Memories are born in the world.
Through action, attraction and interaction. With friends and loved ones, with strangers, those you hate and those who hate.
They live in the heart.
They are things you cherish and love. Things you fear. Memories that you desperately cling to and memories that you can’t shed or shake, that make you shiver, cringe and cry. They live in your heart so you may visit them on a whim or so they can visit you.
They die in your head.
You kill them. With laziness or neglect they wither and die. You can drown them in liquor or starve them of air.
Memories don’t simply disappear.
They don’t go quietly. They kick and they punch, they rant and rage. They bang about your skull. They scream.
Headaches are a memory dying.
The small memories die in an instant, a flash of pain behind your eyes, the death of a moment, a glance or a touch. Sunday morning headaches after drinking are the screams of memories that never got to live. All day headaches are the memories of people you have now forgotten. And migraines, pity the poor souls cursed with migraines, they are forgetting themselves.
Instalment Forty Two
The Meaning of Life
There was a man, or so I had heard, who having learnt the meaning of life started crying and had never stopped. To this day he cried, his tears bringing rain into the world.
Finding him was my quest.
Across wide, wide rivers and tall, tall mountains I trekked to find him sobbing atop a peak in the clouds.
“I once stood as you do now and I was told ‘You may only ask three questions,” he wept.
“What is the meaning of life?”
“To remain, preserve, continue, to live,” he snivelled. “But you ask the wrong question.”
“What is the result of living?”
“Death. One last question, please,” he begged, “Don’t be hasty with it.”
“What did you ask?”
“What is the purpose of living.”
“What is the purpose of living?”
“No more questions. Anyway I was wrong. Like you I asked the wrong questions. I searched for a man who knew the meaning of life and through his tears he told me this: People will come, to ask, to demand, to threaten but the one thing they will never do is ask why you are crying. And that is the answer to your question.”
I started to cry.
There was a man, or so I had heard, who having learnt the meaning of life started crying and had never stopped. To this day he cried, his tears bringing rain into the world.
Finding him was my quest.
Across wide, wide rivers and tall, tall mountains I trekked to find him sobbing atop a peak in the clouds.
“I once stood as you do now and I was told ‘You may only ask three questions,” he wept.
“What is the meaning of life?”
“To remain, preserve, continue, to live,” he snivelled. “But you ask the wrong question.”
“What is the result of living?”
“Death. One last question, please,” he begged, “Don’t be hasty with it.”
“What did you ask?”
“What is the purpose of living.”
“What is the purpose of living?”
“No more questions. Anyway I was wrong. Like you I asked the wrong questions. I searched for a man who knew the meaning of life and through his tears he told me this: People will come, to ask, to demand, to threaten but the one thing they will never do is ask why you are crying. And that is the answer to your question.”
I started to cry.
Instalment Forty One
When you hear single women complain, they all say the same thing don’t they? Don’t they? They say ‘All the good men are taken.’ All the good ones are taken they say. I’ll let you in on a little secret, there were never any ‘good men,’ it’s just some women were smart enough to start house training a man early. The man at the front knows what I’m saying. Amiright sir? And your wife is agreeing!
You know a man is in love when we wants to spend time with a woman after he’s had sex with her and a woman’s in love with that same man because she wanted to spend time with him before they had sex. These two here get it, she’s elbowing him saying ‘That’s you that is.’
So, ladies! Sexism. Life insurance commercials, have you seen these? You’ll know the glass ceiling’s been well and truly broken through when you see a life insurance commercial where a man is worrying about his wife dying and what he will do for money! Ha! Not in my lifetime.
Failed stand-up comedian Inapt’s opening remarks as MC for ‘Shady Acres Couples Retreat: Learning to love each other again.’
You know a man is in love when we wants to spend time with a woman after he’s had sex with her and a woman’s in love with that same man because she wanted to spend time with him before they had sex. These two here get it, she’s elbowing him saying ‘That’s you that is.’
