Categories
Short Story

Clutter

The only blockage was his own lazy self. “Completely useless” – his own admission. No one to defend his actions and he could only get frustrated and drunk every time he attempted. Writers block he blamed it on. Something he had heard the professionals – you know the ones that always make the most money – would say when they come back from the brink of extinction only to slam in another brilliant book for the masses who use them for references to real life situations. “Sign posts for the pathetic…” he quipped once in a story. He wasn’t one of these famous authors – he was a casual dip-in-and-outta type dude. A guy who was nothing but a faceless youth pretending to be more and every encroaching year towards his twenty-fifth birthday seemed like a death toll. He was now forty-nine; the bell rang numerous times, and here he was, awaiting the moment when the hands would clap together to bring in the new year of another fruitless time spending on the keyboard of drudgery. He hated life. It was useless on him. He would say that the only real use he had was to win the lottery and to spend it all on stuff. “Keep the economy going on me alone”. And knowingly, it will all be gone. It had been this way before. His estate. Gone. Not a penny, cent or Krona of it left. Dead and buried was what he was looking forward to. “Cremated perhaps, or better still, just left on the side of the road for the animals to have a meal”. Always looking forward to that. Buried maybe, maybe even cremated, but nevertheless he was awaiting death. And each day clicked and clocked him onwards to that goal. The most easiest of goals to reach and to obtain. Little effort. In fact, none. He was living on the knife edge of being turfed out and sort to gain a humble little abode for himself, renting somewhere out of the city that he loathed. The city that gave noting back when he went looking back at the age of twenty. He pretended he had everything to gain from his experience in high school that told him he would write and be famous and succeed. Everyone thought so, or so he thought. They thought nothing of the sort. Nothing at all. It didn’t matter to them who was successful, just them themselves. Everyone mistook that. It was hidden then and there that no one even had an incline what he would do but some of his friends knew what they were going to do, and they had been succeeding in such enterprises since. He had been selfish collecting all of the estate he was given when his father died. Perhaps that was a misfortune rather than the fortune he had. He spent it on worthless things, and holidays and endless weeks of not doing anything until it was all gone – the house was first, followed closely by the entrails of the former father’s money that seemed more than he ever would’ve thought he would have in a bank account – and it was the last he ever saw such an amount. He outlived his money by decades. All the while he was breathing heavily from the pit of his guts in fragility and fear. He made no further attempts at the things he thought would be beneficial to his enduring life. And here he was, looking down the barrel of fifty and seeing nothing ahead but shared flats and no money. He earns money for the debts he accumulated and still does; the stock he bought to fill his cupboards, drawers and rooms. He travelled with a big van load, always unable to pay for a proper removing company, and straining his back in every move, he always dumped the things into the new room he was letting. And every time he cleaned up and sorted it out and felt good about his new surroundings, it was the clutter that he didn’t see. He looked for jobs in areas that he thought would be good to work in, but the descriptions of the jobs posted online were demoralising. And he couldn’t write a CV. Not only did he not know this particular program, or that kind of discipline, he felt sure most of the jobs were fudged and fraudulent. He pretended he could do any number one of them but he was never convincing enough. He was never enthralled enough, nor disciplined; that was the honest truth – but who looks at that within? What he thought of himself came from the spit of his spirited being that others knew instantly in situations. He managed to get a job that looked good enough, but the fact that he had to “face clients” churned in him like spoilt milk. He felt his presence in a corporate glass house was corrupting his own real source and direction – but he had no direction. He fought his own battles in his own way to enhance his own image; a troubled person to deal with, and the blame. The workforce was a thankless task enshrined within glass and concrete walls.

