I'm Jack, as in Black, coffee, and a croissant, please…
Well, I've been lurking around this waterhole for a couple of weeks now, new to the game, not wanting the same, shit, over and over again, day after day, showed down my throat on the internet highway. Thought I'd write down a few things, on paper, after having spent quite a few hours here by myself, in the corner, among all the other "invisibles" at The Midnight Pub, reading, drinking coffe, thinking, listening, overhearing, and share my reverberations with you all, post them on the now somewhat cluttered wall, next to the glowing jar of dying bees in the bar.
I love these semi-dark backstreet alleys. These virtual capsules of daily life in which reality often seems more real than "reality" itself. They calm me down. Force me to think twice, before I throw my lucky charm dice…
Soft neon lights, talk radio chatter in the distance, electric cars honking on Main Street, someone crying (softly), someone laughing (out loud), a drunkard walking down Writer's Lane, with pen and paper in one hand, a bottle of Absinthe in the other, a peculiar looking woman on an old rusty bike, possibly a horder, or a seer beyond the Nightfall City border (is she an AI, living by herself in a small creepy cabin at Dusk's End?), a frenchman ranting in French ("Nom de Dieu de putain de bordel de merde de saloperie de conard d'encule de ta mere" – it's so fucking beautiful, even if it's harsh and quite unintelligible), a Swedish drottning (queen) of sorts, putting it out there, whatever it is, whatever she want's it to be (I love thee', for sure, being a Swede myself, and an Idiomkung of sorts, to your queen, in my own Lost Kingdom of thoughts), a young surfer girl not knowing if she's good enough, knowledgeable enough, to stay, to have her own say among you Tech Mechs (you have, I know you have – not everyone here geeks out on vim or emacs, it's totally fine if you're in a SIM playing around with old Macs), a middle-aged man caught up in his own past (or future, I can't decide which), a dude turning sixty and wondering if this is it, or not (I'm two years behind you, but I can imagine what you're going through), a Gopher sentinel whose fingers tap the keyboard faster than he thinks, an old Unix lady trapped in the mysteries of the new world order, the corporate society where "money beats soul every time", a recovering alcoholic whose pain is felt by everyone (I get you, man, for real, and I admire your candor), a poet who "runs" with his poetry (wish I could do that, the poetry books I've written and published are in grave need of a pair of youthful legs to get them out there in the world), a weatherman waiting for the rain (as it seems), an inquirer that inquires about the inquiries that haven't yet been inquired into (those words are written in stone, man, and I love them all), and finally, me, myself and I, the fly on the wall, the Jack that needs to keep the ball, rolling, for the hell of it, or maybe for a much greater cause - a cause he hasn't yet been able to embrace.
You beautiful people share, you dare to make this fucked-up world a better place, a free (to a certain degree) space in which we all can let our minds flood with creative sweat and blood. I take a bow and say "Thank you, for letting me know that I exist".
That's all for now.
Coffee and croissants all around.
Tonight, the cries and whispers are on me!
Welcome, ~jack! I have to go with ~ew and admit that you made me smile, which I didn't know I was in desperate need of today.
~bartender, a sweet honey lemon with cinnamon. Oh, no, no croissant for me, thank you!
This place is wonderful, isn't it? While I don't have much to say, other than that I love to overhear conversations and monologues over here, the calm atmosphere does wonders to a stressed-out mind. And if even that should get too much for you, you're free to join me at my table – I still haven't found a partner that would be up for a round of card games or chess in this city, hehe.
Nevertheless, I hope we get to read more of you in the future; your writing style is admirable!
Yeah, for sure, it is a wonderful place, not a fucking speed race towards Acknowledgment and Reward.
Bite that sweet lemon, man. I'll buy you another one.
Black coffee for me, no sugar. Please…
Howdy, ~jack! You definitely cheered up my day! Thanks!
~bartender? A hot chocolate with spices, thank you! And I'd like a croissant, too, if there are any left :)
I have repaired a small thing today, which was broken for too long. I did have to repurpose a right-handed thingy to fit in the left-handed place. But having done that rather than spending (possibly a lot of) money on an entirely new thing, just because thingy inside was broken --- that somehow feels plain /wrong/. Repair work is so rewarding. At least most of the time.
Thank you, man!
My hat's off to you.
Did a similar thing myself today. Tried to fix a broken thing on a thing on my old Harley that was to small to be fixed. I fucking hate LED, man, even though I shouldn't. It's brighter and cleaner (for the future). Maybe I'll try again some other day. For now, I'll stay with the thing that was really "my thing" from the beginning. The way I want it. The way it should be. Halogen Light Bulbs. Soft and shady like the amber glow here at the Midnight.
I'm going out for a piss, and a smoke…
Here's a coin for the mood organ:
Greetings and welcome, ~jack, but you'll have no personal truths from me, as there are none to tell. My truths whisper only of the void, the unknown World-Without-Us, the literally unthinkable. Of course, for the sake of sociality, I may be convinced to share a lie or two.
And greetings to you!
Please, do share your lies, they are true as long as we know they are lies. That's the beauty of truth, being what it is, when and where it is, a fact or a certain kind of tact in dealing with our day-to-day half-truths and white lies. I applaud that, and I certainly understand what you mean by the unknown World-Without-Us. I've struggled for years now with idea of "leaving". I've done nothing but write about it. In poems, in other writings. But there is hope, some kind of inexplicable hope, maybe of love, of awe, "to walk in beauty" in a known World-With-Us (this world, but with new eyes), and that hope is what gets me up in the morning. That, and coffee, lots of fucking coffee, and two or three smokes – I know, it's bad for you, you're being cheated, fucked, poisioned, whatever…
Lies masked as truths are a completely different thing. We all know that. But do we adhere to it? To it's simple truth, the truth that a lie is only a lie if people say it is? I say, then, reduct the shit out of it, to the absurd. That's the only way to go. Problem solved. Like "Waiting for Godot", whoever the fuck he or she is?
Do birds write? No, they don't. The haven't got the time for it. They are already free.
I'll always be a word man, better than a bird man. – Jim Morrison
Two black coffees please, one two go, the other for this fine gentleman.
"a recovering alcoholic whose pain is felt by everyone (I get you, man, for real, and I admire your candor)"
...greetings and salutations! :D
The sobriety runs well in these parts. Been sober for some week 1/2, two weeks(?), and I feel good about it. Rehab likely awaits where I am moving to, but they may send me back to my newly-rented abode once they see my month+ of sobriety at that point (which will of course continue thereafter).
I like your writing method ~jack, and hope to see you around here more often.
::tips up coffee mug (pinky, in-air), garbles croissant::
You've single-keyboardly brought post-lurking, writing-down-a-few-things-on-paper to a whole new level!
A very pleasant first read of the day, indeed.
Much appreciated. I really needed to get that out. To show my sincere appreciation for what you all share at The Midnight Pub.
Keep up the shenanigans, man, I read them all!
Better to have something to say than to have to say something. – James Cook