This is an emotional post for me. This is the fiftieth post on Casa Del Hermo. Fifty times in the last six months, i have pressed the orange "publish post" button, and released my creative spawn into the blogsphere. At least, twenty five of those times i have regretted it afterwards.
Like everything else in this world, there is a story behind this blog. I began blogging in October last year. I opened a blog called "El Hermo's Den of Despair". It was dark and macabre, but soon evolved into something infinitely more menacing. Following a traumatic experience in Israel in December 2005, in which i manifested extreme left wing fundamentalist tendencies, which ultimately resulted in my resignation from the student organisation in which i was at the time involved, I used the 'Den of Despair' to channel the rage and frustration I was feeling at the time. I posted angry rantings, extremely inflammatory poetry bordering on anti-semitism, everything that was on my mind, every bad, disjointed crazy thought.
As you can expect, some people got upset, and a number of people intervened. They warned me that the blog was unhealthy, dangerous and sending out the wrong perception of me to the masses. A blog is something that is open to anyone and anytime over the internet, they said - they warned me to be sensitive to the way that i was portraying myself on the net.
I took their advice, and completely scrapped the 'Den of Despair'. I decided that i would create a new blog - with lighter colours, and a different tone. A tone that would demonstrate the real 'me', a emotionally and ideologically balanced blog.
50 posts later, I feel a lot better. The blog has proved to be a form of therapy, allowing me to recuperate from what was one of the more traumatic experiences of my life. Its allowed me to show people my writing, my thoughts and my identity in a way that doesn't necessarily infringe on other people's human rights, even though it would be preferable if it did.
Thanks to all my friends, all the people who have supported me, DJ Rifkind and Ohr Somayach.
I hope that you've all enjoyed the blog, and will continue to enjoy it for a bit longer...
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Monday, September 25, 2006
Out
Blogger's Note - My Completed Short Story (Subject to minor changes)
Adam is alone, kneeling on the smooth chessboard floor, with the door locked behind him. Yellow and green chunky vomit drains upwards from his stomach, submerging itself in the light blue toilet water. Brown strands of saliva clinging desperately to his lips, he shoves himself against the shiny fibreglass wall that seperates each toilet cubicle. He finds a bottle of still mineral water next to him. He picks it up from the floor, stares at the liquid inside, swirls it around the bottle as someone who has watched a wine tasting would, and then, takes an epic swig.
Bianca stands in the the queue outside the entrance of the club. Opportunists wearing mullets and musky aftershave squeeze into the line from all directions, and she becomes a pinball, hurtling back and forth in the small space that she occupies. Slightly bruised, she arrives at the front, greeted by a bouncer; stocky and squat in a black jacket, red vest and black pants. His eyes, too close together on his face, examine her from their strategically different angles, and without asking for identification, he nods, lifts the velvet rope, and ushers her inside.
The water gurgles in his belly. His stomach acid is not ready for a new visitor, and resists forcibly. He feels like a human geyser, a living, breathing crater with a hole in the middle that spurts liquid out after regular intervals. He leans over the toilet bowl, except this time what escapes him is not the same colorful, cohesive vomit. It seems to be the water – the transparent liquid sprinkled with the crumbs of what appears to have been a carrot.
She takes in her surroundings. The lobby is like an Amazonian boudoir - lush green plants in the shadow of purple silk curtains, waterfalls trickling from fissures of artificial light. Bianca walks to the ticket counter and pays the sixty rand entrance fee. She holds out her left wrist for the ritual stamping. Red painted nails dig softly into her skin, as another hand pushes the stamp into her forearm, marking her with a black, smudged smiley face.
He stands, steadies himself, opens the toilet door, and steps out of the cubicle. To his right, a group of six young men in collared shirts and leather shoes, huddled close together in front of the white marble urinals, shouting loudly to each other. In front of him, the washing area, neon lights above a rippling mirror, ornamented with bars of designer soap and small tubs of hair gel. Adam washes his hands in the sink, and is handed a paper towel by the smiling bathroom maitre’d – a man, in a black shirt and a red tie, seated in a stool under a chrome towel dispenser.
Bianca emerges in front of the main bar, a large marble ring on a wooden platform. Loose hanging hands brush her backside as she forces her way through the crowd to the bar counter. One anonymous hand gropes her with vigour. She turns arounds instinctively. The culprit is nowhere to be found. She turns back to the bar, and uses her elbow as a windscreen wiper to clear a space at the counter for her to order a drink.
