tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15909806403975612182024-03-13T03:16:28.733+00:00Waiting for JohnWaiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.comBlogger261125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-3931615320068466852500-04-19T19:56:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:44:37.686+01:00#1It rained this afternoon. I sat in the green chair with my back to the window listening to each drop. Drop... drop... drop... drop... and it just went on like that. At one point I thought about getting up and going down to the shops but it finally seemed too much effort. There is nothing worse than counting flies in wet clothes. At 16.06 a car sloshed by. I tried to imagine who could have been in it. I think a lot of things like that. My mind is always very active, but there is some chemical missing that translates those thoughts into actions. Once I sat for three days looking at the fridge. I tried to imagine everything that was in it and what that looked like from the inside. Then I started playing games where I’d like move things around mentally and completely disturb the arrangement. Then I wondered why is a fridge 8 – 10 degrees in the vegetable container and what would be the worst thing I could put there. At one stage I even thought about the freezer and what the ice cubes did when the lights were out. How the frost must so ever so slowly form crystal layers.<br />
<br />
John has been gone 4 days now.... 4 miserable days and I doubt he will ever return. He said that I was a “grey patch in his life”, that he was tired of sitting there watching me watching things and sleeping. He said I would have made a “good stone”. Those were his exact words.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-56120186754299417622499-04-22T20:07:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:45:41.254+01:00#2The leaves are back on the trees. On the silver birch outside there are 3043 and more come through each day. Sometimes I stare at that tree and see if I spot a new leaf forming but I never do. I go to bed and when I wake up there’s another one. It’s a mystery. Life is a mystery. Sometimes.<br />
<br />
I blocked the toilet up today. Absolutely on purpose. I stuffed three and a half rolls of that cheap pink paper down and then some newspaper and then took a turd on top. Then I flushed the chain and watched as the water rose up to the rim. I flushed it again and again until my bathroom was swimming in shit. Yeah, it smelt quite awful but with the door locked and sealed it’s not too bad in the bedroom. I suppose tomorrow I’ll have to clean it up. No news from John.... I hope he’s dead. I couldn’t bear being abandoned.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-58033885846280622642498-04-25T20:27:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:46:14.970+01:00#3Woke up this morning and laid in bed until I ached. I read all the medical inserts that I keep piled up on the little table. Apparently Ibuprofen can make your head and legs and cock swell up! I often wish that I was one of these people that always suffered terrible side-effects from over-the-counter products. It’s sad, I don’t even have that ability. Though if I did I would plan natural costumes. For example, on Halloween I’d take 6 Ibus to bloat my head up. Rub on some Camoline lotion to bring my skin out in sores and blisters. a couple of Aspirin to make my eyes bulge and a packet of Hayfever pills for muscle spasms. That’d be fun. I’d just sit around at parties dying and then go home.<br />
<br />
Cleaned the bathroom up. 17 seperate pieces of turd washed across 98 tiles. Toilet still blocked and swimming so I triple bagged the shit and laid it with the rest of the rubbish. I’ll take it to the steel bins later. There's a choice of 9 around here.<br />
<br />
I’ve not been invited down to the morgue for a viewing and so I suppose HE is alive and somewhere out there. Then I am sad but I am hopeful sad.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-56700370339204290202497-04-26T18:19:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:46:51.866+01:00#4I received an email from Verity today. Apparently John has booked himself into The Maudsley. He has had some kind of a breakdown and says it is my fault. She writes that John is permanently restless and just lays on the bed waiting... waiting... waiting to want to do something. He says he got that from me and wants me completely bleached out of his head. Maybe John even said “we didn’t move more than 15 metres in 6 months!” or “microwave clocks run two seconds slower than normal clocks.” Maybe he even said that I was “life decomposing” a kind of “human compost heap”. I enjoy imagining the things that maybe John would say. When I do that it somehow feels like he is still here.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-81033650705597555142496-04-27T08:36:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:47:19.490+01:00#5I made it out this morning. It is the first time in 9 days. I tossed my bin-bag of turds and picked a little bit of the galvinised paint from the steel bin. Later I’ll upload a photo of it and see how many shades of grey it comprises. I can spot 9 by eye. Though I’m not quite sure if silver is grey? <br />
