Post by Jack of Blades on Apr 28, 2006 14:34:36 GMT -5
Director's Cut: As some of the more astute readers will notice this will differ from Jack's conventional RP style which favours themes over narrative. Because of this the graphological features will also be altered. Red Italics will be Jack's thoughts. Green will be stage-directions. As Jack won't say anything throughout this post (he thinks it), it should be noted that my normal style if utilized here would not make much sense.
Here I am, standing on some Canadian cliff-face with offshoots of rain canaling and imprinting the ruffles and jags of my face of bleach-bone hue. At this point of your life, at the age of 24, you should be off playing paintball with your office colleagues as a team-building exercise. I should be flirting with the female office supply manager at a water-cooler before taking her home and having geeky, withering sex. I should own a high-concept apartment furnished with Swedish ottomans. I should have an unused gym membership that withdraws fifty pounds from my account automatically each month. I say pounds because I shouldn't be here. I should have outgrown wrestling. I should be back in Britain, not in Philadelphia and now Canada. I should be watching a soap opera not staring at the chasm of a dirtied cliff. I could have pre-empted this lack of normalcy in my life. Ever since, I heard that story. I miss them.
The rain's starting to flood now. The lightning strikes that occasionally permeate the darkness act as a perfect allegory for my life. God must be flushing directly on me. But of course, I don't believe in God. Despite my first place of education trying to install it on Ace and I, we both delineated from such teachings in our lives. Of course, Ace was always certain of God's absence. I didn't notice the deprivation of the deity until I heard that story. Until I heard what happened Margaret Corcoran.
Jack closes his eyes to remember.
I was eating popcorn at the time. I'd just returned from Ace's house to my own abode. I switched on the television and the news flashed up. Margaret Corcoran used the trains to get home. She was of Irish-British descent, like myself who dwelled in Birmingham. Despite her crippling arthritis and varicose veins, she was standing on the train after a long-day of work. She had a seat but gave it up to an elderly lady unused to the mode of transport. It was simple for her doctor to tell her to quit her job and get surgery. The doctor that was given free holidays and golfing equipment for shelling a designer drug. The surgery itself would have been a possibility for Margaret Corcoran if it had not been for two things. Blair's devices and ideas for the National Health Service meant that Margaret Corcoran would have to pay out money. Money that was needed for Jamie's braces and the turn-off notice from the electric company that was getting ever closer. Secondly, Margaret Corcoran could not give up enough time waitressing and thus not being paid to stabilize her health. She felt and stroked the metal square within her purse as she left the train. Noticing a wooden bench at the station, she decided to sit and rest before continuing on. The luxury of comfort was one that rarely made itself present to her these days but she would gladly take it if the opportunity ever arose. Almost nobody tips anymore. But an uptown drunkard, who found the choice of his wife or mistress a difficult one, had left ten pounds sterling on the table. The bills and leg pain and threats tell her it should have been spent on something secure. But young Robert's art teacher says he was talented. As she lowers her rump to the seat, she pictured the able and confident hands of little Robert constructing his quasi-masterpiece. This image provides a greater comfort than any surgery or six-figure sum could and she moves off the bench, back to her flat. But her purse strap bites into her shoulder as two miscreant denizens, products of poverty and half-baked upbringings, take their fancy of it. And Margaret Corcoran who had not pleaded when Mr. Szatchwoks hammered an eviction notice into her last home or when RICP repossessed her car, begs like a wino for a ten-pound paint set. She feels her legs give way as she topples over the edge and onto the rails. I like to think that her last thought was one of Robert's hands and his proud opus but it was more probably the realisation that she should have had surgery. It could even be that the lights of the train pierced not only her eyes but her rationality as well. The news reports that 'a simple robbery turned into a gruesome murder at train station' and I switch the television set off.
That was the moment I realised that God was dead. God should have caught Margaret Corcoran in his celestial arms and brought her away from the tracks. God should have miraculously cured Margaret Corcoran's withered legs. At the very least, God should brought Robert his paint set.
And there are those that apply fate in some sort of mystic reasoning. I will admit I am a determinist, but I acknowledge it's mundanity rather than believe it has a karmic cryptacy inherent within life's great connections. Was it Margaret Corcoran's fate to have her head seperated from her torso by an oncoming choo-choo? Was it Robert's fate that he would not become the next Turner or Gedge and just another orphan? Was it fate that Margaret Corcoran's possessions would be given to the bank by default? Was it what Margaret Corcoran believed? Or did she believe her fate was returning home and eagerly presenting Robert with his tools as he proceeds to craft her a thank-you from his new gift?
Anybody who states that God exists deserves committal to an asylum, not I. Anybody who states that fate is soft and we are capable to both co-exist and rebel against it should be eliminated. Anybody that supports both God and fate are present need to be addressed by someone who has realised the intrinsic difficulties with such fallicies and laughed at them.
Jack puts his hands into the pocket of his drenched trenchcoat and fishes out a metallic square. It's contents have mixed with the falling rain dying small droplets of the storm into marvelous colours as they stain the rock surface. Jack looks at the metallic box at a second before throwing it over into the void.
Margaret Corcoran should be alive. Her body should not have had to be sewn back together. This is a fitting tribute to her. She was a victim of the emptyness of existence. She fell down into the void and was met with an oncoming train. This could be considered a sign of compassion but in a world this stale and incoherent, compassion doesn't exist. Fate dictates compassion anyway and can that truly be loving? I respected Margaret Corcoran. If only she had been elevated by the ruminations of madness rather than the pursuits of the innocent.