Adam leaves the bathroom. He navigates swiftly, untouched, through the mass, and arrives at the side of the bar where his three friends are seated. They see him, acknowledge his return by the ceremonial raising of the icy whisky in their hands, and bring him in for a closer look. Four shot glasses filled with golden Tequila stand before him. Adam does not hesitate. He takes one and, with it, lightly taps the other shot glasses. He lifts it to his mouth, emptying it quickly down his throat. Instantly Something sprints up his aesophagus. His cheeks bulge. He makes a split second decision. The bathroom is too far. He swings his body to his right, and lets it out.
Bianca’s hair is now wet, her face and clothes sequined with the debris of his regurgitation. Frozen, she is unable to remove the thing that feels like a piece of half chewed chicken breast resting itself between her left eyeball and the bridge of her nose. She cannot feel anything, not even a slight nudge, as he pushes his way past her, rushing to the bathroom. As the eyes of the crowd begin to wander around, she turns around quickly and makes for the exit. She walks out through the marble arched doorway and sees the queue, weaving itself around an empty parking lot.
Adam is alone, kneeling on the smooth chessboard floor, with the door locked behind him. Yellow and green chunky vomit drains upwards from his stomach, submerging itself in the light blue toilet water. Brown strands of saliva clinging desperately to his lips, he shoves himself against the shiny fibreglass wall that seperates each toilet cubicle. He finds a bottle of still mineral water next to him. He picks it up from the floor, stares at the liquid inside, swirls it around the bottle as someone who has watched a wine tasting would, and then, takes an epic swig.
Bianca stands in the the queue outside the entrance of the club. Opportunists wearing mullets and musky aftershave squeeze into the line from all directions, and she becomes a pinball, hurtling back and forth in the small space that she occupies. Slightly bruised, she arrives at the front, greeted by a bouncer; stocky and squat in a black jacket, red vest and black pants. His eyes, too close together on his face, examine her from their strategically different angles, and without asking for identification, he nods, lifts the velvet rope, and ushers her inside.
The water gurgles in his belly. His stomach acid is not ready for a new visitor, and resists forcibly. He feels like a human geyser, a living, breathing crater with a hole in the middle that spurts liquid out after regular intervals. He leans over the toilet bowl, except this time what escapes him is not the same colorful, cohesive vomit. It seems to be the water – the transparent liquid sprinkled with the crumbs of what appears to have been a carrot.
She takes in her surroundings. The lobby is like an Amazonian boudoir - lush green plants in the shadow of purple silk curtains, waterfalls trickling from fissures of artificial light. Bianca walks to the ticket counter and pays the sixty rand entrance fee. She holds out her left wrist for the ritual stamping. Red painted nails dig softly into her skin, as another hand pushes the stamp into her forearm, marking her with a black, smudged smiley face.
He stands, steadies himself, opens the toilet door, and steps out of the cubicle. To his right, a group of six young men in collared shirts and leather shoes, huddled close together in front of the white marble urinals, shouting loudly to each other. In front of him, the washing area, neon lights above a rippling mirror, ornamented with bars of designer soap and small tubs of hair gel. Adam washes his hands in the sink, and is handed a paper towel by the smiling bathroom maitre’d – a man, in a black shirt and a red tie, seated in a stool under a chrome towel dispenser.
Bianca emerges in front of the main bar, a large marble ring on a wooden platform. Loose hanging hands brush her backside as she forces her way through the crowd to the bar counter. One anonymous hand gropes her with vigour. She turns arounds instinctively. The culprit is nowhere to be found. She turns back to the bar, and uses her elbow as a windscreen wiper to clear a space at the counter for her to order a drink.
Adam leaves the bathroom. He navigates swiftly, untouched, through the mass, and arrives at the side of the bar where his three friends are seated. They see him, acknowledge his return by the ceremonial raising of the icy whisky in their hands, and bring him in for a closer look. Four shot glasses filled with golden Tequila stand before him. Adam does not hesitate. He takes one and, with it, lightly taps the other shot glasses. He lifts it to his mouth, emptying it quickly down his throat. Instantly Something sprints up his aesophagus. His cheeks bulge. He makes a split second decision. The bathroom is too far. He swings his body to his right, and lets it out.
