Saturday, 18 October 2014

totalitarian woollen hounds

It’s not even the fear of the unknown it becomes the fear of the oneself with cringing doubt and even when all seems to have settled and with tickets at hand and smiles from people you’ve known, fear is still cringeworthy. And it gets worse every day, depression just slowly starts eating me and pushing holes everywhere as the dates comes closer and closer and everyone just talks about packing bags and what to take, what to buy, what to bring and some even start getting lists of what to bring back with souvenirs. 

It gets even worse the closer it gets with a nagging feeling and how someone gets a fucking deck of cards and the cards are shuffled, saying that it’s some Russian method and someone even tries to learn some Russian just because we’re going to East Berlin instead of German. Then everyone decided to try and do German from a few tattered textbooks and whomever learnt German at school.

Cards are shuffled and cigarettes lit, cheap wine already gone for the night. Should you even fortune tell on a Saturday is what’s muttered and shoulders are shrugged as the cards are just placed in front and a silence is held.

“Come on, just tell Jamie’s fortune!” And more giggles and I can’t even recognize the faces. I inhale, all cards meaning shite to me, I’m just guessing clubs shouldn’t be something too well for some reason and the Jack would mean love interest, I presume, which instantly ends up in me getting jabbed in my side.

“Yup, some bloke. I guess that’s why we’re going to Germany.” And he grins widely and removes the cards from the table and starts shuffling.

“Oi, there were like six cards, you just told me about the bloke!” The fortune teller just shoos me off with his hand and I notice far too many rings which most likely were stolen or given by insane clients who needed to pay for the removal of jinxes and to get husbands. 

“Bad things are never told to the customer, only the best, because then the best will keep you going, wanker.” And he stretches for my pack of cigarettes in my front shirt pocket and takes one for himself. “Next!”

“Fuck this.” I walk out, the cigarette half smoked into the small balcony which has a few broken plant pots with things stashed inside. I lean down to see some cash, which someone might’ve missed and I put it in my pocket, wondering how much even was there initially if they left the tenner behind. 

And the bloke was more than obvious since Wob managed to tell everyone last night, nearly passed out but holding his eyes with his eyelids about how I once tried to hit on him and that revealed my sexuality far too much, when I started off as quietly saying that there was simply no one in my life, there wasn’t. I throw out the cigarette and look down as it misses the puddles, rain coming to greet tomorrow, as I shrug pressing myself against the rails which were painted last week. My dad’s face quickly flashes in my mind and I just sigh, thanking that no one ever asks about my family, at least some questions are kept to themselves since everyone always blabbers why they ended up squatting. I’m always dismissed as someone with no story to tell even if in the beginning I lied once, just to make myself more interesting and I thought that’s what everyone did, but in reality some people did end up in killings or theft or were simply way too psychotic to be anywhere else or some just ran off to London, really. It’s a lucky dice roll, you don’t hear too many interesting things because not all are funny when drunk. 

They sometimes say that you’re friends simply because you end up in the same situation, because nothing else would make sense if all didn’t try to survive. And everything which wasn’t a blood relation was easier to hold anyway, it was always easier to hold because there is never the temptation to give out to scream and emphasize that both should be holding the relation and soon enough family reminds of some authority. People abuse authority, there’s been enough evidence of it and I sit down on the balcony, my fingers shaking from the anticipation, knowing that everything would flash, the airports, the passport checks and they do, instruments glanced upon and I wondered if I could even play guitar in a plane, just like a friend told me once that once they did with one of those tiny amps and supposedly people enjoyed it.

The window doesn’t close properly and it’s not even too many hours. 

And depression seems to be more than my neighbor and people speak of the muse as if she were a person, well depression seems more of a presence which nags to me that maybe I should’ve held my mouth shut and my hands to myself, that then none would’ve happened, that I should have never dragged him back home with me, that none of this would’ve happened, that I should’ve let everything manage to get by itself that even my boyfriend at the time said it hadn’t been wise to do. And I had gotten chucked outside and the only reasonable solution when you’re bewildered was to do something just as bad. I had chosen London just for the word of mouth. It was dirtier than expected and just as told.

