Storytelling: Pink Moon

All you could feel sometimes, when looking at the corridors of his house, was an acrid stench of wrongness and solitude. There was a pungent aroma in the air, which stephane always linked to days spent staring out of the windows, lost in thoughts waiting for someone to acknowledge his presence. Which hardly happened.

The house used to be alive, once. The pictures his mother kept staring at, the anecdotes she kept telling over and over with that horrifying, out of tune voice, that monotone singy-songy mumbling that she had since her breakdow, were proof that once, that house had been a home.

There wasnt anything special therte but there was an attempt at loving each other, at giving each other some laughs or tears, anything. Then his father started disappearing more and more. While Stephane kept morpohing into an adult, his father clearly felt less and less interested in him. He wasnt a baby, now. He was a person, with ideas and opinions and a mind of his own. And that clearly wasnt something his dad felt like dealing with. All he wanted was a son to be shaped into his own personal project, and that son was escaping that, even involuntarily. So the man just quit. He didnt really left, but he spent all the time he could with people that werent Stephane and his mother. And slowly dropped any sign of affection towards them, turning into an invisible presence in the house.

And his mother, who loved him, but also wanted a lover and a acompanion to face life and stgill be a woman, broke down. Stephane always wondered if she blamed him for what happened. If they would've been happier if he was never born. She said once, that people like her and her father werent supposed to have kids, but then it happened and they did their best with it. But the best wasnt enough to hold them together. And thats all she said about it.

Then she spiraled into depression and self abuse. The smart, sweet, loving woman that taught Stephane how to paint, to play chess and gave him his first adult book, "Of Men And Mice", when he was only ten, just disappeared. And what was left was a shgell fo a woman that wept and mumbled endlessly. Stephane felt his heart crumble everytime he watched her, on the bed, with always the same tear stained clothes, devastated by alcholo and pills and cigarettes and carelessness.

But what could he do? He tried and no one wanted his help. He was just fourteen and all he could do was to escape from there as soon as possible.

And thats why he spent so much at his schoolmate Eric's house. Him and Eric did not have a book like friendship. They were different, liked different things, had different lives. Stephane liked sports, liked animals, liked acting slightly more like a kid than he was supposed to. When he was at home, it was like his own free spirit was poisoned and forced to a slow death. So he let loose outside. Eric seemed in his own way, to like that: He was a kid with opportunities and talent. His family had built a world of ideas and dreams to make true aroudn him.

ERic knew how to play guitar, had tons of books, could paint, and fence. Many at school thought he was an overpriviliged spoiled brat, but Stephane knew that was not the case. Eric had a family that had seen his strength and wanted to make it grow into something better.

If there was one thing Stephane envied Eric though, even more than the rest, was his family. His mother was gentle, caring and full of heart and love. She always looked at her child with attentive eyes, drinking up all his words and often she did that with Stephane too. She made him feel interesting and accepted.

Also she was clearly in love with her husband. Eric's father was a charming man. Strong, funny, looking very young for his age and with a lust for life that was all over his actions. He seemed to have a passion for everything: writing, sculpture, sports. And he wasnt, as his father would've said, an "artsy slacker", he had a job and made good money, giving his family a good life, so they could still be themselves. He seemed to love his son anjd wife immensely.

He had a special friendship with Stephane. He encourage him to stay at the house, write things and develop his own creativity. He was sincerely interest in his ideas, wanted to see him create and be himself. Stephane couldnt help but feeling his heartbeat rush whenever he tried to accomplish something under the man's eyes. And whwnever he got complimented he felt like melting and aching, with a need for appreciation that had piled up for too long.

The days passed and Stephane realized thatr his real family didnt really care if he was home or not. As long as he was alive and did not bother them, they were too busy with theiur own despair to care about him. So he spent more and more time at Eric's house, even sleeping there. Him and Eric were like brothers.

One summer night, he couldnt sleep. The heat was intense, drecnhing him in sweat and making his head ache. He was spending the night at Eric's house as suual. His father was home and he was proabably delaing with mother and her anger. He did not want to be there.

He stood up and went in the garden. Eric's father was there too. He smiled st him.

