clinging to the wreckage

I was born into a struggling family in the north west of England. We lived in a small industrial town on the outskirts of Manchester. Glamour was forbidden us, as, it seemed, was the sun. Sunglasses were for Hollywood celebrities and even Coca Cola a mere fantastical fad from a far-off land where the sun always shone. We had rain and wind and cold grey skies. We looked to the city of Manchester and its football teams for hope of life. We dove into books by Enid Blyton and then our lives changed forever… there arrived Star Wars. Magic, at last, entered our lives and then we suddenly started to awake to certain arrivals from this far-off land. We’d see Smoky and the Bandit and be fascinated by the long, empty, hot, dry streets, the blue skies and the sense of freedom that seemed to ooze from the screen. A short while later we finally took flight from an ice bound northern England and flew to the summer of the southern hemisphere to setup home in South Africa. Suddenly we saw a savage ...

The week was a hot one, every day sunny, clear and blue. People sat around the swimming pool and absorbed the sunshine, something that always seemed insane to me. I was looking forward to Friday because we had a boat cruise party and I had never been out onto the water of the Boston Harbour. I was also looking forward to seeing the scientists and doctors that I occasional went out with. I’d been invited to this particular event by the first person I knew in Boston, a lady from Barcelona whom I had met through the doctors I knew in Madrid. This is because the wife of my best Spanish friend was a doctor and so I socialized with them frequently.             Friday came and I boarded the train after work to take the short trip down to South Station close to the harbor. It had been raining heavily as I walked from my apartment to the station but I was hopeful it would subside by the time I arrived at South Station...

It’s something of a mess. The alcohol. The flirtation. The lack of sleep. A life of good fortune being pushed too far, perhaps. Writing and reading and music are the things for which I live and, thrown in with this, I want to have fun before I am too old to do the things I can do today. Therefore, there is a fine balance between remaining responsible and spiraling into debauchery and loss. Tonight, Friday night, we have a huge party here in Madrid and I am writing this with a severe hangover. I need recovery. I probably need supervision. Supervised detox. It is now Monday. I have been on the brink of death. After a heavy Friday night we had an even heavier Saturday. I woke up in the middle of the night on Saturday with severe pains in my lower right abdomen. Hungover, desperate for sleep, I was thrown into a panic and a fear that I was dying. Each time the pain subsided, and I started to fall asleep, the pain returned and kept me awake. I spent the whole day feeling sick ...

The pain that we feel inside, the things that we hide. A lady pushes a pram and rolls her eyes as her husband walks by her side and says something softly into her right ear. Across the road a man in a car that is falling apart attempts to park and looks as if he is hungry and close to tears. Business men are scurrying around carrying the weight of the world upon their shoulders because they have become slaves to their wage and slaves to convention. And so I have consumed a lot of alcohol… and somewhat guiltily take a sleeping pill. Outside people party around the pool. Everyone is seeking validation. Everyone is looking for love. They think that love will give them validation. It would be funny if it were not so tragic.