And talking to people it doesn’t make you miss them, it makes you miss yourself, it makes you miss your own company and I even feel some memory loss, something I’ve read on depression and once the bag hits the floor I realize that my whole body had been shaking the whole way to the abandoned building, that all the hitchhiking, that all of this feels like my body can’t take anything anymore and it just feels like when you call a helpline on the NHS and you just breathe, crying and they tell you that you are noble for just going on.

There is nothing noble in just existing and I don’t think severe depression even covers anything and the Diazepam pills had never worked, all the pills just all in different packages and the parents just asking what would they do and once they would run out nothing would make the silent noise go away, the feeling of despair and the shattering of glass in front of me seemed like nothing, like the scribbles on the wall and my age seems to be catching up, I feel old, without being old, but I still heard people mentioning bands I was not aware of, I was always out of the loop, just to borrow Sarah’s vinyls and hastily return them the next morning, finding no solace in myself or any one for that matter.

Sometimes it doesn’t even feel how the strings hurt your fingers, the wrist aches even more. I had taken someone’s bike and fainted halfway, realising that perhaps it wasn’t the best idea, but you’re just noble for surviving 

but at what cost and why, when there is no one

when all memories bundle up and burst?

The blood seems to be leaving the body as I settle on the mattress, surprised how come I chose the small storage room, how come it wasn’t taken with nothing but the window and my shoes to be taken off to stand on said mattress to overlook the dirty street. 

No one tells you why you’re depressed, they just tell you you’re nobel. There is nothing noble in living, I open the window, it’s not high enough and I cough at the lump in my throat. I’m over twenty and I have nothing. 

I get my hand out and I jerk it back, my hair covering my face, sticking to my lips.

“James?” I just hastily nod at the new face. Suicide and depression aren’t connected yet you still commit suicide, don’t you? I make sure my hand is behind me and I get the hair out of my eyes and I just stare at him, as he seems to be looking at from head to toe specifically at my bright green sweater which I made sure had no wool in and it still puzzles me how it gives any warmth. My docs are kicked off and he hastily tries to make a move towards me on the mattress and blinks a few times, confused at the cut off heels. I thought they were too chunky. 

“Jamie.” I stretch the suicidal hand and he nods, his hair, at least the longer ones are tucked behind his ears and he himself is wearing an ugly sweater, only woolen and he smiles at me before accepting my hand. 

“Alex. I live here too.” His accent is very strong and I’m guessing he’s from here, but there’s another undertone I try to register and I’m surprised at his accent, it’s far too stirred with too much heritage while I’ll just be labelled British and that’s all and that’s all there will be. And there’s nothing to it besides a bunch of wankers who do the wrong laws and eventually perpetuate to make people believe there is something wrong with them when the answer lays solely in that same thinking. He notices me staring at him. 

“I’m greek, half.” He adds and I wonder if he speaks Greek, but instead he gets called and he quickly salutes me away, hands in pockets as I’m left alone with my open window and dozen of things which should be unpacked but ruffling through items I had been chucked at my face years ago seems to hold no reason. 


I've been holding this story from posting from ages, when I've had the first chapter written for a good while and I think this plot is the longest I've ever held myself from writing because I felt like I needed research much more and yeah, I'm sorry if I didn't study enough and I honestly tried and yeah, I guess I was just always excited about this.

Ok, first things first, in general I think it's no secret that I've read enough whatever I can find regarding Jamie Hince and I always found the few interviews where he talks about how he had squatted in Berlin with Blyth Power interesting and because frankly I care too much about love, it stuck out to me that he had said that he had fallen in love in Berlin and for once he deliberately avoided pronouns, which of course intrigued me. In general he always talks of Berlin fondly and I'm still curious about many things like how he'd visit Berlin rather often before The Kills and how he makes a point of visiting the place where he squatted. I can't link to all interviews where he mentions from the top of my head, unfortunately, but I guess if you're interested poke me and I'll at least recall one maybe >.> 

Then I had a problem, I had no idea who the person was, at all. All I knew is that he had fallen in love with someone, so frankly I have no idea about their gender or agender even. 