<br />
There was an old woman walking down the road. She wore a beige surgical stocking around her swollen left ankle and had one of those metal frames. It kinda looked like she’d taken the garden gate with her. I walked on the other side of the pavement and matched her halfstep for halfstep. It took us 45 minutes to move 100 yards. Why was she perservering? For what purpose? Her stubborness was irritating, her refusal to stop completely and give up. It’s people like me that have to watch people like her... that have to be reminded of what the future holds. It’s dismal, I tell you. The future is dismal.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-37458668306712663602495-04-28T14:11:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:47:49.626+01:00#6There were three flies in the room today. One had purplish green wings and the other two were just black and hairy. Flies are strange. They never touch each other. Once John said “You’re like a fly.” We were both on the bed and staring up at the ceiling. “Only you don’t move.” I didn’t give a reaction though my soul was shedding tears. Whats that supposed to mean? Why is he being so cruel?. When he said that he was laying with his arms behind his head and an extremely sensitive hard-on. I still didn’t move. <br />
<br />
My mother called this afternoon. No doubt to make sure I hadn’t thrown myself out the ground floor window again. That’s my fake suicide trick... my cry for attention. Where others cut their wrists with dessert spoons I fling myself from pathetically low heights. Still, as I never answered the phone I wouldn’t know if it was that or if it were to squeeze a little lemon juice in my wounds. Jesus, if it wasn’t for her John could very well have been Joan and this mess would never have existed.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-34632965000935538092494-04-29T00:44:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:48:14.504+01:00#7The handle on the living room door isn’t straight. I’ll have to inform the landlord about that. I enjoy door handles but they completely throw my day off if they are not perfectly level. My favourite door handles are not handles at all. They are knobs made of polished brass. <br />
<br />
Later I will buy some fish. Not tin or frozen fish, live swimming fish. I’ve started coming down with terrible migraines from hours spent staring at my screensaver and figure that some pond life might work a little better. <br />
<br />
I had a goldfish once. It never swam, just kinda hung there looking angry and watching me watch it. After about 8 weeks John made a sudden leap of energy, emptied it out on the floor and squished it into the carpet like he was scrunching out a cigarette. Equally crushed, I curled myself up, turned to the wall and cried. Silently, but there were certainly tears.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-51043035535722456742493-04-29T13:21:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:48:52.259+01:00#7.5<strong><em>“My grandmother just had a voicebox fitted, how COOL is that!”</em></strong> I actually heard someone say this as I lay there with my ear to the wall listening in on the world outside.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-68511112430335090892492-04-30T04:07:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:49:15.517+01:00#8The landlord said “That’s how it is... there’s nothing I can do about it!” He said not to bother him with such trivialities again. Will it be a triviality when I don’t pay my rent? Bombard him with nuisance calls threatening to rape and kill him! Open the sewage outlet into the apartment and then hand the keys back after three months. It won’t be so trivial then! Though of course I’ll pay the rent... all pathetic losers do. <br />
<br />
The pet shop only had one goldfish. I took that and to keep it company I also bought a blue and yellow sea slug. I christened the fish ‘Jaws’ and the slug I didn’t even bother naming, just dropped it in the bowl and let it sink to the bottom. By noon it was back at the top, floating on the surface absolutely dead. Apparently it needed to be housed in a proper aquarium in waters ranging between 8 – 14 degrees. I’m not sure what one must do with dead sea slugs, so I scooped it out, wrapped it in cling film and then buried it in the window box. For the moment it’s just Jaws and I.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-48313234107425004932491-05-01T05:08:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:49:45.925+01:00#9I’m suffering from insomnia again. I lay awake all night focusing on obscure shapes in the dark and listening to the wind. Finally at 4.23am I surrendered and dragged myself naked into the kitchen. I sat crossed legged on the floor with a glass of milk and a straw. “So this is what the mentally ill do!” I thought... then I decided on an early morning sight test. <br />
<br />