"No Sleep?"

"Nope, too hot"

"Yeah, i feel that way too. Also, the night gets so beautiful at this time of the year"

They bothy enjoyed the silence. Stephane felt a rush of blood to the head, suddenly.

Robert, Eric's father, stared at him and smiled calmingly.

"I like to have you here, Steph. You're special. You're a good friend to Eric and he loves you, in his own way"

Stephane didnt really know what to say, so he just looked elsewhere, feeling weirdly.

"I know you have troubles, in your life and i wish i could help. But some things have to be fixed on your own, you know?"

"Yeah"

"So i'm telling you: talk to me whenever you need, ask me anything. and whenever you'll be ready, you can stay here. with us. with me"

Stephane felt a knot in his stomach clench.

"But... What about Eric.... And your wife.... Would they want me here?"

" i want you here. I love you, Steph".

Robert looked at him. And everything felt wrong or right.

He kissed him.

What happened next, wasnt right or wrong. It happened and it existed. Steph was chyanged. Some things were shaken out of their roots and ripped out forever. It was one of those moments that wouldve set his path in life in a certain direction. He wouldve done things differently, from now on. Be a different person. Better or worse, no one could know but him.

In the morning Stephane, with a face stained by tears and strange things in his head, entered his house. The smell of acrid was there, but different. Something had happened. The house was silent.

His head was dizzy, but he managed to get in the main room, slowly and silently.

His father's body was in a pool of blood on the gorund. Stabbed.

His mother came in the frame. Stephane couldnt move. He wanted to throw up and scream but couldnt.

His mother was standing, with glassy eyes, and the knife still in her hands. She was smiling, just like in the old days.

"Steph. It will be ok. Now things will be back to normal. I will be a good mother to you, Steph. I promise. I love you"

She moved to hug him. He wanted to run, but couldnt. Her face was just like time hadnt passed. Like nothing bad had happened. He lt himself loose in her embrace. It felt so warm, so calming, so sweet and made time go backwards. It was his mom, again. His mom. She was there for him.

He felt a shar pain in his guts. Let out a sound he couldnt really hear. Slipped slowly to the floor. She was crying.

"I'm sorry, baby... sorry... we're over.... its all over..."

Evrything went black. While fading, he heard her make a whimpering noise and slip. Thjen he thought of Robert. Of Eric. Of....

And then there was nothing.

Goodbye Old Friend (Why I Drank And Why I Had To Seriously Quit)

DISCLAIMER: This post wont be about the dangers of alcohol or addiction. While i know very well that being a hardcore drinker is a nasty thing to deal with, i also refuse to give health advice of any kind to people. Drinking is fun, doing drugs is fun, even smoking has its positive sides (if only social). Self destruction is fun, on any level or else no one would do it. I am saying this without irony. If i had a way to keep up my addicitons as i used to without having the drawbacks, i would do it with no hesistations. So, no, i'm not preaching or judging, thats just not how i am. I only judge myself.

There's a small unviersal truth, that unites idiots and smart people, credos, religons, sexual orientations and races: life is a chore. And i dont mean that in the self pitying, whiny way. It's just that living aint easy, for anyone. To different degrees, every day is a chore. Its either a fight with other human beings, which for the most part are their own natural enemies, or with the simple grind that is fighting constantly to simply survive without feeling like shit. You dont need to be depressed to feel that, its a natural thing. Plus, and that works evenb mopre for anyone, life,, for the most part, is dull and boring. Life is a series of great moments glued together by long ass times of waiting and grinding your teeth. Its a movie where nothing really great happens for most of the times, besides some really cool scenes that are worth the ticket: But getting to those scenes can be pretty shitty.

So, no matter who you are, you need a cure. Some people have drugs. Those help, but they also have a vicious way to get back at you, by muyltipilying the shit by a thousand times and forcing you to only worship them. Other people have people. Nothing wrong with that, but when you turn your love or affectoion for someone into codependency, you're just like a junkie. And if or when thos epeople diappear, youll suffer as much as an addict in withdrawal.

Other people have passions. Nothing wrong with that at all. Still, you're not always born with the ability to feel. And passions can be frustrating too. Then there's relgion. Which is frankly fucking stupid.