Bianca’s hair is now wet, her face and clothes sequined with the debris of his regurgitation. Frozen, she is unable to remove the thing that feels like a piece of half chewed chicken breast resting itself between her left eyeball and the bridge of her nose. She cannot feel anything, not even a slight nudge, as he pushes his way past her, rushing to the bathroom. As the eyes of the crowd begin to wander around, she turns around quickly and makes for the exit. She walks out through the marble arched doorway and sees the queue, weaving itself around an empty parking lot.
Themes:
Fiction
Monday, September 18, 2006
Happy Time
I tell a joke at friday night supper.
"Whats the difference between a baby and a sandwich?"
I say it out loud in front of about ten to fifteen people.
Some find it humorous, and laugh.
Others just ignore me, but I know what they're thinking.
"He has no tact."
"That joke is completely inappropriate."
"He's obviously not studying law."
I think about this only after i say the joke.
I feel something that surprises me.
Not regret, not embarassment,
but something else.
A kind of frustration,
anger, rage.
I have demands:
Everyone must laugh,
or everyone must grimace,
and then, smile.
Yet, I learn from my own punchline:
You don't fuck the sandwich before you eat it.
Themes:
Poetry
Thursday, September 14, 2006
My December
(with thanks to Wikipedia)
A road trip is a journey intended to be enjoyable and filled with events and tourist stops as opposed to just a means to "getting there". Alternately it is a story of such an event where the journey is of comparable or of more importance to the destination. Often the trip is metaphorical or symbolic in nature and represents a change in a person's life. Other times it is just a literary vehicle or a framework for action and adventure. Road trips were invented in the early 1950's.
A road trip is a journey intended to be enjoyable and filled with events and tourist stops as opposed to just a means to "getting there". Alternately it is a story of such an event where the journey is of comparable or of more importance to the destination. Often the trip is metaphorical or symbolic in nature and represents a change in a person's life. Other times it is just a literary vehicle or a framework for action and adventure. Road trips were invented in the early 1950's.
Themes:
Rant
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Gremlins On the Wing
As you can see, my blog is littered with statements and posts that resist the understandings and practices inherent in Jewish Life in South Africa. Not surprisingly, I'm often asked by people to motivate my opinions and thoughts with regards to the way that i relate to the community.
What does the antagonistic nature of my blog say about my personal viewpoint, and how does that personal viewpoint affect my relationship to the community that i 'belong' to?
I often find it very difficult to express how i feel about growing up and living in the South African Jewish Community. Having gone to King David from Grade 1 to Matric, the jewish community is really all i know - most of my friends, as well as the social circles in which i generally gravitate, are jewish - and i love spending time with my friends, even while the social scene can sometimes irritate me. I have been a member of a prominent johannesburg shul for most of my life, and i appreciate the value of that shul in re-affirming the stake that i have in my community, and also appreciate the work that my community does for the wider community.
On the other hand, there are elements about my upbringing in the community that irk me. I'll never truly get over those ridiculous shabbatonim and encounters, where DIJE people would sit on stage and perform skits such as "THE LAST JEW IN THE UNIVERSE" - trying to convince us that if we assimilated and didn't maintain our religious identities, all jews would stop to exist. Another example, forcefeeding me bar-ones to learn about the importance of self-control (i love bar-ones). I struggle to get over the std 2 teacher that told me if i didn't say a blessing before eating, that i was nothing more than a thief. But most of all, what bothers me about the community i grew up in, is that in a lot of ways, i couldn't really question it - when i was younger, i didn't have the cognitive faculties to think about the issues about being jewish, living in south africa and the middle east crisis.
Today, this is what bothers me still. Today, i feel equipped to question everything - i want to learn more about myself, my community, south africa, israel etc by engaging with it on all sorts of discursive levels. But i often feel that in the South African Jewish Community, the mainstream are more concerned with their own financial, social and spiritual enrichment, than to actively engage with issues that affect a wider group than just themselves.
Then again, I don't even think that they should engage with those sort of issues. Clearly, issues in the community don't interest the mainstream like they interest me - and i have no expectations of them to do so. However, Here's a warning for the mainstream - if you don't want to think about things, other people are happy to think about them for you. And i can assure you that the people who are thinking at the moment are people who represent an extremist, elitist sense of your jewish identity.
Essentially, I believe that in order to question something, one needs to be exposed to it first. My intention with certain articles on my blog is to stimulate thought with regards to community issues. While my views can seem overly antagonistic at times, i believe that this can work to jolt people towards debate and discourse, which will ultimately lead to a community that actually cares enough about itself to be open and intellectual, instead of insular and naive.