From my store box marked 'D.I.Y Health Checks' I dug out my old Snellen Eye Chart and Blu-Tac’d it to the living room door. Standing at the end of the hallway, covering an eye, I began shouting out the letters. “E! T! P! O! E!...” By the sixth line things were getting a little blurred and by the seventh it resembled dyslexic Greek. I think that means I have deteriorated another notch; that I need glasses. John had glasses. John looked just like Elvis Costello. <br />
<br />
<div align="center"><strong>* * *</strong></div><br />
“There he is!” I said, my right eye tight against the spy glass. The postman had just come into view and was gradually making his way down the odd side of the street. When he disappeared from sight I counted to 66 then waited for him to stroll by. But not this time. He stopped right outside, took a letter from a separate pile, looked from letter to door... letter to door, and then turned into the yard. I watched his face deform as he got real close. “BRRrrrrrrrIINNNNGGG”. Shit! I felt like I'd been caught; that if I opened the door now he’d realize I’d been obsessively watching him for these past months. So I kinda crouched down below the letter box and remained there like that holding my breath and praying he’d go away. “BRRRRRINNNNNNG!!!!” “BRRRRRINNNG!!!!” This guy was a professional. On all fours, I ever so quietly reversed, and with my hand over my mouth I shouted “Coming!” <br />
<br />
Standing outside in a pair of tight shorts and a smile that was a little too happy for the day, the Postman gave me a small pink letter. Next he handed over a machine which looked like something used to print losing lottery tickets. For a moment I thought that was also for me. But no, apparently I was obliged to sign its little oblong touchscreen. I did, though very badly, as since opening the door my damaged eyes somehow, and independently of my brain, kept finding their way to the Postman’s crotch. All of a sudden I had perfect 20/20 vision. <br />
<br />
A losing lottery ticket? Possibly. It was a letter from John. I laid it down unopened on the coffee table and just sat staring at it. Maybe, just maybe, he was coming home.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-47280415931927970552490-05-02T14:29:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:51:35.046+01:00#10John is not coming home, at least not in the foreseeable future. He is a very ill man. I have the proof of that here, scribbled across four pieces of cheap pink toilet paper: <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>So you was hoping I was DEAD!? </strong></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>You deserve everything your conscience FUCKING brings you. </strong></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>YOU FUCKING SHIT FLY! </strong></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>You... </strong></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em><strong>“Human Compost heap!”</strong></em> </div><br />
‘Human. Compost. Heap.’ Those were MY words. Words I had only imagined John would MAYBE say. And now he has said them. But that doesn’t mean I have some great insight into the man or his nature. That I observed and studied him so meticulously during our years together that I can now second guess his every thought. I can’t. What it means is quite simple: John is reading this blog. <br />
<br />
I'm terrified. Since early yesterday evening I’ve been sitting by the window and peering out through the tiny gap I purposely left between the curtains. I know I have certainly ruined everything, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. I have the distinct feeling that John is out there and is watching me. That he’s biding his time and planning something very nasty. And I’m not alone with this thought. Jaws has remained burrowed in the sand at the bottom of his bowl all day. He feels it too.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-10661682215503369822489-05-03T12:23:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:51:58.708+01:00#11I sat picking the little chips of wood out the wallpaper. Got a splinter under the nail of my index finger and now it’s all gone red and sore. Still, I managed to pick enough off to make the shape of a face and a pair of glasses. Tomorrow I’ll put the nose and mouth in. It’s a nervous thing. It’s what I do whilst waiting to have my skull bashed in. <br />
<br />
At just gone twelve I phoned Verity. She answered in her happy singing northern accent. She always sounds like she can only ever receive good news. I disguised my voice the best I could : <br />
“Hiya, you deserve everything your conscience brings you... you Fucking Shitfly!” Then I just hung there listening. Waiting for the phone to go dead. It never did. <br />
“Tristram, is that you? If it isn’t there’s someone in your flat making twisted telephone calls to me!” <br />
(Shit! Can’t I do anything without getting caught.) “Errr, Yeah it’s me... YOU FUCKING SHITFLY!” I screamed. And then as sweet and as predictable as she is, Verity said the words I’d been wanting to hear. “I think this means you need help. I’m coming over.” <br />