And almost everyone has booze.

It helped me. I have been constantly bored or simply sickened by the complete pointlessness of a lot of my efforts in life for years. So pretty much, the moment in which i could let loose with a serious drunken night was something to look for. Yeah, my mother is an alcoholic but i totlaly see why she does that. It helps you let loose, whether its for good or for worse. It gives you a potent excuse for unleashing the bad stuff or the embarassing one. You can tell people to fuck off when they deserve. I know a bunch of weirdos love to say that "they are just the same when they drink cause they are REAL". Which is bullshit. People dont get transformed by alcohol, it loosens inhibitions. All you do is act like your brain would secretly love to do normally, only you dont give a fuck about conseuqences. And afterwards, most people forgive you, and generally the ones who dont and use terms like "enabling" are even more toxiuc than booze itself. And a big reason for desperate drinking.

Also booze is good. I like beer. It's tasty and awesome. Being drunk is fun. Beiung anything but lucid is fun. This world isnt mean to be faced lucid.

Still, i had to quit. To quit on my own will, not because the law forced me to (that happened and did not last. thats why i find the idea of AA a bit silly. if you're an addict inside, theres no legal way, speech or club that will solve it).

First, my body is feeling it. I realize that my body used to be better once and that now i aged more than a lot of people who are in their early thrties. I took it out on myself and seemed to keep looking amazing but it paid out in the end. I have abad heart, bad blood numbers, i'm fucked up, also cause of the meds, but i realize i am probably gonna have a horter life than most. Its ok, but i wanna try to fix it as much as possible.

Also, i cant stand the aftermath anymore. I dont care if thats a sign of being a pussy. I just cant stand beign sick and wanting to die for a whole day. I already do not get shit done as a nrom, so i dont eneed to be mopre crippled because i wanted to feel less bored the night before.

Third, theres' an aura of embarassing despair around hardcore drinkers that are past their prime. I aint talkign about people who drink at a party, thats ok. I mean the ones who talk about how theyre gonna get shitfaced soon during the week already. The ones that need a drink during the day. I see why they do it, but man when the veil is lifted, they look fucking sad. I had friends that have gone that way and cant hold a conversation without being drunk. Who are clearly twitchy and depressed when they're sober. Ive been there and ive had enough.

I've had enough of feeling shitty. of not remembering what happened the last night. Of getting compassionate looks from people. of being labeled as a drunken animal. Of being told "try to behave tonight". Of throwing up. Of drinking anything just to drink it.

Ive gotten to a point where i know that if i did iot in a small measure i could possibly relapse hard anbd i have to deal with that first. I have to understand if i can be normal and drink sensibly or i have to be sober or feel shitty for the rest of my life. And i need to clean up from other things too. That will need a change of my own very personality, but i hope it can be done.

Stuck

At this point in my life, i'm used with dealing with my own mood swings. One day can go high or low, generally and i can usually start it in a bad mood, only to spiral down into total sadness or anger. Usually it takes a person or a simple bad moment to push me down.

It irritates me how weak i can get at some spot, how in a good moment, when all my brain gears are in their place, i pay no mind to anny negativity but it only takes one asshole with a hurtful purpose to create a chain reaction worthy of a Rube Goldberg machine that basically nails me into the ground.

And what's even worse, for me but i think for many others too, is when i find myself (which is happening with an increasing frequency) at an emotional stop. I'll clarify, so any of you can eventually sympathize: when the down wave hits, you feel like crying or drowning in despair, and that sort of gives you strength, when the stop comes you just think nothing really affects you. It's like finding yourself in a pool of tar, you're not hurt because you expected things to go bad, you dont feel anything but annoyance or a strong contempt towards everyone and everything.

You might have people who are seriously on your side and care about you but you shuth them off, because at that point to you love is hypocritical, good feelings are temporary and anyone who is nice or gentle is just lying. It's not like thinking that everyone hates you, being a victim makes you stroneger somehow, its more like a complete unflinching feeling that no one really cares about anyone, good things only come when people are in need, love and affection are ways to get good things and use people.

