Prior to exhibiting the paintings during the next exhibition on the 30th May 2014 at Xarolla Windmill, Zurrieq, I shall be publishing extracts I wrote back in 2011. Entitled "Time for Wreckage", this was a series of loose writings centered around a doomed, sexist, male figure who is existing in a bleak postmodern city.
I seldom go out. I hate the buses, people, window shopping, children, couples, mummies, buggies, trains, traffic, pervs, cafes…but once in a while I have to go out. Today is one of them sunny days. I go out and quickly disappear in the industrial areas of the city, and since it is Sunday it is a ghost town. I reach a pond of dirty filthy water, which I and children of my generation used to call “The Sea”. The Sea my ass. It was just a huge reservoir tank, with some fat orange goldfish living off the slime from the bottom of the tank. Some of the children, the chavvy ones mostly, used to swim in the Sea and most of them would drown, only to be seen in the form of nails, hair and maybe a bone or two which frequently came out of our water tap.
I seldom go out. I hate the buses, people, window shopping, children, couples, mummies, buggies, trains, traffic, pervs, cafes…but once in a while I have to go out. Today is one of them sunny days. I go out and quickly disappear in the industrial areas of the city, and since it is Sunday it is a ghost town. I reach a pond of dirty filthy water, which I and children of my generation used to call “The Sea”. The Sea my ass. It was just a huge reservoir tank, with some fat orange goldfish living off the slime from the bottom of the tank. Some of the children, the chavvy ones mostly, used to swim in the Sea and most of them would drown, only to be seen in the form of nails, hair and maybe a bone or two which frequently came out of our water tap.
Nowadays we have drunk too much
of the Sea, and there is no water left in there. Not one single drop. I sit down on the edge, enjoying the sun.
“Oi basterd, outta fuckin sun”
It was an orange goldfish.
Damn, I guess I'm going crazy.
“Oi basterd, outta fuckin sun”
Are you gonna shut up? Are you? My Doc Martens glimmer in the
sun.
“Oi basterd, outta fuckin sun”
“Want Oral Sex?”
Glup, Glup, Glup, The fish speaks
to me but I cannot understand. Her lips
move slowly, out of synchronization.
It’s really funny and sad at the same time.
Now I hope you understand why I
hate going out.
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