<br />
And that’s just it. That was my point. Anyone who says such things does need help. Real intense psychotherapy type help. John needs help. That’s so obvious now.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-70274836351495953162488-05-04T04:24:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:52:20.107+01:00#12I’ve just finished reading the No.42 bus schedule from 1978. Of course I’ve read that before but had forgotton many of the off-peak arrival times. The number 42 is the bus I would take if I were to go and visit John in the hospital. Though me being allowed to visit John in hospital has about as much chance of happening as waking up with fanny on my face.<br />
<br />
<div></div>There was fanny in the kitchen yesterday. Four full hours of it in the form of Verity. She arrived with some homeopathic calmants and a soggy piece of carrot and ginger cake. She was all cold and smelt of fresh air and life. To make her position between John and I easier she has laid down a few guidelines:<br />
<ol><li><em>She will ONLY inform me of John’s health and mental condition. </em></li>
<li><em>She will NOT be used as a comment form to pass on any personal or hateful messages. </em></li>
<li><em>She will NOT have me use her number as an alternative to the Samaritans. (Apparently I have my mother for that.) </em></li>
<li><em>She WILL tell John exactly the same.</em><em> </em></li>
</ol>As she was carefully stressing her rules I sat picking my sore finger and staring vacantly at the fliptop bin. I’ve always enjoyed lists but guidelines, no. And certainly not ones as controlling as that. I was silently furious. Each time she turned around to pour a fresh coffee I couldn’t help pulling faces and cursing her under my breath. Once she spun back around unexpectedly and caught me grimacing and giving her an under-arm salute. God, I just wish she would have committed to my side of the fence. That we could have sat around for 4 hours criticising John and agreeing on how screwed up and dangerous he is. Instead we discussed her new herb garden and how difficult it is growing Thai basil in South East London. <br />
<br />
Insomnia still reigns, but at least I manage to get a few hours of tormented sleep each night. Tomorrow I will meet Steve and hopefully that will force me to freshen up and put a little powder on my arse. It is over a week since I last shaved or showered and I’m actually beginning to look like a man who is Waiting for John.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-58134025932782333062487-05-05T02:17:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:52:56.741+01:00#13Met Steve over coffee and tears. He looked just like Dad did after coming around from 8 hours of open heart surgery... only more miserable. Yesterday he caught his brother coming out his wife’s bedroom with no trousers on. He said he’s such a coward for confrontation that he just smiled and said “Hiya Dave, you been here long?” But actually he’s utterly broken. <br />
<br />
Steve is my best straight friend. Well straight(ish), because there was that incident in Barry’s nightclub where after 12 Gin & Tonics his cock somehow ended up in my mouth. But that was a discrepancy and I’m sure Saint Peter will forgive him that minor indiscretion. <br />
<br />
Steve is also a Spammer. He masquerades as a Ghanaian princess and sends out 1000’s of emails a day. That’s how I first met him. He was hitting my mail box with spam two or three times a week, and as I do everyone, I replied. For over 6 months he kept up the pretence. Then one day he mailed revealing himself and asking if I’d like to meet up. As I sat trying to figure out whether he was queer or not he admitted never having been in a West African Embassy, that his father wasn’t black, but that the plane crash which he never died on was quite real. Of course, by that time he was in possession of all Johns banking and credit card details. That he never used them told me a lot about him. But not of his honesty or integrity, nor even that he had a conscience. No, it was something much more human than all of that. It told me that beneath his virtual tiara, and behind his non-existent fortune, he was just as lonely as me. Now how could I reject that? <br />
<br />
Steve agrees that I must be very cautious where John is concerned. He said he read a story like this once where an ex-lover lost his mind and cut the other mans dick off in an underground car park. He cannot understand why I still want John back. No-one can. But the fact is I love him, and as we all know, love is not a rational emotion.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-80398120927755584562486-05-05T23:15:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:53:29.924+01:00#13.5"Fuck, that hurts!" I groaned standing in the bathroom and pressing both my eyes in with my thumbs. I kept the pressure on until there was a pain in the forefront of my brain and then released. At first all was black and then red and then everything looked like it does after coming in from the afternoon sun. Only not orange, yellow... dull, deathly, empty, 40 watt bulb type yellow. <br />
