read, the old man made a mark upon me. The first dives in a month late in the story, and I cut it off a month or so before the ending. I really like the first and I stylized it in the way of Gogol's "diary of a madman" as well as Guy De Maupassants's version of the same.. with my own twist based on reality blended in fiction.
-------------------
An excerpt from my journal then..
Jan 12th
Someone stole my shoes. There was an excellent show on television. It was an epic depicting the life of several [unintelligible] in a tank. I fell asleep before it ended. Damn these fuckers and their feet! Theyre insane!
Jan 15th
A new recruit an old man. Very old. He moved into the bunk adjacent to me. He looks to be a hundred years old, a relic of the Hindenburg, or perhaps one of Shakespeare's squires. I can't stand him. He putters about smacking his lips which hide a toothless mouth, his cheeks puffing out due to the over-contraction of his jaws. A feeble bottom feeder, always following me out when I smoke, asking for a few drags. As if. Who does he think I am? He's going to die here.
Jan 17th
After approximately a week laying in bed we were allowed to stay inside due to what they term a 'cold alert' - I went for a walk. I needed to get away from the smells and endless noise. And the old man. You know those bad days where everything seems gloomy and you can't pick yourself up? I am the gloom; a shadow seems to follow me wherever I go. The austerity of my status has hit a climax. If one more girl runs away from me.. Where have all the good, wholesome women gone?
2:30am
I was just scolded by the staff for coming back late. They mentioned something about my feet. What do they expect? I have no shoes - of course my socks are wet! My bunkmate complained again. The snoring is endless. I can smell my own rotting feet now. Vasily tells me his time has come. Prashkova died last week. The old man smells something fierce. His hollow breathing, like passing air through a paper towel tube is too much to bear. 'Haaaaawhhhhhh. Haaaaaawh,' the near lifeless sound of air barely escaping weighs on me and I can't help but consider weighing my pillow upon him.
....
Jan 20th'
I held a funeral for Vasily outside the common area of the shelter. No one understands what he meant to me; my only solace. Someone asked what I was doing and I lost it. The staff separated us. The end is near.. for him. How dare he be so disrespectful. How dare he step upon the memorial I so lovingly crafted from the odds and ends I squandered from the alley and the left over bits of stale bread they serve us which he and his friends loved so much so that they crowded the crumbs on my body each night keeping me warm and snug in this cold, dark place?No one eats it anyway...
Jan 21st
The papers still have not published the obituary I wrote:
"Vasily Ivanovitch; loving husband to the late Prashkova Ivanovitch, dear father to twenty thousand children; Emperor of the Yuan dynasty, he will be dearly missed. We hardly knew ye, but you taught us much in the few short weeks of your life. God save the King"
Jan 23rd
The events of last week still remain deeply entrenched in my mind. Perched here in my garret I overlook and get a feel for the lay of the land.. The pale moon intersticed by the little metal runners embedded in the window pane lands on my bed and forms a perfect grid to arrange the battalions of my army.....
----------------
Another....
-----------------
It was one of those days, a day marked by...
Somehow, I managed to find myself in this place. A life long series of misfortune and mistakes coalesced together like the iron and wood of a battering ram, aimed at the destruction of my walls. My fortress was sacked and all I was left with was my true nature, naked for the world, and even myself, to see. It was now winter and after what most would call a meltdown I found myself homeless and on the streets in this vast, cold-hearted city, in the period of year that only served to further the austerity of my plight.
"I told you. I was in the army-navy-airforce"
"yeah but which one, were you a navy seal?"
My bunkmate below and the elderly man in the bed next to hik were quarreling again. To Dave, below me, this was just some light-hearted toying.
"Army-navy-airforce, thirty years - what don't you understand?"
"you can't be all three"
"my brother was a warrant officer"
The deflection was common of the old man when called out on his senility. He was at least seventy years old and smelled like piss. He complained of being unable to sleep at night, yet spent his days sleeping, breathing through his mouth like a large bag of air, wheezing and making all the sounds of impending doom which would frighten any child half as close to death. He had lost his dentures and his lips curled into his mouth. A somewhat short man, although it was obvious he was a stout lad in his day. Once he had alluded to being part of a gang that 'ran all of toronto.' His brother was second in command. This old man drove a truck for forty years. When not sleeping and making the most annoying sounds - sounds which I have to admit hoped would be his last - he spent his time wandering aimlessly about, letting out gutteral groans here and there, mostly at the intersections of tables and other forks in the walkways. He had a mannerism where he would smack his lips as he hobbled about in his stained coat, and, due to the lack of teeth his jaws closed further than youthfully possible causing his cheeks to puff out at the bones, taking on the look of a decrepit chipmunk who somehow managed to stave off nature and who was still carrying around his nuts in his mouth - only lost with nowhere to put them, and even if he knew where, no recollection how.
"A warrant officer, that's one step above General!"
"Oh, fuck off. Army-navy-airforce my ass"
This was what I had awoken to, and had been common since the old man arrived...