Jack turns around swiftly. This motion combined with the wind causes his trenchcoat to sail and depend itself on the wind. He walks away from the chasm with his wet hair draping over his face hiding the possibility that this time he may not be smiling.
Here I am, standing on some Canadian cliff-face with offshoots of rain canaling and imprinting the ruffles and jags of my face of bleach-bone hue. At this point of your life, at the age of 24, you should be off playing paintball with your office colleagues as a team-building exercise. I should be flirting with the female office supply manager at a water-cooler before taking her home and having geeky, withering sex. I should own a high-concept apartment furnished with Swedish ottomans. I should have an unused gym membership that withdraws fifty pounds from my account automatically each month. I say pounds because I shouldn't be here. I should have outgrown wrestling. I should be back in Britain, not in Philadelphia and now Canada. I should be watching a soap opera not staring at the chasm of a dirtied cliff. I could have pre-empted this lack of normalcy in my life. Ever since, I heard that story. I miss them.
The rain's starting to flood now. The lightning strikes that occasionally permeate the darkness act as a perfect allegory for my life. God must be flushing directly on me. But of course, I don't believe in God. Despite my first place of education trying to install it on Ace and I, we both delineated from such teachings in our lives. Of course, Ace was always certain of God's absence. I didn't notice the deprivation of the deity until I heard that story. Until I heard what happened Margaret Corcoran.
Jack closes his eyes to remember.
I was eating popcorn at the time. I'd just returned from Ace's house to my own abode. I switched on the television and the news flashed up. Margaret Corcoran used the trains to get home. She was of Irish-British descent, like myself who dwelled in Birmingham. Despite her crippling arthritis and varicose veins, she was standing on the train after a long-day of work. She had a seat but gave it up to an elderly lady unused to the mode of transport. It was simple for her doctor to tell her to quit her job and get surgery. The doctor that was given free holidays and golfing equipment for shelling a designer drug. The surgery itself would have been a possibility for Margaret Corcoran if it had not been for two things. Blair's devices and ideas for the National Health Service meant that Margaret Corcoran would have to pay out money. Money that was needed for Jamie's braces and the turn-off notice from the electric company that was getting ever closer. Secondly, Margaret Corcoran could not give up enough time waitressing and thus not being paid to stabilize her health. She felt and stroked the metal square within her purse as she left the train. Noticing a wooden bench at the station, she decided to sit and rest before continuing on. The luxury of comfort was one that rarely made itself present to her these days but she would gladly take it if the opportunity ever arose. Almost nobody tips anymore. But an uptown drunkard, who found the choice of his wife or mistress a difficult one, had left ten pounds sterling on the table. The bills and leg pain and threats tell her it should have been spent on something secure. But young Robert's art teacher says he was talented. As she lowers her rump to the seat, she pictured the able and confident hands of little Robert constructing his quasi-masterpiece. This image provides a greater comfort than any surgery or six-figure sum could and she moves off the bench, back to her flat. But her purse strap bites into her shoulder as two miscreant denizens, products of poverty and half-baked upbringings, take their fancy of it. And Margaret Corcoran who had not pleaded when Mr. Szatchwoks hammered an eviction notice into her last home or when RICP repossessed her car, begs like a wino for a ten-pound paint set. She feels her legs give way as she topples over the edge and onto the rails. I like to think that her last thought was one of Robert's hands and his proud opus but it was more probably the realisation that she should have had surgery. It could even be that the lights of the train pierced not only her eyes but her rationality as well. The news reports that 'a simple robbery turned into a gruesome murder at train station' and I switch the television set off.
That was the moment I realised that God was dead. God should have caught Margaret Corcoran in his celestial arms and brought her away from the tracks. God should have miraculously cured Margaret Corcoran's withered legs. At the very least, God should brought Robert his paint set.
And there are those that apply fate in some sort of mystic reasoning. I will admit I am a determinist, but I acknowledge it's mundanity rather than believe it has a karmic cryptacy inherent within life's great connections. Was it Margaret Corcoran's fate to have her head seperated from her torso by an oncoming choo-choo? Was it Robert's fate that he would not become the next Turner or Gedge and just another orphan? Was it fate that Margaret Corcoran's possessions would be given to the bank by default? Was it what Margaret Corcoran believed? Or did she believe her fate was returning home and eagerly presenting Robert with his tools as he proceeds to craft her a thank-you from his new gift?
Anybody who states that God exists deserves committal to an asylum, not I. Anybody who states that fate is soft and we are capable to both co-exist and rebel against it should be eliminated. Anybody that supports both God and fate are present need to be addressed by someone who has realised the intrinsic difficulties with such fallicies and laughed at them.
Jack puts his hands into the pocket of his drenched trenchcoat and fishes out a metallic square. It's contents have mixed with the falling rain dying small droplets of the storm into marvelous colours as they stain the rock surface. Jack looks at the metallic box at a second before throwing it over into the void.
Margaret Corcoran should be alive. Her body should not have had to be sewn back together. This is a fitting tribute to her. She was a victim of the emptyness of existence. She fell down into the void and was met with an oncoming train. This could be considered a sign of compassion but in a world this stale and incoherent, compassion doesn't exist. Fate dictates compassion anyway and can that truly be loving? I respected Margaret Corcoran. If only she had been elevated by the ruminations of madness rather than the pursuits of the innocent.
Jack turns around swiftly. This motion combined with the wind causes his trenchcoat to sail and depend itself on the wind. He walks away from the chasm with his wet hair draping over his face hiding the possibility that this time he may not be smiling.
