Never trust a writer
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By Parson Thru
- 9696 reads
Sitting in a chain-pub
You know the ones, attached to travellers’ hotels on anonymous roundabouts on the edge of dull places.
Head buzzing with whys and wherefores; could I, should I?
Wracked by torments and tormentors.
It’s early evening, Friday.
The tables are empty, save for a scattering of groups: ageing men and their wives – yes, men and their wives.
I’ve seen enough to know they’re ex-Service – unintentional eavesdropping confirms.
A reunion, must be.
Anecdotes and rememberings - “When I was in...” “When I was in...”
Falklanders call them “When Is”.
NCOs, I’m sure. The grandees are Warrant Officers. Pound to a pinch of shit.
The humour: “Have you packed your vibrators?” to the sixty year-old wife.
Guffaw!
The wives laugh, too, but differently.
And here I am all ponytail, tattoos and TLS. “Pills, thrills and bigotries.”
Feeling subversive.
***
I’ve abandoned my mother – temporarily.
The faculties of control and suppression have failed her.
Now it all bursts forth like a severed oxygen hose in a space capsule fire.
Resentments, buried for so long, have resurfaced.
She’s losing us one by one. I’m the last. Trying to hold on to compassion. Or something.
It's not her fault. I know it. But it's killing me.
For this: unplanned respite. The anonymous roadside hotel. Functional. Unromantic.
Though there’s romance in this liaison: in the entropy of lives where cold, dark history flows in the night.
The Vikings passed by here on their way to York.
I’m invisible at table 10, in a window corner.
Some bloke eating curry, writing, and reading a paper with too many words. Pansy.
Live and let live.
***
The Gents is out of order. We have to use the Accessible one.
I speak to God, or whoever, whilst taking a crap.
I often do. Why not?
It’s said He made all this. If that’s your thing.
Piss. Shit. Dementia. Creative beauty of the perfect being.
Only masturbation and sodomy are sinful. Electives. A human aberration.
If that’s your thing.
Precocious pleasures of the emancipated artefact.
Freedom is God’s greatest gift. To His favoured line.
If that’s your thing.
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Comments
An absorbing and, at points,
An absorbing and, at points, emotional and weighty stream of consciousness, all the more real and effective for its rattle of short sentences, off-set against the background observations and life noise. Very much liked 'the entropy of lives where cold, dark history flows in the night.' All the best
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A very well deserved cherry
A very well deserved cherry and much sympathy from me. I hope you manage to get regular breaks from what sounds like a very difficult situation
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Oh Parson, I feel for you! As
Oh Parson, I feel for you! As Insert says, take care of yourself?
XXX
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Life and all of its misery,
Life and all of its misery, responsibilities, angst and anger fill your intelligent musings candidly and I can commiserate with your need for a writer’s outlet to release all these feelings tumbling over each other and needing to get out.
Life, whatever it is, is challenging and finding that silver petal of light each day or just a reason to smile can be difficult, at times nearly impossible, but I hope you find it or at least keep looking for it....and keep writing.
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Looking after others can be
Looking after others can be tough going - a little time out to reflect is an essential rather than a luxury. Parson Thru communicates this difficult experience so well.
This is our facebook and twitter pick of the day - do share if you like it too!
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I don't like this
I don't like this. It's crude, it's blasphemous. It is hard to believe they actually let you post it. Are we allowed to swear like that in comments blogs etc also? Well, 10 out of 11 admiring remarks up to date- nothing to be ashamed of.
And as well, yes "Live and let live".
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This is our Poem of the Month
This is our Poem of the Month - Congratulations!
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I love the brutal honesty and
I love the brutal honesty and rawness of this.
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It's one of those stories we
It's one of those stories we know about, but never hear. well done, not that I'd trust a writer either.
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I really like the visceral
I really like the visceral honesty. Nice one.
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Ooof, gritty (I hate the word
Ooof, gritty (I hate the word gritty but can't escape it) realism with such a strong voice and sense of place. Snarls in every syllable.
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How did I miss this? Where was I on October 4th
This has to be one of your very best, and one of the best I've ever seen on ABC.
The four opening lines hit me right between the eyes. I spent half my working life on the road and your descripion of chain pubs is awesome. I've stayed in those hotels on barren roundabouts on the perifery of bland towns eating Brakes Brother crap while invisibly supping my Stella a million times.
I can even remember times prior toThatcher's brewer competition laws which completely fucked up the industry and drove so many pubs, hotels and small brewers into oblivion.
Days when hotel were hotels with breakfast served on dainty tables often by dainty waitresses. No buffet bars and rows of boxes of wheat and chaff for punters who make a show of being health enthusiasts forgetting the ten pints they downed in the bar the night before.
Days when Hotel bars often doubled up as the local in small towns or villages or towns which offered a variety of local pubs and local brews for hotel residents to sample.
Chain hotels are easy and convenient, but they ruined one of the few benefits and joys of being on the road.
Thanks Marge! You srewed up.
That said, this poem describes modern hostelries to a T and all the realities of life within their walls. In other words it's EFFING BRILLIANT. One of my all time favourites.
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