But, that leads me to the second question: What is the cost of this desire to jolt people? How does antagonising affect my personal status in and around the community?
I often find that publicly endeavouring to mess with people's life conceptions has resulted in certain people alienating themselves from me. This is understandable on certain levels - but on others, its really not. Social Chastisement doesn't scare me like it scares most other people in the SA Jewish community, but i won't deny that being an outcast is a real fear for people that speak out - and i believe that this fear of social rejection discourages people from being more outspoken.
This is a problem - young people who want to speak out should not be discouraged by social alienation, rather they should be commended by the community and their peers. There needs to a real change in the value system of the community, where people with a different opinion garner more respect than people with straightened hair and waxed chests.
Because i will never wax my chest.
What does the antagonistic nature of my blog say about my personal viewpoint, and how does that personal viewpoint affect my relationship to the community that i 'belong' to?
I often find it very difficult to express how i feel about growing up and living in the South African Jewish Community. Having gone to King David from Grade 1 to Matric, the jewish community is really all i know - most of my friends, as well as the social circles in which i generally gravitate, are jewish - and i love spending time with my friends, even while the social scene can sometimes irritate me. I have been a member of a prominent johannesburg shul for most of my life, and i appreciate the value of that shul in re-affirming the stake that i have in my community, and also appreciate the work that my community does for the wider community.
On the other hand, there are elements about my upbringing in the community that irk me. I'll never truly get over those ridiculous shabbatonim and encounters, where DIJE people would sit on stage and perform skits such as "THE LAST JEW IN THE UNIVERSE" - trying to convince us that if we assimilated and didn't maintain our religious identities, all jews would stop to exist. Another example, forcefeeding me bar-ones to learn about the importance of self-control (i love bar-ones). I struggle to get over the std 2 teacher that told me if i didn't say a blessing before eating, that i was nothing more than a thief. But most of all, what bothers me about the community i grew up in, is that in a lot of ways, i couldn't really question it - when i was younger, i didn't have the cognitive faculties to think about the issues about being jewish, living in south africa and the middle east crisis.
Today, this is what bothers me still. Today, i feel equipped to question everything - i want to learn more about myself, my community, south africa, israel etc by engaging with it on all sorts of discursive levels. But i often feel that in the South African Jewish Community, the mainstream are more concerned with their own financial, social and spiritual enrichment, than to actively engage with issues that affect a wider group than just themselves.
Then again, I don't even think that they should engage with those sort of issues. Clearly, issues in the community don't interest the mainstream like they interest me - and i have no expectations of them to do so. However, Here's a warning for the mainstream - if you don't want to think about things, other people are happy to think about them for you. And i can assure you that the people who are thinking at the moment are people who represent an extremist, elitist sense of your jewish identity.
Essentially, I believe that in order to question something, one needs to be exposed to it first. My intention with certain articles on my blog is to stimulate thought with regards to community issues. While my views can seem overly antagonistic at times, i believe that this can work to jolt people towards debate and discourse, which will ultimately lead to a community that actually cares enough about itself to be open and intellectual, instead of insular and naive.
But, that leads me to the second question: What is the cost of this desire to jolt people? How does antagonising affect my personal status in and around the community?
I often find that publicly endeavouring to mess with people's life conceptions has resulted in certain people alienating themselves from me. This is understandable on certain levels - but on others, its really not. Social Chastisement doesn't scare me like it scares most other people in the SA Jewish community, but i won't deny that being an outcast is a real fear for people that speak out - and i believe that this fear of social rejection discourages people from being more outspoken.
This is a problem - young people who want to speak out should not be discouraged by social alienation, rather they should be commended by the community and their peers. There needs to a real change in the value system of the community, where people with a different opinion garner more respect than people with straightened hair and waxed chests.
Because i will never wax my chest.
Themes:
Jewish Life
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Extreme Smoking
(Blogger's Note - This is my Biographical fragment. I hope you enjoy it.)
I’m sitting on a wooden bench, outside the law building. It’s the break between the double lecture on a Wednesday afternoon. I’m having a smoke.
“When is a cigarette enjoyable?” asks Joe, the purity of his curiosity matched only by the cleanliness of his lungs. “When can you possibly enjoy smoking?”
With my yellow-stained fingertips moving the cigarette, piston-like, to and from my lips, lining the back of my teeth with the Marlboro Man’s brown mark, I contemplate a possible answer. An enjoyable cigarette – I’m not sure that it has ever happened. The wafting guilt of my habit has deprived my smokes of their pleasure.