<br />
I popped another homeopathic calmant in my mouth, sucked for 57 seconds and then crunched.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-52389767460048351642485-05-06T14:10:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:53:49.694+01:00#14I've been watching Jaws all morning. He's a very lively fish, always on the move. I'm glad I have him but he kinda makes me sad.<br />
<br />
Growing up there used to be a fish stool on the corner ever Sunday afternoon. I was dragged along as my parents choose their delicacies. I'd hide behind mum holding onto her pleated skirt whilst peeking a look at octopus tentacles packed in ice and boxes of crabs piled up and dying.<br />
<br />
Back home I'd lay the table. It was the only occasion we ever ate together. My father would sit there slurping oysters with mum across from him sucking on jellied eels. That was sex for them. I’d sit in the middle with a single prawn on my plate, trying to bring it back to life. When I realized it wasn’t happening I’d tear it’s head off, pop its eyes and squeeze its slushy brains out. I don’t like prawns. They remind me of loneliness.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-70578666359288603042484-05-07T05:59:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:54:10.555+01:00#15I've spent the last few hours burrowing through my wardrobe trying to decide on what to wear for my big interview. I've tried everything, even a pair of frayed denim shorts and a tight pink t-shirt. Though finally I decided on classic black and white. One cannot go wrong with black and white. It's smart and stylish and professional. <br />
<br />
Having settled on colour the following big decision was “underwear or not?” I decided not. Next up was the shirt. I went with my plain white C&A one. It was a little crumpled and the neck was slightly grubby, but no matter as it would be covered anyhow. I gave it a healthy spray of lavender air freshener, pulled it on and buttoned it up to the collar. My trousers I took straight from the wash basket. They were a little damp, a little loose, but not too bad. I slipped into them being careful not to catch my bollocks in the zip. Socks I had to do without as they've all mysteriously disappeared. For shoes I stepped into a pair of classic leather monk-straps. They were actually brand new and ignoring my naked ankles poking out each side looked pretty smart. All then that remained was the jacket. As I only own one it wasn't too difficult a choice. After a twenty minute panic I eventually found it balled up and crusty in the corner of the bedroom. At first I thought slugs had been in the room again and then I remembered I had used it to wipe up after my last wanking session... The one where I had released two weeks of built up frustration in a full 27 second climax. I unstuck the arm from the breast, picked and scratched the dried sperm off as best I could and then pulled it on tight in an attempt to straighten it out. <br />
<br />
Ok, it could have all been better, but still it was no tragedy. I peered down at myself and I actually thought I looked pretty cool. I was up for this. I was gonna get that fucking job and turn my situation around. But then I turned around, and in the ¾ length mirror I caught a sight of my reflection and had to do a double take. Staring back at me was not Tristram Spencer, but rather some wretched bum who looked like he'd just got lucky in the morgue. I raised my left arm, then my right and watched in horror as each time he followed suit. There could be no mistake about it; I was looking at myself. I collapsed down on the bed, and in my crumpled, oversized and spunk stained clothes I started sobbing. It was my lowest point yet, and what's worse, I smelt like my grandmother's toilet. <br />
<br />
It's now 4.43 am, the world outside is closed and I never really had a job interview anyway. All I ever wanted was a reason to forget.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-59659924324027887662483-05-09T17:42:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:54:47.001+01:00#16Sunday. Sun Day. S U N - D A Y.<br />
<br />
Of course it's raining. On my street anyway. Ferocious, vile, lashing rain and my dismal face looking out into it from behind cheap double glazed windows. I wonder if anyone realizes I am real and not some kind of alabaster gargoyle... a permanent fixture that lurks morosely behind drizzled glass. That's what I feel like. A freakshow. The window that kids creep past as a dare. Making up myths and tales about me. When I was young it was Bubbles' house. He was a thirty year old man-child with a thick tongue. “Allo, boys!” He'd dribble, waving. Well, now I am Bubbles. Just standing here, gormlessly looking out into the void. Still, at least I can cry and no-one will notice... unless they think about the window and my face through the streams that is. <br />
<br />