So, ladies! Sexism. Life insurance commercials, have you seen these? You’ll know the glass ceiling’s been well and truly broken through when you see a life insurance commercial where a man is worrying about his wife dying and what he will do for money! Ha! Not in my lifetime.
Failed stand-up comedian Inapt’s opening remarks as MC for ‘Shady Acres Couples Retreat: Learning to love each other again.’
Instalment Forty
The place where words are born found new life. Work orders were coming in by the day and being filled by the hour, such was the skilled turnover. New meanings for new words. The music department had sent music-memory and reconjoyment out for a song, the irrational fear boys had not shied away from handshaken, the lit branch stretched their collective imagination for exlimination and some of the young’uns in angst cobbled together populoss.
A busy, happy time, like the old days. Each new word was greeted by a huge cheer and much rejoicing. Backs slapped, new words tried out, played with and embraced, ready to be used making newer words.
Until one day when a job could not be finished, words could not be found. The Everyday Word Corps came up short.
The day after tomorrow. The day before yesterday. So simple, so useful, so hard. Pens scratched paper, fingers scratched foreheads, heads shook in dismay.
“What about Tomorrowmorrow and Yestesterday?”
“Sounds like testicle.”
“Yestermorrow and Tomorroday?”
“Yestermorrow would mean today. Next.”
“Postmorrow? Antiyester?”
“Yes, good, close, so close!”
All at once, each knotted brow unfurrowed
“Moremorrow and Lessyester!” they exclaimed.
And so they drunk till it was moremorrow.
Words new to the world.
Music-memory – The automatic recognition and anticipation of what the next song on an album will be that only occurs when you hear the final four bars of the current song. Like muscle-memory.
Reconjoyment – Only able to enjoy a song once you are familiar with it, especially important when attending concerts.
Handshaken – The fear that as you reach for a door handle on an inwards opening door, someone on the other side will suddenly, and quite violently open it, crushing your outstretched fingers.
Exlimination – When existing imagination/mental images are destroyed by real-life and you are unable to even remember what you originally pictured. Often occurring to fictional characters from books turned into films or when you see a press shot of a radio announcer that looks nothing like the picture you had in your head of how the head belonging to that voice should look.
Populoss – The disappointment and loss of ownership you feel when something you love becomes popular. Because now choosing what you love and identify with also results in the realisation of who you are identifying with, and sometimes it is easier to set free the thing you love than consciously throw your hat in with a group of people you actively dislike.
Moremorrow – the day after tomorrow.
Lessyester – the day before yesterday.
A busy, happy time, like the old days. Each new word was greeted by a huge cheer and much rejoicing. Backs slapped, new words tried out, played with and embraced, ready to be used making newer words.
Until one day when a job could not be finished, words could not be found. The Everyday Word Corps came up short.
The day after tomorrow. The day before yesterday. So simple, so useful, so hard. Pens scratched paper, fingers scratched foreheads, heads shook in dismay.
“What about Tomorrowmorrow and Yestesterday?”
“Sounds like testicle.”
“Yestermorrow and Tomorroday?”
“Yestermorrow would mean today. Next.”
“Postmorrow? Antiyester?”
“Yes, good, close, so close!”
All at once, each knotted brow unfurrowed
“Moremorrow and Lessyester!” they exclaimed.
And so they drunk till it was moremorrow.
Words new to the world.
Music-memory – The automatic recognition and anticipation of what the next song on an album will be that only occurs when you hear the final four bars of the current song. Like muscle-memory.
Reconjoyment – Only able to enjoy a song once you are familiar with it, especially important when attending concerts.
Handshaken – The fear that as you reach for a door handle on an inwards opening door, someone on the other side will suddenly, and quite violently open it, crushing your outstretched fingers.
Exlimination – When existing imagination/mental images are destroyed by real-life and you are unable to even remember what you originally pictured. Often occurring to fictional characters from books turned into films or when you see a press shot of a radio announcer that looks nothing like the picture you had in your head of how the head belonging to that voice should look.