I'm awfully strict, I hate OCs in stories besides a few exceptions which is funny because one of the best fan fictions I've read had half of the cast being OCs. So I avoid using OCs in my own, even if I'm more liberal in other people's stories. So an OC was out of the question and I was stuck with shit, I need someone who lived there, I wanted to stick with my theory that it was someone who lived there permanently because then it would make sense, since they lost contact and Jamie returned and the said person squatted as well, I'm spoiling my own plot here xD 

So I dunno if you've been affected but I want on a quest asking people if they had any good German musicians in their head and then I think Callie randomly suggested Alex Kapranos, explaining since he's half-Greek and at the time there were a lot of Greek people in Germany, that he would fit perfectly. And then I was stuck with a "I've never written Alex Kapranos in a story before" hence the fact that I love Franz Ferdinand and I've been a fan since they released Take Me Out but over the years I shifted to other bands and I even listened to them quite rare and the new album went past me entirely. But I still wondered

And Maritza and Callie just kept convincing me to do Alex Kapranos as the said mysterious Berlin person. So thank them for having him here xD and I'm thankful to both for bombarding me for a while to actually take him in, because I was keeping myself from writing the story because I had no idea who to stick in xD and I wasn't sure about Kapranos being the perfect fit, but I guess with me shielding the story from fucking sunlight I came more pleased with my decision and the fact that I can slightly ship them at least xD since they know each other, so I'm happy XD 

And well, I think we've all done shifty eyes at Kapranos, that guy is surely to some extend queer.

I think if you're reading this blog you've heard me talk of Hince's sexuality far too much, so there.

Next up was the fact that I frankly don't like Blyth Power even if I enjoyed scrolling around their website and getting confused when the fuck did Jamie even leave and enter the band. Oh and the shrine of beautiful Jamie in dreads photos. Not the mention the beautiful youtube videos of Blyth Power. 

Ok, before the story I've just been really angry at everyone yelling how we should do female characters and more of them and less male (doesn't matter, trans or queer, just no men, straight cis women everywhere!) and I'm just here sitting like… fuck you. I'll keep writing my queer men, thank you very much, since even the comic I'm reading right now is even written by a female. Nothing wrong with that, I just wish we had more queer men visibility, that's all and I'll see where I'll go but I might shift to a fiction novel for nano, with surprise surprise transmen, yup, I'm kind of awesome and caring. But of course at times I just feel like I'll keep screaming and I'll just be silenced as usual. But eh, nothing I can do. Well, besides writing and screaming louder, because I'm surely not the one who gets tired first and frankly with everyone praising Minaj I'm disgusted because doesn't matter transmen are erased to an awful extent and all trans people, I still can't believe how they just shoved Laverne Cox in the back of OITNB but that show went shitty and transphobic (yes, regarding transmen but we don't care, do we?) Anyway, I went on a daily rant.

But that pushed me to make sure to post this today.

Back when I wrote this I was just aware that Jamie surely had some mental illness but I wasn't sure what, so this was me trying to turn on the light in the dark, but I think I've ventured enough and I'll keep quiet for once xD for once. I did have a rough guess and it was one of my guesses though. 

So basically, I just kept describing the haze, depression and etc, so in general the chapter is riding with anxiety, haze and depression. 

I think in general I always found it interesting how for instance on the old Kills website the talk how they went fortune telling so I quite enjoy when people speak of their experiences and themselves believe. 

I promise to mention other members besides Jamie and Wob, I promise xD

In general the whole story is a fucking stab in the dark on all my theories and what I've read. Heh, what did I read? whatever the fuck google gave me. 

I think I'll leave it at that, I spoke everything I could in the story and that's where I'll leave you xD

Ok, quickly adding, it's like… fuck knows how deep in the night here, I'm saving my dignity here xD and I was listening to Dark of the Matinee and I'm so fucking sleepy and I misheard for some fucking reason some line to "totalitarian woolen hounds" and I was like 'oi, Callie, I misheard this…' and she gave a thumbs up and I was laughing at the woolen bit, considering that Jamie refused to wear wool in his active vegan days (from high school roughly and onwards to whenever he dropped in the 00s) and of course this is set in East Berlin. Fuck knows why hounds. 

And thank you, I hope you'll enjoy this… thing I've been planning for months and shoving it asides xD

And I'm off, thank you, tell me you liked it XD



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