Journal entry #5: Goodbye for now

From the West End girls in their keds, or leggings and boots, to the East End boys with their air max's, tn's or forces. From the Jamaicans by the corner store singing their loud and chauvinistic songs, to the subway musicians strumming renditions of Bob Dylan and "Stairway to heaven". The middle-aged or more tattooed and stocky regulars at some pub, who, at their age, still have what it takes to put a decent beating on you, to the hooligans proudly scarving their favorite teams. The free newspapers with gossip on anyone in the public eye, the CCTV cameras - displays of Britain's paranoia, the robotic voice that sounds the same in any elevator, subway or bus you come across. The weather with its mood swings, the humid summer day and hale driven nights. The indie rockers with pointy shoes and slim pants - my crowd, really -, the Chinese students gathering in foursomes and more, wandering Oxford circus to Soho with brand name paper bags dangling from their arms. The Ray Bans, white Kanye-style sunglasses, cardigans and bowling bags. The cult of smokers reuniting in front of every restaurant, pub or H&M in town. The multicultural or culturally diverse melting pot we call London... It's goodbye for now.

It's a Friday night. I'm eating KFC in front of the Dreamers - I've probably watched it a dozen times since I came to England. I did some drinking before, two singles, three doubles - all Jack and Coke - but the buzz is quite light. I'll add some more, later, to keep the alcohol abuse to a limit. Still uninspired, although I wrote another of those pretentious poems, it goes:

A life gone to waste in Satan's slippery slope
Undoubtedly, tonight will be another of the immoral crazes
In the shadow of the favorite tombs
Far away, is slumber setting in on an undying ship

Passionless virtue and sins we've withheld
Liquor is the bad advice I can take
Slowly decaying like a bleeding tree
Oh Arcadia, I can feel you... and it hurts

Where is my revolution? My May '68. Humanity's at stake, but no one to shepherd the troops. My cause, my rebellion, why did we lose the fighting spirit in the twenty-first century? Lost. Mourning the greats: Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, The Beatles, The Stones... hell, even Sid Vicious had a better message than this. What's now? Gary Glitter. Jude Law at a Starbucks, Aniston on the beach, Geldof at some club, Doherty at some club, Paris Hilton at some fucking club... Crucifying our last hopes on the front pages of newspapers. What has happened to us? We've sunk down to this? We're animals! No, we're not. Animals don't do half the clever shit we thought about, and I am ironic.

Well, back to Switzerland, for a stay long enough to get half an education's worth. I'm leaving. There, I said it. Fleeing the fatigues for a life of either fame and fortune, or artistic Bohemia with the usual substance abuse and random torment. Sounds promising. Live fast and die young. I'm too stubborn to change, too hardheaded to listen, too stupid to conform, fit the mold, the nine to five suits with a tie, the two cars in the garage, a garden where my wife grows aubergines and parsley, my wife - typically beautiful but politically correct, no taboo subjects at the table, likes to read, maybe paint - and my kids, a boy who does soccer and a girl who reads books. The dog, of course, with a name like Lucky or Skip, and a cat, who has ongoing wars with the said dog. Vacations, to resorts in Thailand, Caribbean islands, Turkey, maybe. We rent movies, I join a club to play golf or tennis. We take Christmas photos and send them to relatives 'round the world. We sing to the radio in our car. Go to church. Picnics, to the zoo and whatnot. No one smokes, not a liter of booze in the house. I am overjoyed. Then again, fuck that. Perfection is overrated. I'd regret it, when I'm broke lying on a mattress somewhere in a flat in Mile End, the life I passed on. I'd regret this more, not going after my dreams.

I should stop going crazy. I'm a burden to my friends - too much weight. They must feel like their help was in vain, because every week, something new and disastrous has happened.

I should take a long look at myself. And I will. Right in front of you, here naked - and if I'm writing this now, it's because I know that no one will read it, because going through those first paragraphs, you must really love me. Okay. Let's start. Or let's not.

Where does the torment come from? Does it grow on trees? Or was I born with it. Let's see. Absent father throughout the preteen years, eight years old, absent parents so I was raised by my grandmother. Small physique, hence the violence to prove myself. Moving back and forth from countries, hence me being emotionally detached.. Having to make new friends, new lives.. BAM! Romantic at heart, I needed someone to fill the void, to take me out of exile. The drinking stems low self-esteem and the search for Arcadia. The mood swings from the contradictions in my life.

Losing at all. Isn't that Arcadia? I had it, all, once. Fucked it up, big time. Lost it all. I could have done it better, but I didn't. See, that's life, you fuck it up sometimes, and either you dwell, or move on.