When you're in that spot, everything you like suddenly looses its appeal. You still do things because you're moving like a robot, going by habit and autopilot, but you really dont care. The head is empty, the heart is still. You got no happiness, no sadness, nothing at all. It's a giant freeze frame of the emotional spectre. Bad fellings are equal to the good ones, in the aspect that they're meaningless. People have no role or meaning. Nothing moves you. You're still.

As Dan Savage mentioned on his brash but smart Lovecast, some people are bound to be alone. Still even if they are at that point, they can still live full and joyous lives, as long as they dont get bitter, cause bitterness repulses people. And i agree, only i thinkj of bitterness in a different way than most. Bitterness is suaually crankiness and complaining, hateful sourness towards the world, knowing that no matter what you do, everything will suck anyway. And that is repulsive. Then there's the ewven more repulsive level of a person who is comnpletely frozen emotionally, so clammed up and unaffacted, shut down and refusign to react or open up, that they eventually become invisible to other people's eyes.

A person that is silent, and detached is worse than an abusers, cause it occupies a space withotu serving any purpose.

So i wonder what the soultion to get out of that is. Some of thta came with meds. The emotional leveling caused that too. And it had to be self imposed in order to avoid hurting constantly. But at times, id rather be slitting my own wrists rather than not feeling my wrists at all.

Hmmm.

Modern Age Superheroes

Since i'm out of ideas today, but in no way i will be one of those guys who let their creativity go dry cause "they have more important thigs to do" (which i would technically have, but i wont do since i get paid way too little to not waste time doin silly shit), i will have to use the horrible hacky shortcut that is the "pop culture inspired list". I'm sorry cracked.com, i will never be as cool as you guys are.

Anyhoo, if any of you has been a kid at least once, you probably wasted your time making up superheroes in your head, maybe even drawing them (with titties and dicks, if you are a boy).

So why stop? The current age has a lot of cool possiblities to make up interesting superdudes. And it's also an extremely overused comedy routine, possibly worse than airplane food jokes, so lets rock.

Supermeh

He comes from an overpowered alien planet, he has incredible amazing powers that would allow him to change or rule the worldm and end crime. Only he doesnt really give a shit. After getting a secret identity as an accountant, he realized that he makes more money that way, its less risky, and his jewish momma is more ok with that. Plus who doesnt commit crimes? Its a dog eat dog world out there, full of them corrupt politicans. Its not like if he stops one crime, anything will change. So he just puts on his costumes to show off at parties. Lately his wife forgot to clean it, silly woman. Oh well. Jersey Shore is on.

Captain Pawn

He rides the thin line between a hero and a villain. He is a telepathic entity, that has incredibly deciving mindpowers. He can deceive his oppoinents into thinking that they will have sex with an incredibly beautiful woman, enlarge their genitals, see movies for free, become millionaires or, if they're genrous, help Nigerian people. Then when they're trapped, he fills their minds with visions of men with blown up anuses and Rick Astley songs.

For unsepcified reasons he took the shape of a cute kitten. Apparenbtly it makes his power even stronger, especially when he speaks in misspelled english

The Twister

This terrifying hero has the incredible ability of crating chaos into people's minds. When surrounded by enemies he twists their thoughts around, says incredibly conbvoluted things, contradicts himself and then accuses them of being homophobic, nazi, stalking, gay, communist, racist jews. While they're trying to figure out what the hell he is talking about, he kills them, usually with a big hammer.

A fierce threat, but its not really clear which side he's on.

Storytelling: Empty Pages

Shane used to be proud of his great mind. Since he was a kid, he always felt it would be his greater strength, the one thing that would've set him apart from the rest of the world. And with time, it had become his very own source of spiritual energy.

There was an addiction, a positive one, loying within the lines of creativity. It felt the soul with juices that couldnt be provided by pretty much anything else. You could climb mountains and be a legendary lover and that would be an impressive achievement but non of those things would give Shane the strange, alluring hit of adrenaline, the sense of completion, the delirious quenching of an eternal thirst that creating a story and lettiung it live gave him.