Populoss – The disappointment and loss of ownership you feel when something you love becomes popular. Because now choosing what you love and identify with also results in the realisation of who you are identifying with, and sometimes it is easier to set free the thing you love than consciously throw your hat in with a group of people you actively dislike.
Moremorrow – the day after tomorrow.
Lessyester – the day before yesterday.
Instalment Thirty Nine
This dinner was interminable, Jeff thought. A great couple, Mick and Sal, but why did they’d talk him into this stupid date idea. You don’t meet people like this, this isn’t social, you’re meant to be out, about, a walk, party, a bar, a park. That’s social, normal, walk right up and introduce yourself. Not this pussy-footed process, awkward enquiries and weeks of furtive phonecalls. Call it as you see it, say what you want. Why did they think he’d like this girl? Something here didn’t smell right. They’re all looking towards him, what’s wrong, he’d better listen.
“Jeff, I was just saying Missy here is a Cat Person,” Sal repeats.
The hair on Jeff’s neck stood straight up.
“You didn’t tell me that,” blurts Mick, “Jeff’s a Dog Person.”
Missy contorts as if an electrical current’s shot through her chair, twisting away from the table.
Jeff stands bolt upright. “Cat,” he barks, “You set me up with a Cat Person!”
Later, retelling the story of how they meet, Jeff’s years of chasing Missy before she stopped running and he caught her heart, they would always leave out the dinning table being thrown across the restaurant and Jeff’s subsequent arrest.
“Jeff, I was just saying Missy here is a Cat Person,” Sal repeats.
The hair on Jeff’s neck stood straight up.
“You didn’t tell me that,” blurts Mick, “Jeff’s a Dog Person.”
Missy contorts as if an electrical current’s shot through her chair, twisting away from the table.
Jeff stands bolt upright. “Cat,” he barks, “You set me up with a Cat Person!”
Later, retelling the story of how they meet, Jeff’s years of chasing Missy before she stopped running and he caught her heart, they would always leave out the dinning table being thrown across the restaurant and Jeff’s subsequent arrest.
Instalment Thirty Eight
BEEP. BEEP. BEEEEEEEEEP.
He presses his palms to his eyes, rubbing hard then dragging his hands down his face, stretching the skin and exposing the underside of his eyeballs. God he was tired, could he get through another day? Why was he in this situation? He didn’t remember making the deal in the first place, a terrible deal, it amounted to indentured servitude. Why would he ever make such a deal? Tiredness made it hard to think, clouding his mind. Maybe his parents had signed him up? He recalled them labouring away through his childhood, with just a bit more sleep he could think clearly. Digging his elbows into the bed behind him, he pushed himself upright and swiped at the alarm, silencing its infernal whining. Who would agree to sell five of every seven days of their life? It made no sense but here he was again getting out of bed to do just that. It would be easier for all if they could just remove these days of life he was squandering and implant them directly into the rich, extending their lives while shortening his, it amounted to the same thing. Work sighed and got out of bed.
He presses his palms to his eyes, rubbing hard then dragging his hands down his face, stretching the skin and exposing the underside of his eyeballs. God he was tired, could he get through another day? Why was he in this situation? He didn’t remember making the deal in the first place, a terrible deal, it amounted to indentured servitude. Why would he ever make such a deal? Tiredness made it hard to think, clouding his mind. Maybe his parents had signed him up? He recalled them labouring away through his childhood, with just a bit more sleep he could think clearly. Digging his elbows into the bed behind him, he pushed himself upright and swiped at the alarm, silencing its infernal whining. Who would agree to sell five of every seven days of their life? It made no sense but here he was again getting out of bed to do just that. It would be easier for all if they could just remove these days of life he was squandering and implant them directly into the rich, extending their lives while shortening his, it amounted to the same thing. Work sighed and got out of bed.
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