And at home… Cool and collected at times, he felt never at home. Never at home anywhere. Movement inhibited that. It was the home he sold that was the home he wanted in the first place, but for him back then it was getting out and looking around and seeing what’s there… and what’s there… and what’s over there that drove him further and further away from home. And looking online at Google street view as he started to do when he could not be home and when he felt homesick, rallied his chagrin. The garden was gone. Made way for other people’s house and things and pools and stuff. He was no longer welcomed for the very fact that it was not his home, and never will be again. He felt empty every time he visited – online. He eventually stopped going back but not in his head. He knew virtually nothing of himself and the way he was seen by others. He made the right moves and pulled the right faces, but he had never admitted his snobbiness, nor embrace his dislike of some of the people he called friends or even the shortsightedness of his own intelligence. He was beyond his own personal belief at times, that he was unrecognisable to himself. “I hate people”. And yet his mouth made him feel invincible – with out trying he would be the writer he wanted to be, or the actor everyone wanted to project themselves onto, or the singer the people would sing his songs at funerals, even the happier ones. He loved the essence of melancholia. It made him feel different. The house he had gave him the hideaway places for this melancholia to grow unfettered. His imagination joined him in loving relationships with pop stars and intellects. He groomed himself into believing his advance feeling of knowing more than one art was down to his appraisal of a good guy who was better than those he often saw on TV. He had his favourites and he imitated their style, with no substance. He discovered reading literature that provoked and prodded his way of looking at his sedentary life in big house small town. He out grew it from the depths of his mind, and the writing took off during math classes and biology where he would only scribble as much as he could in stories for his friends to read and see their names in his fantasy novella. His art was praised, and pornographic scenes went into parts. This was an extension from his previous life as a boarding school child for the one year at high school that he attended. He was brutally sad there. Tormented by older boys, a name given to him for a defect in his facial looks according to them all. And he had to fight to survive often, and his prose of of porn worked well. Copies were being sought after by older boy whose masturbatory needs were at the best met with magazines from local shops from their own home towns. In fact that is where he got the idea to write filth marketing. Stories in these magazines were dirty, extreme and very seductive. the fertile minds of many boys ventured into every woman’s bedroom via these pages. The young kitchen lady was his imaginative fantasy. “What is going on with me?” He discovered this in a dorm one night. It was rude, awakening, very dark and secretive. Sticky in the end. The others knew themselves this stickiness as they were holed up in their own deliberate personal tryst with imagination. Imagination was the key to success, and he produced articles related to the saucy details described in magazines that were scattered in hedgerows and strange tunnels. He made the reading palpable for his audience; his entire class. They would waiting impatiently for the next article to be written and then distributed throughout their nightly homework schedule in the classroom. They held out for the detailed inscription of the sexual perverse act they all wanted to perform, and his own highlights were theirs collectively. How can one person’s dreaming be other’s as well? Odd enough, but when he was in it, he was in charge of their thoughts. He made them think of his dirtiness and lust. He had them think of his women and their bits. He had them concentrate on his penis as he had performed the acts so explicitly with it. They witnessed as a gang wanking over him and the kitchen porter. They performed through him he thought as he was the most verily with his versions. They just could not get enough after having read everything else. It was basic. It was stupid. It was innocence being ignited to scorch the ground and for the growth of experience to happen. It happened all that long ago. He left there in a hurry as he was hurt physically as well as emotionally. He had enough of them spunking over his dreams and destroying his innocence. He wanted nothing more to do with them and their depravity, and he came home for the first time being away for a long time. He was relieved. He started back at his old school with friends no longer being friends. He had to start again with the same ingredients but a failed experiment. His story changed, more involving and slightly sexual. He was after all still virginal and had never known anything of other’s flesh. He had felt his own every night since the discovery of what his penis could do. This time the story was a novel, a length of literature that involved his fiends and his life in colour and love. He included love for the effect to cover up his affection for lust. His idol was years and deserts away. She kept herself there and thankfully never came an inch close to him. He felt no distance though as he honed his skills in on love, lust, loyalty and eventually laziness. He stocked up on books he never read, and the same record he kept listening to. He made his bedroom a shrine to his teenagedom. He became something more profoundly shallow, and dug in his spade to discover fools gold. He kept going back to the bank of intelligence, but never could understand that he was not having a penny of their currency until he actually worked for it. He became hidden from himself and endured the sex drive in all activity but actual sex. Posters filled the spaces on the wall, to hide the cracks of failures he was enduring, but prompted up hope by the hip young stars of the day. He had them with him in fantasy and health. He kept looking out and never in, and he hoarded every bit of garbage that was insignificant and useless. It was his life. And when he left for the last time, he took as much as he could with him, easily filling up the small bedrooms he was to occupy, cramming out relationships that could not aspire to his idol. He came from everything and took everything with him. He made it pile high when the draught of disillusionment snuck in the cracks. He made it his job to be occupied in less interesting data. He made things of barely any effort, and they got trashed eventually. He had everything, and nothing was the everything he had. “What’s going on with me?” He had little understanding. He thought he knew, and he ploughed on regardless and hopelessly, determined to quantify the next basic outcome. It came ahead though when he struggled to finally keep the things he had acquired. He was leaving droppings of things all the way, from place to place, from lover to lose. He had shed some and kept a vast amount left. He saw nothing coming for him and kept what there was that he had. He made excuse after excuse after lying enough. He was caught, grabbed by himself. He lost people he cared for, and ignored the ones who wanted him to understand they were there, but not as objects or keep-sakes. He kept them out. He piled it even higher. He made the pile and it stuck.

He’s back at work, forgetting what just happened in his life.