The Man

The Man shuddered and sat up. What time was it? Was it still morning? He went outside and looked at the sky.

He rolled his heavy head around to survey, then went back inside.

The man lived in the basement of an apartment building. It wasn’t the nicest one in Chernobyl because the authorities were more likely to patrol those than this plain, slightly depressing one (in comparison to other Chernobyl apartment buildings - of course, they were all extremely depressing by our standards).

The man had swept up the glass…

I knew this was going to happen: I’m not so sad anymore so I couldn’t write last night. I tried, as you can see, but I became sooooooo slleeeeepppyyyyy.

I actually have a surplus of words that I wrote the first or second night of starting this novel. Technically, I can skip a night. I’ve got an extra page tucked away, but I really, really, really love to feeling of being on top of things. I’d actually prefer to have two to five pages saved up.

All right, so I’ve got:

1. A theme: My Identity as a Depressed, Lonely, Lost and Confused Woman.
2. A rule: Fiction, and
3. Three characters: the Toad, the Man and the Alien.

I guess I have a location, also: Chernobyl.

The Alien

The Alien was lonely. Her work took her to areas of the galaxy far from her home on Thula. She hadn’t in fact, seen her brothers and sister in years. She longed to go home, to feel the comfort of being understood and accepted; loved, even, without having to work for it. She missed seeing the familiar faces – her sister who people often mistook for her, and her gorgeous brothers. The girls in high school loved her brothers: she didn’t quite get it, but they really, really, really loved all of her brothers. Her sister was popular too, in that bad girl way, but she was not. She was an “awk” (slang for “awkward”).

All right. That was a decent start to my story, wasn’t it? Chernobyll is a good setting and the man is an interesting character. The alien, she’s not so well “fleshed” out, haha: ghostly, moving into the man’s body and directing him around when he’s not capable of it. She’s like a Catholic wife. Or a Muslim wife, if the caricature I saw on Saturday Night Live has any validity.

I always assume that men do not have the emotional need for a female, the way women feel a need for a man. Actually, part of a woman’s need for a man is just needing the stronger being, socially and financially. Men glom together. Sometimes I get the impression that they’d all prefer to be gay to straight, but don’t go there because it would upset some sort of balance among their buddies - that they are all afraid it would freak out their buddies, and that their buddies would then stop being friends with them, so they don’t make the gay overtures and instead find nice, docile, nice-to-look-at women to keep house and fuck.

Alright then:

My Identity as a Depressed, Lonely, Lost and Confused Woman.

I’ve chosen a rule: I’m going to write fiction. There is much more freedom there: I can make up physics, biology and ethics rules. I can make up belief systems.

So I will create an outline. I’ll create the characters: write outlines of their personalities and motivations.

Then I’ll fill in these personality and motivation descriptions with actions, history and background. Each character will become a compassionate person for the reader, even though the reader will desperately, desperately want to side with one or another of the characters. I will never allow it. My story will be agony to read because you will want to hate someone, but you won’t be able to.

Character 1: a toad. A toad in Chernoybll. The toad is the 2nd or 3rd generation of toad after the nuclear power plant exploded.

Ok. So this writing about hating has been good for me. This writing about depression. (OMG, I just heard a bang right above me: the actors are moving into the previously empty room right above my bedroom – I’m sure of it. What am I going to do? I feel so invaded. Is it possible that I may make enough money to buy my own freestanding home? One where I don’t have to worry about loud actors who recognize me for the worm I am and treat me as such?)

Ok. So I’m going to try and go with it – writing even when I may not be sooo depressed, in the hopes that it will end the confusion and lostness I feel. The despair. The ennui, the malaise.

Ah, bittersweet music: reggae, dub reggae. I am lonely. I lie in bed at night listening to my heartbeat. I try to meditate. I try to focus on my breathing.

I try not to be excited that I’m getting up at 6 am to go to a yoga class. I try not to let this keep me up.

But nothing can stop the constant buzzing in my head. The buzzing in my head that is meant to fill my cold, hard little heart. The buzzing that is meant to keep my heart hard and safe: a hard heart cannot be bruised, unless of course, it is clenched so hard it bruises itself. Internal injuries. Trauma of some sort. It’s the fabric of my character. Ha! No wonder “Who am I?” bothered me so much as a teenager and young adult. Who wants to acknowledge that they are sad and lonely – not that they feel sad and lonely, but that they ARE sad and lonely. More than “Janet”. More than “Malcolm”. Ms. Sad & Lonely. (Ms. Lonely & Sad?)

I heard Derrick Jensen speak the other night. Wow, the truth is mega depressing, isn’t it? I mean, Jensen’s right, no? We’ve got some major thieves, criminals and murderers – sociopaths – leading us. How the hell did that happen? And they’re going to destroy not only our homes but our food supplies. What the hell? They must realize what they are doing. Is that why the top 1% or whatever’s net worth has risen by 94% over the last ten years while everybody else’s has nose-dived? Are they stockpiling for an apocalypse that they are bringing on? Or is the apocalypse inevitable?

Will there actually be an apocalypse? I mean, I lived through the Great Gas Shortage of the 70’s and the Cold War, where nuclear annihilation was ever present. Yet here we are.

They are returning: the Sleepless Ones. Lumbering towards me, large, furry, with eyes closed. Getting Closer. What will they do once they find me?

Prolly not a whole lot: shake me and lift me from the ground – because they're so much bigger than I. I can never figure out whether they are friends or enemies. I think they're just lonely and see me as a soft mark. Well, ok. I kinda like the big furry beasts. I don't care if no one else does, and now, I've managed to set up my life so I can entertain them.

Hello depression! How nice of you to drop by again! It’s been a few days since we’ve talked, hasn’t it?

What’s that? You missed me?! Heh. Awwww. Poor you. Why did you miss me? Surely you must have other friends you can visit?

What’s that? There’s no one exactly like me? No one with the same set of neuroses and fears as me? No one whom you enjoy hanging out with just so much?

I’ve got to tell you, depression, I mean, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but I don’t enjoy you the way you seem to enjoy me. I actually feel better when you are not around.

There, there, depression, don’t cry! Awwwww, I’m sorry. <Hugs depression> Come on, now. <More hugs>

<More hugs>

<More hugs>

<More hugs>

Ok, then, depression, what do you want to do? What’s that? You want me to talk about you?

La Rage - Keny Arkana - French Rap (English subtitles)