A RANDOM STORY WITH A GRAMMAR CHECK
By Darcy Prince
It’s a long leep between knowing wisdom & the wise life.
I look at the mirror. “I have emotional needs and wants. Though my soul collapses in the confrontation of feeling fear.” I breathe and sigh. Lighting a cigarette than wiping a smudge of the mirror. “Why can’t write this **** on paper.”
The bathroom door opens and the music from the house blasts into the bathroom. It distracts me than I snap out my gaze. A random guy I haven’t meet had seem to get luck with Annais. She giggles, crunching her body up. Giggling loudly as the guys smoochies her. Making their way into one of the toilets. I must admit, I do laugh, internally wished them luck and exited the bathroom.
The dance music is loud. As most of the party invites are standing off to the wall. Either alone or holding one on one conversation. I puffed and made my way past people dancing, on the floor passed out or just standing there.
Outside, where the sound of the music is slightly quieter. I put out my smoke and walked to the side, the part of the fence that seems to be less occupied by people. It's a shame that my flaws are embedded into my being. I looked at my phone, flicked over my messages, she’s online, not talking to me, my heart sunk and grew a little more anxious. I lit another smoke and do my best to forget her. But I did only come here on account of her.
“Howard.” A voice behind me spoke. Clearly grabbing my attention. ‘****, it’s Bill’. Walking towards me, with his stomach hanging over his belt buckle. His baseball cap covering his bald head at night, and a half drunk beer in his hand. “I want to know why you quit being a literary critic and be an actual writer.”
I laughed. “There’s less money in it.” I answered.
Bill chuckles. Placing his hand on my shoulder. “ I love your work. I tell everyone that I know you.” Giving me a play slap on my chest. ‘The ladies seem to love your work.”
I now want to leave the party completely. “I know. I get fan mail.”
Standing about a foot away from me. “Despite my endless amounts of questions and your personal philosophy. I want to know if you are willing to read some of my Satanic poetry.”
I took his beer out of his hand. Sipping it empty. “It’s payment.” I Finished my smoke. Flicked on the garden bed, “You’re a Satanist now?”
Bobbing his head up down. “Yep. I read the Satanic Bible and decided it so.”
I plant my open palm on his shoulder. “Good-luck.” I walked away. “Thanks for the beer Bill.”
I decide to leave at impulse. It’s freedom on drugs. Abundant with choice. Ability to create. Definite modern God. Who is the Muse to all philosophers?
Out on the road where all the cars are parked. I look around. Gave one look to the house and said **** it under my breathe. I walked home. I conjure up words that I’ve always to say to her. Knowing full well I should be writing them down for the next time I see her and that at one random moment I will forget. But to what Bill asked me. Alone I diver into self-publishing. Funny enough, I made some sort of success. Im free again. And my thoughts drifted into the strange thing of fame in contemporary art. Classical terms. Fame as a by-product of hardwork and talent. Like Clapton or Dante.
Glorious endeavour with high rewards. Movements of my will. A desire with a proper end. Languishing such things now. I am nothing without art. Surprise to see Bill turn to something as such of Satanism.
I got home and fell asleep.
I woke up. Had a morning coffee and cigarette.
I read the daily paper.
A few chapters of my current book that I’m reading.
Another smoke and coffee.
I begun to write with the radio playing in the background.
The street noises aren’t distraction. It is the capitols music. Just without harmony.
I write.
Stopping in the middle of the dat for lunch.
I watched ****.
I wanted to sleep. But one thing more important than the success of one's art. The effort the artists puts to create art. I forlorn my vice and continued to write, this is one model of freedom.
We’re at liberty when we can create who we are. A noble calling, shaping the clay of my existence. I choose the ideals to embrace.
At the end of my writing day. I decided to open my lounge room window. Hanging out on the window still, smoking and reading a book by Camus. A couple below caught my attention. I giggled. It’s her. With another man and I instantly lose faith in romance. Like Bill, I too have read the Satanic Bible. I took the ideals of her Muse and applied it to myself. I have no vendetta against God. Only humanity.
I flicked my smoke down to the street. Closed my window. And went to bed for the night.
In vain I always seem to rise to a higher self. Funny. I never give credit to the pain I feel. Serene. Untroubled by the undying yearnings to blast humanity of not of their sins. But only their ignorance.
I awoke. Like most of my mornings. I start the day with smoking too much and spending a couple of hours of reading. Seemingly dull and mundane, but it does wonders for my eternal being. I am a sinful prince.
I finished my novel and decided to place it on the pile of planned unpublished manuscripts for life after my death. Like many Satanic based writers before me. I decided to write on similar themes. Late modern society is principally concerned with purchasing things, in ever greater abundance and variety, and so has to strive to fabricate an ever greater number of desires to gratify, and to abolish as many limits and prohibitions upon desire as it can. Such a society is already implicitly atheist and so must slowly but relentlessly apply itself to the dissolution of transcendent values. It cannot allow ultimate goods to distract us from proximate goods. Our sacred writ is advertising, our piety is shopping, our highest devotion is private choice. God and the soul too often hinder the purely acquisitive longings upon which the market depends, and confront us with values that stand in stark rivalry to the only truly substantial value at the center of the social universe: the price tag.
Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience.
I had forgotten about her. At random she never did find the guy she ever wanted and I ended up being namecheck in her suicide note. Stating I was the only true, complex, beautiful soul that could match hers and how the regretted turning me away. Bill did the same. But only because I ignored him that one time at the party. In the publication of my Satanic novel, the Pope condemned to Hell. I sent him a letter that I wanted to do a confession with him. I have not yet heard of a reply. Catholics still protest.