I went twelve minutes fifty three seconds without blinking. In all that time I didn't think of John once. Maybe I should never blink again.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-11787985000033657062482-05-10T10:57:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:55:44.736+01:00#17a<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">This was my dream last night. I think it may be significant...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6ol_LwFqpcY/S-fXgKHd4sI/AAAAAAAAAHc/8Qwf_HQ1b6I/s1600/handy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_6ol_LwFqpcY/S-fXgKHd4sI/AAAAAAAAAHc/8Qwf_HQ1b6I/s400/handy.jpg" tt="true" width="365" /></a></div>Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-30357497698933107182481-05-11T00:56:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:56:07.036+01:00#17bIt's almost 1am and I sit alone in the pitch dark. There are no shadows because there is no light. Outside nothing moves and nothing stirs. The city is so terribly quiet, like no other night in history. There is no wind, no blowing tin cans and no echoes from high-heeled shoes. The bars are all closed and the drunks have all gone home. All that exists is Me, and so tonight I will have a conversation with myself. The answers will be in the silence, for Silence is always the truth. John, this is all for you... and it always only ever was.<br />
<br />
“My name is Tristram Alan Spencer. I am 31 years old.”<br />
<br />
Nothing stirs. <br />
Silence is always the truth. I listen to the silence.<br />
<br />
“I grew up in London between two unloving parents. All I ever wanted was affection.”<br />
<br />
The world remains a hush.<br />
<br />
“I done well at school, though could have done better. My main preoccupation wasn't with Thomas Hardy but rather our slender narrator Mr. Farrel-Jones. I willingly gave him a blowjob in the book-store cupboard.” <br />
<br />
There's not a murmur, and silence is always the truth.<br />
<br />
“At 17, so drunk I couldn't walk, I was raped by two men in a Soho nightclub. After falling through the emergency exit, the police found me face down in the street with my pants hanging off my ankles. I was covered in blood, cum and shame.”<br />
<br />
A woman laughs, trees whisper and a dog lets bark.<br />
<br />
“I am a good man. I am a bad man. I am an honest man. I am a crook.” <br />
<br />
Life's orchestra sits mute.<br />
<br />
“27 days ago I wandered into a storm. In those winds and rain I lost the only person I have ever loved. He was a man with angel wings who took me far away. World, I need to know this night: will he ever take me away again? Will his magic soon return?"<br />
<br />
I wait for Hell to erupt but the cymbals do not crash. <br />
Silence is always the truth. I listen to the silence.<br />
<br />
“My Charming Man, I now turn to you. It's a dark black night, but through it we can make history. Hear me now and answer with no words. John, do you still love me? John, did you ever once?”<br />
<br />
The wind whips up and in the distance alarms ring out. My eyes blink wet and I want this night to end. I will surely suffer until the end of time.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-26821552627721524252480-05-12T18:26:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:56:27.116+01:00#18I booked an appointment with Dr Dennis for tomorrow afternoon. I need something to help me pass the nights better. The homeopathic calmants that Verity put me onto are about as helpful as Smarties. I need sledgehammer blows in capsules, not extracts of Piss-the-Beds. I tried to schedule the rendez-vous for an exact hour and minute, but the secretary was having none of it. “Morning or afternoon, Mr Spencer?” she murmured, sounding utterly bored by the fuss people dying make. I don't like people calling me Mr Spencer, it makes me feel like I'm in the bank. “The afternoon” I said “I may be dead in the morning.”<br />
<br />
After the doctor I phoned mum. I sat there picking the lint out my belly button as she babbled on about water retention, or worse, the opposite. I don't know why, but without fail, after 5 minutes of speaking to my mother I always need to empty my bowels. Today was no different. “Excuse me mum, I need a shit.” I interrupted before closing the phone dead. That's how every call since I left home at 18 has ended. <br />
<br />
John's been visiting the blog again. I didn't want to mention it yesterday so as not to give him the satisfaction of having got to me. But he did get to me, it's been plaguing my every thought. Under post #16 he left a series of ten trailing comments culminating in a threat to cut my eyelids off! Of course it gets more worrying, but in a bizarre way I also took a pleasure from it... just knowing I am somewhere in his thoughts. I would much rather be abused and killed by him than ignored or forgotten. His silence would hurt me much more than his threats. I know that's a very selfish thought, but love is selfish. When it comes down to it, it's the most selfish thing in the world.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-78138518135952382172479-05-13T22:17:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:56:52.203+01:00#19I have just returned from the doctor's and am sitting here reading the information insert from the pack of amitryptalin I've been prescribed. Though I'm lucky I have anything at all. I'm lucky I even saw the doctor. <br />
