Gods In My Pocket

Chapter 1.

What follows is an excerpt, Chapter 1, from the first draft of a book I wrote six years ago. I will be sharing it with writers during the first seminar of the Summer Programme, which kicks off in two days time. I am sharing it with the intention of providing writers an opportunity to workshop, to model the sharing of pages (a vulnerable act), and evidence - though I wish it weren’t so - what I now regard to be naive writing.

When writing Gods In My Pocket (GIMP), I never shared it with anyone, and was irresistibly charmed by own efforts. I was too involved, lacked perspective, and never sought the opinion of others. I lacked community, or - as they are called by the publishing industry - Beta Readers.

Part I

Is it neurotic, to worry ‘bout memory and how we place in it?

There are arguments plenty to point to conclusion that life has scant meaning, but most resist Logik. And rather than yielding to pointless existence, we strive and we try.

Rationality skirted.

And praps that temptation is nurtured and fed if one’s not so enamoured by life after death;

Atheistic beliefs;

Life’s sinful palate.

Completion of time stopping heartbeats and breaths and line in the sand so what we got is just this.

And this is what we use.

Use for impressions,

a life for the memory so what we will do is eternal not lost.

So thoughts and hopes, cultivating remembrance or leaving ‘a’ something, a book like this or a treasure whatnot,

a legacy through the family or a house with good stones or witty lines that thrum chests.

Records in a sports team or a wall hung Foto, or at least a bit of granite with fancy letters that spell a life lived at the top of a box buried six foot beneath.

A few of course don’t, and resist the rule.

Or claim to don’t.

Would prefer life alone with no impressions kept, to leave no imprint on a world that will turn, with indifference move on.

But I don’t believe them.

To leave no impression is to live quite alone.

To become praps hermitified, deleted- history censored- belonging not sought.

And reasons are given by those that step back. There are claims of spinsterism and objecting to company, an asocial character that loathes idle chatter, futility of existence and blablabla…

I think it more likely this stance is for comfort.

A resignation to lonely cos then there’s no trying. Indeed, why suffer pain and awful anxiety for a post-dead outcome of gold immortality?

It all boils down to the question of why,

but pragmatic outlooks and wilful blindness shy most eyes from looking that far.

But for those that do – those that peek at time stretching and skies black wide – a look descends and it’s one that blots dreams so future’s obscured and efforts lose feet.

And though it happens all over- to people in country or village green lanes – on per capita basis it is nowhere so prevalent as in city spaces.

Cities are undiscerning. Cities crush street spaces, smash people together so solitude treasured, and social crowds flux and ape the loner that stands in the corner.

And cities change.

They change for the natives of Soho on London streets or a child in the Bronx. For old feet tripping in Istanbul, Parisian arrondissement or South ‘Murican states invaded by Mex. Tourists flecking beaches in Barca and Holland coffee shops blasted by stag lads and right twats.

A familiarity with streets and door names lost, the tongues spoken widen and vernacular alters, cultures adapt with cuisine and faith flavours mixed and stirred, Musik bop beats banging tunes new and Kunst in art spaces hanging at jaunts.

It’s hard to keep up, and if one does not then the neighbour with sugar and milk in jugs to lend in tight spots, becomes confronting and scary.

But belonging can be found. Memory created. Resignation unlearnt.

And now that I’m Split – gone from that life – I find myself wondering how they’re telling my story.

What shit bits and fuck twits are spreading untruths and making bold failures I dint have a hand in.

Emphasising the murder, terrorism and such and getting the sack, illegal love and fired by Suits so me a working bar hand but that misses the point.

Those bits might be there,

but my story retold aint a story of that, not what it’s about.

It’s a story of joy.

The joie de vivre and cobbling smokes, Bier glasses raised high and finding the love and a palace for home. My three best friends gangling with scarves that are stolen and eyes flashing blue.

But for giggle and fun, you gotta belong.

Have a niche that’s yours and not bob through with rigmarole daily and love without bong.

So sure, there’s death in my story. Terrorist cracks and bombs exploding. Things bad done that I shouldn’t be proud of.

But at least I found it.

The teams of Us and gods given conviction ‘spite the Brexit and Fuxits and right racist pricks.

The belonging will bong with Love, Work and Altstadt.

Then Bier, Brot und Fleisch – that quintessential Düsseldorf life.