- “Curses…”, he muttered through his teeth, “Six months already!”, he went on shaking himself as he headed for the living room.
Bullshit... Six months my ass! It’s been longer than that!
He couldn't even remember when the last time he recorded the simplest "Thought" had been.
On his blog, that is. Cuz, he was only good for posting bullshit here and there on social media.
- “Depression and humiliation together…”, he muttered again when he bumped into her. She had heard him whining and had gotten up from her favourite corner of the couch, looking for him to see what he wanted. He walked passed her and returned to his room. Her room, that is.
Or more accurately, the room he used as his room in Her house.
That "Togetherness" was quite expensive, in every sense of the word. So expensive that he hadn't bothered to buy a single bottle of his favourite drink in six months.
As a matter of fact, there was no way he could find it in this country, but he could obviously find something similar. A "Jim Beam Honey" perhaps, or a "Drambuie", at worst.
- “Want some wine? A beer? A nice, cold limoncello?”, she countered, looking at the fridge, making the blood in his head boil.
Oh fuck me,… a "Wild Turkey 'American Honey Sting' Turkey" was all he wanted. But, find it where?
Where?
Of course, he knew the answer, “In every liquor store in his other… Homeland”. There.
That’s where he could find it.
Substitutes... Is this what life is all about?
A bunch of substitutes?
Is the best preserved secret of human happiness hiding there? In the fucking Substitutes?
Is it lying inside all the easily accessible ones that, while resembling what one wants, are not exactly what one really needs?
Substitutes and Compromises?
Well, fuck me… maybe that's how it is!
The monster rose up in front of him again... as if it was lurking to pounce on him at the first careless move.
A real monster.
And fierce.
The last 27-inch iMac of its generation, with a clean, white page waiting for his first move.
The pressing of the first key that, would display the first character, on the first text of the year…
Early July, for fuck’s sake!
Early July already!
Six months…
More than six months being sitting still!
And... there he was, eyes closed, pressing the first key.
And the screen didn't change a bit. Not a single dot appeared on the white page, since he had accidentally pressed the Esc key.
- “Ha... escape”, he thought and took another sip of icy water. There, motherfucker! Just water.
Let this be a lesson, since you haven’t bought a single decent bottle of alcohol for ages.
She had various booze in her liquor cabinet but... they were nowhere near what he needed.
Although, he was flirting with the idea of a frozen Southern Comfort, which would hardly bring him any comfort, as he had downed countless litres of it, some thirty years ago and his body couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't even stand the smell of it.
He turned and looked at his shorts, resting on a chair.
The thought of the empty wallet in his rear pocket made him sick to his stomach.
How the hell had he ended up like that? If anything, he hadn't gotten this low back home at any point in his life, while being there.
He felt like a fucking beggar.
Been fucked at some pointless office job, twelve hours a day away from home and getting to the middle of the month without a fucking cent left.
You know... one cent to spare for himself.
How expensive was that "Togetherness"...
He pulled his eyes from the shorts and looked around. In the room.
That painting, with its sentimental value but awful technique and the utterly commercial and 'ostensible' view of the artist, to the gossamer curtain that cut off his view of the ugliness that lied outside, to the half-open door through which he could see beyond, to the kitchen, where his sweetheart had left the lights on again, to the folded ironing board that rested neatly against the tall and heavy, vintage, wooden cabinet…
His eyes stopped on his glass & metal framed desk. Yes, that particular one was actually His. He had bought it Himself with His own money as soon as He set foot back to his birthplace. His first Homeland... which he downgraded to second for several years while living overseas, since the welcoming and the opportunities he was offered there, made him feel that was his real Home.
But now he was back, for the past six months And, fuck me, it felt more alien than any of the other foreign places he had visited in his life.
Done with the day-dreaming, he started pressing more keys.
All the keys... Like a maniac. With fury.
Yet, one of them was about to… melt. The backspace.
Erasing everything he wrote seemed stupid. Childish. Maybe, that’s who he had become.
Pretentious thoughts, questions and answers… like the countless cheesy, idiotic quotes one finds online, supposed to inspire the idiots who cannot think for themselves.
Was he that arrogant? Maybe so. Fuck knows. Fuck cares.
Had he become more pretentious than the artist of the painting on the wall?
Wait a minute! Was this why nothing inspired him for so many months when sitting at his desk? The lack of windows overlooking at parks of green and pink and purple and yellow to rest his eyes upon... except for some artless painting in front of him, a miserable canopy of dying trees on the right and the reflection of the same miserable canopy on the wardrobe mirror on the left?