It was like mak,ing something that grew and had a life of its own. As close as he, as a man and a loner, could get to having children. And yet different. Gtting down a moment of complete utter beauty, something that is perfect because you just know it is and theres no way to explain it, but you just know it is. Nailing the right sentences, weave them together, until they become something that walks and moves and pulsates. And most of everything has emotions and gives emtions. There was nothing in the whole universe like that. His heart was a hole that onlly a flow of words could fill.

Yet, like all addictions, Shane knew that there could be a moment of withdrawal. And he was hitting one.

At times, life gest the best of a creative soul. Despair, anger, fuckups and disappointments hit that heart and mind hard. Shane took everything until he just dried up. And the pills who were supposed to calm down the screaming dogs that barked inside his head, just silenced everything and made his soul an empty room. no ideas. No genius. Nothing at all. Sanity and peace had a baggage called eternal sleep of the gods of creativity.

And that hurt. In a weird way. he knew he was supposed to be better and live a more normal life. But somehow he wanted the insanity back. He needed the relelntless drive that writing gave him. He eneded to tell stories. He needed to lack sleep or hunger, because all that fed him was his own violently absuive muse. And yet he knew that woudlve been his own death. Too many times he had to face rejection for his creations, the lull of realizing that out of a million people like him, one or two actually make something of their creations. And the rest just fades away.

He had to survive. But he wanted the creativity back. To fill up empty pages. To see them go on and live. Yet every time he tried, nothing acame up. He forced the ideas out but thery just werent there. His mind was dead. The pages stayed empty and stared back at him with vacant eyes.

As time went by, he tried to get over it, like he did with everything else. He tried to fill the hole by having a cause. He had seen his mother die after fighting for years with Alzheimer. He saw her deteriorate and become a beast of incoherence and madness. Back then hius own demons had eaten up all his ability to care or help. Now it was time to atone. Never again he would've let someone loose his past like that. Not without doing something.

He volunteered at an institute for Alzheimer patients. The illness erased those people's minds like a cancer of the soul. It ate their memories and personalities away, leaving them like empty babbling shells that could only be taken care of. It was horrifying.

One day, a blue eyed lady named Loretta, just like his mother, was staring at Shane while he was bathing her. She was far gone at that point. She used to be a painter. A creative, like him. Had no family.

She asked him questions. About him. ABout herslef. About the world. ANd like a strange marvelous coincidence, it just happened. Shane, without even thinking about it, started making up a new life for her. He told her stories about who she was. Made her a character. Made a different life for her, a different world. Made her something new and beautiful. And that soemhow gave her happiness.

And started something in him.

From that day, Shane became a storyteller again. He made the patients his new living characters. Hye gave them love stories, tragedies, funny tales, heroic ones. He helped them by giving them new lives. And watched them as they made thos stories grow by making them their own. How the characters interacted with each others, changed the stories, created new ones.

At first the other nurses, and the few relatives who really cared about those people were puzzled. But that weird serendipity of creation and compassion had actually made the patients happy. They wanted one thing, to have memories. And where their heads or medicine could not help, Shane came in and created them.

And for a few, there was a world thata ctually wo0rked. If only in their hearts, for a little while. And the stories kept growing, and living and changing. And for some time they would be remembered.

The Curse Of The Fake Liberal

My friend Kataish, used the phrase "fucking fake hippies", to sum up a stomach churning phenomenon that is plaguing society these days.

As i might have mentioned before, i consider the internet as a good reflection of the interior of the deep subconscious of modern society. I dont buy the idea that people act on it as some sort of fake, made up personas. That is a myth. What you see on discussion boards, social networks or virtual interactions is what is in people's heads, unfiltered by decency, rationalizing or the layers that we have to put up in face to face discussions (i wont use the term "real" life either, cause there's nothing more real to daily living, compared to the rest. life is not real., everything is some sort of act).

So you will meet people who unleash their aggression, their lack of human sympathy, their need to toinbe down their instinctive reatcions. The ugly stuff.

But also, you will face a weird, unsetlling wave of plastic looking good feelings, enhanced correctness, idealism pushed towards cartoonish overtones. In the middle of excessive sensitivity, over exposed emotions and an idea of sentiments so powered up it has almost lost any sense, youll find the army of the new bleeding hearts.