A Brazilian girl, Gaby, who might be reading, gave me the best insight I've had in a long time. "You always know what you're doing, regardless"... Drinking isn't an excuse, being depressed, feeling alone, they don't make up. I know what I'm doing, don't I? Self-destruction, the path to Arcadia, little steps, everyday, to get to bottom. It's crazy, I'm crazy, but that's life, isn't it? Oh for fucks sake, I fucked it up. Dreaming of a past I can't forget, genuine smiles, all to ashes, burnt, I fucked it up. You always know what you're doing. I fucked it up. I had it all. Everything I ever wanted, still dwelling, turning in circles. Maybe I'm in love with my misery, maybe I just like dwelling. It never got me anymore, but nothing ever did.

Who's reading this, up till here? You... That's great, fucking great. I did that bottle of Jack, post-drunk now. I did it. Swallowed it nice and easy. This is the second part. Everything up to here was sober, now, it's disillusion, fucking a'. The best moments have gone astray. Now I'm lost, again, and whoever you are, you're not here to help, or at least, I doubt it. FAKE! FAKE! FAKE!

Look at me, preaching existentialism, the words straight outta Sartre's mouth. It's beautiful only I'm a determinist, a fatalist at best. You can live your whole life pretending to be someone else, living what you was meant out of you. Your perfect life, with your perfect love, perfect dreams... All-so-fucking-perfect! I wish I had that perfection. Am I who I want to be, and not what's expected out of me. Hell, I could've been the model son, good grades, into sports, no tar, grass or booze. Hell, I could've done it. They'd be proud, my parents. Shit. I'm not. I am who I am, real. Real like pain, like cutting your veins and blood oozing out. Real, like the drug problem in the states. Real, like the opposite of fake. Real, like me still bleeding, day after day, after day, after fucking day.

It wasn't always like this - typical line. I use to be happy. Anywhere up till 14, and 17 when I was in love. Up till 14, I was happy, I didn't get a taste of it, the world, the cruelty, the bad and what's worse. No, immune to that, really. In a dream world, where everything was fine and dandy, fucking fine and dandy. Then 14 hits, like a brick in the face. Like, hey, I ain't got friends. I'm lost. I had what? Writing, cinema... Cinema!

"Taxi Driver" was the proverbial first fuck, the deflowering. Maybe it was Mean Streets, either way, I would come home, sleep, and watch a movie. I went through Scorsese, Tarantino - whom I know hate -, Godfather trilogy, Kaufman... They were my friends. They kept me waking up every morning. Sometimes, I'd wake up at 4, to watch King of New York... I know, not the best of movies, but that was my life, my only conversation of the day. Besides the wrist-cutting, I'd say I was immune to anything else. Depressed, really. But the films, they kept me going. That was before I had alcohol. Had I had it, no screenwriter, just a fucking wino. Maybe that was the best thing that happened to me, looking at it now.

All the bad things, they happen for a reason. I didn't flee to Albion on my accord, I had to. Military, it rings true, but it's not the whole ring. There's something over there, I can't stay. I wish I could, but I guess I'm weak. Not your hero, not your antihero, I'm just fleeing, escaping ... this is me being existentialist. Or this is me being a coward, simply because the days look alike, and I couldn't live one more. It's pain, only constant, unlike pain. Day after day. The tummy aches, the chills, it's all there, all accounted for. Britain's a way out, it's like alcohol when alcohol isn't enough.

Well there, mildly drunk. No Arcadia, no nirvana, I'll have to settle for this now. Because things always go back to the way they were meant to be. That's me in London, like a refugee, like abandon. Good thing no one understands this.

So, back to Switzerland, much to my dismay. Back to endless hours of school. Back to all of that. Switzerland rhymes with pain in my book, it doesn't get better, until you leave. But then I'm gone, then no where I turn will it come back. My life in my hands. It was good while it lasted, then gone, forever. Know one knows pain like I do. You can deal with it, and once you can't, you stuff it somewhere, forgotten. I haven't got that closet. I wear pain like a new trend. Pain. Pain. Pain. It's what make you feel alive. But I've been alive for so long, I'd be better off dead - not a suicide metaphor. I'll be here, for a while, and after that, gone. I'll have made my mark. I lived the best parts in life, now it's time to write about it.

Fuck... that's my exit for tonight. Blame it on the drinking, but you always know what you're doing. I learned that today. Bad moods, Vodka, Whiskey, hate, adrenaline, love... Excuses. You always know what you're doing. This is me taking a shit on the world.