<br />
When I arrived just shy of 2pm and announced my name, the secretary's jaw dropped. “Is this some kind of a joke?” she asked, looking at me as if I were a ghost. <br />
“These?” I asked pulling up at the paisley pyjama bottoms I was wearing. <br />
“No, err... hang on a minute, Mr. Spe....” And with that she jumped up and was gone. A moment later she retuned with a half running Dr Dennis. Peering in at me with a squinted bushy eyebrow, he exclaimed: “Mr Spencer? Good grief, you're alive!” <br />
<br />
It turned out that my brother had phoned the surgery this very morning and had told the secretary I had passed away during the night. Understandably my appointment had been scratched. “Asphyxiated. Naked, with a bag over your head...” muttered the secretary turning her eyes to the ground. “But why on earth would your brother make up such a thing. It's pretty bizarre isn't it?” <br />
<br />
Pretty bizarre indeed. Especially as don't I have a brother. What could have been one was miscarried 2 months into the pregnancy. Mother farting his prawn-like foetus out into a steel Mcdonald's toilet. Along with the wrapper from a cheese burger he was flushed into history in 1976. So, it's quite unlikely to have been him. <br />
<br />
No, my reported death was the work of someone much more formed than that. Someone with a grudge, a heart of vengeance and a twisted desire to unsettle me. Someone deranged, confined and hateful. Someone I used to know as John.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-21884096991913440572478-05-14T22:55:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:57:10.231+01:00#20Whenever I'm depressed or in pain I masturbate. I'm never so sexually charged as when I'm suicidal. Wanking is a cure for mental illness and toothache. It should be prescribed free on the NHS.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-70384327218142819582476-05-16T02:02:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:57:32.252+01:00#21 Celebrity Suicide Notes - Julia Roberts<em>Dear John, </em><br />
<br />
<em>What was once a world of love and light has now morphed into something beyond description. All I can say for certain is that it is black. Even darker. I cannot and do not want to go on any more. </em><br />
<br />
<em>My career and beauty is failing me and I will not be one of these celebrities that waltz around town horrendously sagging and falling to pieces. I've tried surgery but all that seems to do is pause one's features in time, whilst death seeps out through the pores. </em><br />
<br />
<em>It's very hard to believe that just under 10 years ago I was lifting up an Academy Award and now I have to beg and suck to get a minor cameo as a post-menopausal grandmother. I will not sink to those lengths. I will not sink to my knees... not anymore. Not at my age. </em><br />
<br />
<em>I regret all my marriages, even my current one. When the doors are closed Daniel is an absolute monster; possessed with jealousy and rage. It really is like “Sleeping with the Enemy”! The ONLY man I do not regret is YOU. John, my friend unto the grave. </em><br />
<br />
<em>With my drinking now at a stupendous level and with drunken sex-tapes soon to surface I can only escape in a more permanent way. I am taking the emergency exit outta here. haha.</em><br />
<br />
<em>Although I do not remember any of my pregnancies, I have come to cherish my three boys. If I miss anything I will miss them (and you of course.) </em><br />
<br />
<em>John, maybe if the world was more like you I would have struggled on until the end. But it is not. Unfortunately, the world is a callous, sick and plastic place. Behind the glitz is nothing but shit. </em><br />
<br />
<em>I am not sad, or ill, or depressed. I am not even particularly suicidal. I just want to be dead. That's all. It's no more serious than that. </em><br />
<br />
<em>As with everything I have ever done in my life, I will carry this out with the upmost professionalism. I WILL get the part! (laugh) </em><br />
<br />
<em>Please ensure I do not have an open coffin. </em><br />
<br />
<em>I want to be cremated. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Kiss the boys goodbye & take good care of yourself. </em><br />
<br />
<em>John I Love You. </em><br />
<br />
<em>Julia R. </em><br />
<em>XXX</em>Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1590980640397561218.post-46008516175383350092475-05-17T18:12:00.000+01:002011-08-15T19:58:13.464+01:00#22I think jaws is scared of me. Every time my shadow passes over his bowl he recoils and descends down low. Just freezes there like that. He thinks that by not moving he cannot be seen. But I can see him. I can see very well. It's almost as if he can sense a great storm is on its way.Waiting For Johnhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18260288739294444444noreply@blogger.com4