-------------
Let me know what you think
I'm in a super happy writey post-psychotic slash my arms to pieces period and feel exceptionally writey tonight, so I copied these passages out of my hand written journal
-------------------
An excerpt from my journal then..
Jan 12th
Someone stole my shoes. There was an excellent show on television. It was an epic depicting the life of several [unintelligible] in a tank. I fell asleep before it ended. Damn these fuckers and their feet! Theyre insane!
Jan 15th
A new recruit an old man. Very old. He moved into the bunk adjacent to me. He looks to be a hundred years old, a relic of the Hindenburg, or perhaps one of Shakespeare's squires. I can't stand him. He putters about smacking his lips which hide a toothless mouth, his cheeks puffing out due to the over-contraction of his jaws. A feeble bottom feeder, always following me out when I smoke, asking for a few drags. As if. Who does he think I am? He's going to die here.
Jan 17th
After approximately a week laying in bed we were allowed to stay inside due to what they term a 'cold alert' - I went for a walk. I needed to get away from the smells and endless noise. And the old man. You know those bad days where everything seems gloomy and you can't pick yourself up? I am the gloom; a shadow seems to follow me wherever I go. The austerity of my status has hit a climax. If one more girl runs away from me.. Where have all the good, wholesome women gone?
2:30am
I was just scolded by the staff for coming back late. They mentioned something about my feet. What do they expect? I have no shoes - of course my socks are wet! My bunkmate complained again. The snoring is endless. I can smell my own rotting feet now. Vasily tells me his time has come. Prashkova died last week. The old man smells something fierce. His hollow breathing, like passing air through a paper towel tube is too much to bear. 'Haaaaawhhhhhh. Haaaaaawh,' the near lifeless sound of air barely escaping weighs on me and I can't help but consider weighing my pillow upon him.
....
Jan 20th'
I held a funeral for Vasily outside the common area of the shelter. No one understands what he meant to me; my only solace. Someone asked what I was doing and I lost it. The staff separated us. The end is near.. for him. How dare he be so disrespectful. How dare he step upon the memorial I so lovingly crafted from the odds and ends I squandered from the alley and the left over bits of stale bread they serve us which he and his friends loved so much so that they crowded the crumbs on my body each night keeping me warm and snug in this cold, dark place?No one eats it anyway...
Jan 21st
The papers still have not published the obituary I wrote:
"Vasily Ivanovitch; loving husband to the late Prashkova Ivanovitch, dear father to twenty thousand children; Emperor of the Yuan dynasty, he will be dearly missed. We hardly knew ye, but you taught us much in the few short weeks of your life. God save the King"
Jan 23rd
The events of last week still remain deeply entrenched in my mind. Perched here in my garret I overlook and get a feel for the lay of the land.. The pale moon intersticed by the little metal runners embedded in the window pane lands on my bed and forms a perfect grid to arrange the battalions of my army.....
----------------
Another....
-----------------
It was one of those days, a day marked by...
Somehow, I managed to find myself in this place. A life long series of misfortune and mistakes coalesced together like the iron and wood of a battering ram, aimed at the destruction of my walls. My fortress was sacked and all I was left with was my true nature, naked for the world, and even myself, to see. It was now winter and after what most would call a meltdown I found myself homeless and on the streets in this vast, cold-hearted city, in the period of year that only served to further the austerity of my plight.
"I told you. I was in the army-navy-airforce"
"yeah but which one, were you a navy seal?"
My bunkmate below and the elderly man in the bed next to hik were quarreling again. To Dave, below me, this was just some light-hearted toying.
"Army-navy-airforce, thirty years - what don't you understand?"
"you can't be all three"
"my brother was a warrant officer"
The deflection was common of the old man when called out on his senility. He was at least seventy years old and smelled like piss. He complained of being unable to sleep at night, yet spent his days sleeping, breathing through his mouth like a large bag of air, wheezing and making all the sounds of impending doom which would frighten any child half as close to death. He had lost his dentures and his lips curled into his mouth. A somewhat short man, although it was obvious he was a stout lad in his day. Once he had alluded to being part of a gang that 'ran all of toronto.' His brother was second in command. This old man drove a truck for forty years. When not sleeping and making the most annoying sounds - sounds which I have to admit hoped would be his last - he spent his time wandering aimlessly about, letting out gutteral groans here and there, mostly at the intersections of tables and other forks in the walkways. He had a mannerism where he would smack his lips as he hobbled about in his stained coat, and, due to the lack of teeth his jaws closed further than youthfully possible causing his cheeks to puff out at the bones, taking on the look of a decrepit chipmunk who somehow managed to stave off nature and who was still carrying around his nuts in his mouth - only lost with nowhere to put them, and even if he knew where, no recollection how.
"A warrant officer, that's one step above General!"
"Oh, fuck off. Army-navy-airforce my ass"
This was what I had awoken to, and had been common since the old man arrived...
-------------
Let me know what you think
I'm in a super happy writey post-psychotic slash my arms to pieces period and feel exceptionally writey tonight, so I copied these passages out of my hand written journal