I used to be a liberal, not in the political sense. I was a humanitarian, an activist and an idealist and i still have those traits. I waxs one of those perpetually fired up people who belived in their causes and shoved them under everyone's nose at any chance. Then my views and perspectives changed and i developed different thoughts on the world, and how it might need less niceness and idealism and more steely handed order. I still am fired up about what i believe in.

Once, the liberal activist used to be a powerful being. A real activist got his hands dirty, marched, screamed, did things. Maybe he was delusional, a pain in the ass or simply wrong but his actions meant something. Some are sytill that way and they're a powerful antidote against apathetic cyncicism and the condescendiung snarkiness of the shrugging majority.

I am all for those. But when i see the new army, i get disgusted. You've met those. They're the ones you'll never see marching, that feel they're taking a stand one tweet at a time, that post commentaries on blogs and social networks with little information, even less grasp of the facts or objectivity but a tone of abuse for the words "love" or "hate". The ones that misquote Rev Martin Luter King Jr. or the lyrics to John Lennon's "Imagine". The ones who seems to be crying for any cause, because they really dont follow any. They make ribbons though, and post pictures. They never donate money but they change their avatars.

If you make a rational statement on an issue, those people will jump on you and cry (virtually), about the heartless world, about how they can "make a change" (to quote the world's greatest pedophile after the pope).

To sum it up, thes epeople are more of a poison for the truth and the good causes than the opposers. they're what conspiracy theorists are for truth and ivestigations: grotesque cartoons that destroy the credibility of the movement and push people into rejection. Empty people with empty lives that live vicariously through slogans and sanctimonious sentences. They like to feel better than the rest, because they dont realy do any effort to fight the rest.

I hate them.

The Other Side

A lot of you, after seeing Davis face here and knowing how harsh i usually am about social issues, are probably thinking that i am gonna launch into a pro-capital punishment tirade. You're right. But my point might be different from the one most people are making.

Davis has become a case for many reasons. The main, gaping one, is that his guilt is 100% certain. And, lets face it, because of his skin colour. He has been accused of killing a white police officer when he was 19 years old. The rial, as it often happens, has been drawn out and in the meantime a lot of doubts have popped out.

Honestly, i see why people are trying to hold on to this specific case. It is a good poster case. And, as usuala, the race card makes it palatable and easier to sell. And i guess the idea is to eventually remove death penalty from the equation. Cause the major argument lies there. The state supposedly doesnt have the right to execute a man, in any case. And the idea of a man that might be executed with no absolute ceratnty of his guilt, is, eventually, hard to swallow.

Still, i disagree. If we want to have a justice sysytem that also includes an idea of punsihment and eventually consider death penalty as a possibility, we shall not let doubt cloud our actions. Theres a point in civilization where, to establish order, a higher force must make desicion for the majority. And eventually sacrifice some of the citizens in roder to obtain results.

We do not live in a pretty world. Our society is flawed and a regular justice system is destined to fail. The legal loops allow more criminals to get away than to be actually punished. reform is almost impossible in a large number of cases, since the ones that are corrupted on such a level that they commit murder might be insitituionalized but will often turn back to their criminal paths. Its human. And for humans the highest deterrent si fear.

Also the idea of execution is a rightful one, for me. Its the only aspect of biblical justice that i accept: an eye for an eye is fair and just. And even if a victim forgives, its not in their right to decide so. Theres a higher standard of justice to ataain and the ones who commit a crime shall be punsihed, with no exception.

And here's where this case fits: a strict jsutice system should rather punsih an innocent in order to be assured that all criminals will also be punished. The obsession with being 100% sure of an accusation, with reshaping witnesses a million times, involving lawyers, the press and racial, social or psychological issues in the idea of justice has made it irrreversibly flawed. A criminal now can often get away using the fear that the system has to eventually frame an innocent or to be acting under some warped racial standard.

And thats what corrupted justice.Executing a man who has, with high probability, killed a cop, shall be done with no doubt or second thoughts. If we allow ourselves to think it over, its when we would not want to execute anybody.

So if the man is innocent, it will be a tragedy. But it's the price to pay in order to have justice.