How much did he miss his other Homeland, really?
Then it hit him!
Not an answer to all, of course; just a tsunami of questions…
What is a Homeland? What is Home?
Do you have to spell it with a capital H or not?
Is it a place? Another person? Is it an idea, an object?
Someplace you find and settle at?
Someone you find and settle with?
Something that sticks with you and you carry it around for the rest of your life?
Does it stigmatise you and to what extent? Can you un-Homeland yourself if you want to? And I don't mean leaving the place... but to get what that place represents out of your skin, out of your blood. And if yes, what does it take?
Is this “Homeland” tied to something else you're carrying inside?
If you get rid of it… will it also take away from you what’s tied to it?
Or maybe worse, will it also take you with it?
The World Cup was in full swing, there was a match on TV, and he was still fucking around in front of the monster. Writing. Erasing. Writing some more.
To be honest, there’ve been plenty of times when he’s been sitting in front of the monster fucking…
With porn. Or even pictures, still photos. You know... so he could come with his own scenarios.
Ha… come, cum. Whatever.
He raised his reading glasses for a moment.
“Fuck me”, he grumbled. He saw doubles without them.
How the hell did this go so wrong; he, who bragged about his eyesight!
And fucking fate had made it so, that the only job he'd found coming here had him sitting eight straight hours a day in front of a, what else... an iMac. Fucking IT & Tech Support.
He was sick of it already. In fact, the one at work was only 21" and looked so small and tedious compared to his, and the keyboard and mouse were corded, for fuck’s sake; felt like chains. He was getting tired and depressed just by looking at them.
The dizziness after so many hours in front of computers at work was sucking up all his energy and mood to sit and relax on his iMac at home... so, with a heavy heart and in the midst of inspiration, he put the monster to bed and headed for the living room. There. With her.
To their "Togetherness".
I wonder... what does "Together" mean?
Does it mean "next to"?
Close to?
In the same room? Same place?
In the same country?
And, couples who don't live together, ain’t they "Together"?
If nothing else… he knew couples who were cohabiting but hadn't been "Together" for ages.
Is there a chance that, in today’s World, there’s a weapon that only hits people’s "Together"?
Was there a cheaper "Together"? Something more pocket-friendly, if nothing else, yet rich in all other aspects? Was "Together" dependent on money at all?
Nah, of course not. It only crossed his mind cuz he was fucking broke, although he worked hard.
Next to the train station lives a homeless man, whom he meets twice a day. This homeless man always has a kitten in his arms... A white kitten, with whom they always sleep together.
Ha... together.
Yeah, "Together" doesn't require financial comfort.
In fact, that "Togetherness" when he was married only cost him his sanity and energy.
In any case… is there a "Togetherness" where the pay off makes all costs worth spending?
The sound of the videoclip playing in the background still echoed in his ears as he wrote.
As he ‘recorded’ his Thoughts, that is.
For years, he'd found a clip on YouTube that he'd play and relax. Relax his body while his Thoughts were having a party.
"60 minutes of Woodland Ambience”.
Recorded at the Pennsylvania woodlands. A slow stream, rustling leaves and birds.
Natural recording and not one of those sampled ones that play here and there.
He sat on the TV for a while and after an hour or so, decided to follow her to bed.
His night, however, was short.
A rhythmic noise woke him up early. Was it four? Maybe five?
The noise went on until seven in the morning… when she finally woke up, too.
That snoring, for fuck’s sake…
The satellite technician was packing his tools, having finished the inspection within five minutes. He was right on time. Very professional. Explained them the basics, checked the installation, took his measurements and waved them off.
He went back to his room and woke up the monster. Her room, that is.
Or more accurately, the room he used as his room in Her house.
- “Come all the way here, leave so many things behind, for a little bit of togetherness?”
- “This little bit is enough for me…”
- “My little bit costs, you know.”
So went a dialogue that he had captured in one of his writings five years ago.
While in his other homeland. Ready to make yet another giant leap. For himself, though; fuck the mankind.
And there he was. There she was.
That "Togetherness", which they enjoyed for so "little" every day, being busy with the things survival dictated.
How prophetic… the motherfucker god of universal trolls that guided his writings!
That "little" he came for, really cost a lot!
- “How much?”
- “Two fortunes, plus another one…”
Once more, he proved he was a prophet… with no apparent profit.
The motherfucker so needed a sip now.
American Honey 'Sting' by Wild Turkey
...excerpt from the book "I found my self a Home that cost me my Throne", by Gr. Krezos
Adaptation in English