Then, a memory:
A tow truck driver offering me a smoke from his box of Chesterfield Lights. I’m inhaling the shame of my poor driving, I’m exhaling instant absolution.
I answer, “A cigarette is enjoyable after a rush of adrenalin, or a panic situation. The last time I really enjoyed a cigarette was after I had my first car accident.”
Students start to move slowly back into the lecture hall. We follow them, taking our seats two rows from the front.
As the lecture begins, I drift back in time:
A windsurfer backflips on the legendary Hawaiian surf, cheered on by a gathering of dancing hula girls. A snowboarder jumps from a plane onto a snow-capped mountain top. Roulette tables. Shark cages. A flashback to the Peter Stuyvesant adverts that used to show at the cinema, when smoking was cool.
Determined not to linger in mere wisps, I will revisit the legacy of these daredevils that defined my initial, joyful perceptions of tar and nicotine. I will take on a new mission: I will become an extreme smoker.
The lecture finishes earlier than expected. I arrive home, my recently emptied box of cigarettes leaving me in a state of manic craving. But I can’t buy a new box because Joe is meeting me at my house. We have business to attend to.
I climb into his dark green Ford Focus. We drive to the stop street and then turn left. I see the trees of my neighbourhood, glistening with the bright green miniature leaves of late September. Newly green grass, freshly mowed, emits a vivid odour that oddly gets the attention of my tobacco-baked nasal passage. Another left and we arrive at our destination.
Our car, pulled over on the side of road, orange hazard lights blinking, awaits the arrival of our contact. Marvin appears, garbed in an unassumingly wretched grey workshirt and brown trousers. Walking briskly but coolly, he crosses the crowded intersection and approaches the vehicle.
Marvin comes up to the window, and, silently, secretly, the exchange is made. He walks away with his money, while Joe slips the stash into the side compartment by the driver’s seat.
Business done, we pull off, turning down the main road. Then, left into the Engen Garage.
A sky-blue Golf rushes in front of us. Angered by this sudden affront, Joe shouts out, but stops quickly. Blue flashing trouble swivels on the bonnet of the offending vehicle. A siren.
Two men in plain clothes step out of the nightmare-mobile and order us out of the car. We exit gingerly as they pounce. They find the weed. We’re in real trouble now – and we know it.
We leave the petrol station and they take us to an adjoining road.
“How about we let these okes go?” Says Officer Ratkin.
“Maybe we should…” replies Officer Onselink, “if they tell us what we want.”
“Who sold you the dagga?”
“Marvin.”
“That isn’t enough, my boys. We’ll chat more at the station.”
I will always resent those policeman for toying with us. For destroying the myth that we could be like all our other friends who had had run-ins with the law, and who had smooth-talked their way out of trouble. For delaying our ultimate demise. Bastards.
Joe and I are jostled into separate vehicles. I’m with Ratkin in Joe’s Car, while Joe is with Onselink in the police car. Ratkin passes me his black felt notebook, and tells me to write down everything – the story of our purchase, the phone numbers, my address, my parent’s names. I feel like this request is one of two things: an attempt to freak me out, or the most sadistic creative writing exercise ever.
After having scribbled pointlessly for about two minutes, we arrive at the station. Joe and I look at each other apologetically, acknowledging our shared culpability in this debacle. The smell of stale urine envelopes us as we are led through the concrete holding area of the police station into the interrogation room. Eventually, we are seated at a desk facing our two oppressors.
But then, something happens. Something amazing. Something magical. Extracting a box of Chesterfield filters from his shirt pocket, Ratkin points heaven in my direction.
“Do you smoke?”
There’s something extreme about the way that the front of the cigarette glows as I inhale. The burning cigarette is fast, red and destructive, as fiery strands shrink the tobacco rod between my fingers.
But it’s when I exhale that I truly appreciate it. The delapidated interrogation room; the wooden desk sheeted in arrest warrants and loose-lying weapons, obscured by the haze of grey mist creeping from my lungs. Cigarette smoke clouding everything, but the moment’s ultimate truth:
I’m having a smoke, and I’m loving every damn second.
I’m sitting on a wooden bench, outside the law building. It’s the break between the double lecture on a Wednesday afternoon. I’m having a smoke.
“When is a cigarette enjoyable?” asks Joe, the purity of his curiosity matched only by the cleanliness of his lungs. “When can you possibly enjoy smoking?”
With my yellow-stained fingertips moving the cigarette, piston-like, to and from my lips, lining the back of my teeth with the Marlboro Man’s brown mark, I contemplate a possible answer. An enjoyable cigarette – I’m not sure that it has ever happened. The wafting guilt of my habit has deprived my smokes of their pleasure.
Then, a memory:
A tow truck driver offering me a smoke from his box of Chesterfield Lights. I’m inhaling the shame of my poor driving, I’m exhaling instant absolution.
I answer, “A cigarette is enjoyable after a rush of adrenalin, or a panic situation. The last time I really enjoyed a cigarette was after I had my first car accident.”
Students start to move slowly back into the lecture hall. We follow them, taking our seats two rows from the front.
As the lecture begins, I drift back in time:
A windsurfer backflips on the legendary Hawaiian surf, cheered on by a gathering of dancing hula girls. A snowboarder jumps from a plane onto a snow-capped mountain top. Roulette tables. Shark cages. A flashback to the Peter Stuyvesant adverts that used to show at the cinema, when smoking was cool.
Determined not to linger in mere wisps, I will revisit the legacy of these daredevils that defined my initial, joyful perceptions of tar and nicotine. I will take on a new mission: I will become an extreme smoker.
The lecture finishes earlier than expected. I arrive home, my recently emptied box of cigarettes leaving me in a state of manic craving. But I can’t buy a new box because Joe is meeting me at my house. We have business to attend to.
I climb into his dark green Ford Focus. We drive to the stop street and then turn left. I see the trees of my neighbourhood, glistening with the bright green miniature leaves of late September. Newly green grass, freshly mowed, emits a vivid odour that oddly gets the attention of my tobacco-baked nasal passage. Another left and we arrive at our destination.
Our car, pulled over on the side of road, orange hazard lights blinking, awaits the arrival of our contact. Marvin appears, garbed in an unassumingly wretched grey workshirt and brown trousers. Walking briskly but coolly, he crosses the crowded intersection and approaches the vehicle.
Marvin comes up to the window, and, silently, secretly, the exchange is made. He walks away with his money, while Joe slips the stash into the side compartment by the driver’s seat.
Business done, we pull off, turning down the main road. Then, left into the Engen Garage.
A sky-blue Golf rushes in front of us. Angered by this sudden affront, Joe shouts out, but stops quickly. Blue flashing trouble swivels on the bonnet of the offending vehicle. A siren.
Two men in plain clothes step out of the nightmare-mobile and order us out of the car. We exit gingerly as they pounce. They find the weed. We’re in real trouble now – and we know it.
We leave the petrol station and they take us to an adjoining road.
“How about we let these okes go?” Says Officer Ratkin.
“Maybe we should…” replies Officer Onselink, “if they tell us what we want.”
“Who sold you the dagga?”
“Marvin.”
“That isn’t enough, my boys. We’ll chat more at the station.”
I will always resent those policeman for toying with us. For destroying the myth that we could be like all our other friends who had had run-ins with the law, and who had smooth-talked their way out of trouble. For delaying our ultimate demise. Bastards.
Joe and I are jostled into separate vehicles. I’m with Ratkin in Joe’s Car, while Joe is with Onselink in the police car. Ratkin passes me his black felt notebook, and tells me to write down everything – the story of our purchase, the phone numbers, my address, my parent’s names. I feel like this request is one of two things: an attempt to freak me out, or the most sadistic creative writing exercise ever.
After having scribbled pointlessly for about two minutes, we arrive at the station. Joe and I look at each other apologetically, acknowledging our shared culpability in this debacle. The smell of stale urine envelopes us as we are led through the concrete holding area of the police station into the interrogation room. Eventually, we are seated at a desk facing our two oppressors.
But then, something happens. Something amazing. Something magical. Extracting a box of Chesterfield filters from his shirt pocket, Ratkin points heaven in my direction.
“Do you smoke?”
There’s something extreme about the way that the front of the cigarette glows as I inhale. The burning cigarette is fast, red and destructive, as fiery strands shrink the tobacco rod between my fingers.
But it’s when I exhale that I truly appreciate it. The delapidated interrogation room; the wooden desk sheeted in arrest warrants and loose-lying weapons, obscured by the haze of grey mist creeping from my lungs. Cigarette smoke clouding everything, but the moment’s ultimate truth:
I’m having a smoke, and I’m loving every damn second.
Themes:
Fiction
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