Maybe I don’t really love Canada. Maybe I love Canadians. The ones with brains. Or really you could have been born in Czech republic in the early 1800’s in a locksmiths attic, or in NAZI occupied Budapest. As long as you have gained Canadian residency, you’re fine. Or your name is Deb Pyper.
Did not bother going to N.A meeting tonight. Felt much better to stay in bed watching bad TV and reading books about how fucked the world is. The latest effort is finished on the reading front. Am going to let some digestion happen before I go commenting. Oh shit, who am I kidding?
“Honestly, NZFiend, you kid no one. Not even yourself.”
Yeah, that’s what comes from trying to be honest and being a shit liar I guess. So, bugger me. I will just start commenting.
Turns out I know a few characters in this book that the nice lady MaryJane Thomson wrote. Pity the book didn’t have better conversational writing. I found a bit of her poetry online here and figure that she could actually write okay. Probably better than her book does her credit for. But what the hell… If you’re constantly having conversations with people that inhabit your own head, you could do a good job of giving them a bit more character.
If I had boring people in my head, I would try livening them up a little.
“Fuck you NZFiend, I am quite interesting enough.”
Oh piss off. You’re droll mate. You only seem interesting coz I make you sound clever on my blog.
“Stop the bus, I want to get off……”
Fair call. I may just join you. Have had enough myself mate.
Was an interesting read for me. I enjoyed the straight up nature of the work, but with a bit of flourish and, dare I say it, padding, it should have been longer. It should have had some nice descriptions about Newtown. I think I know her jaded boyfriend “Jaden”. I definitely knew her dodgy lawyer mate. And yes, at the time she was writing about I was in Wellington and was probably in some form of contact with these people. The world is only so big. It is not that hard to find a story of someone with mental health issues going through withdrawals, joining N.A and taking the piss out of themselves.
Hell, we probably all know one.
Page 104 cracked me up. I had to put it down and laugh and watch TV for a while. One of the “typos” that slipped past the editors. Mind you, the editors address is on Vivian Street. And that is right in the middle of the old transexual red light district. Just around the corner from the old Chinese opium and gambling dens actually. Nowadays all the trannies seem to be Asian. So maybe some weird cross-breeding was going on there. God help us.
Page 104, anyway…
Being in an institution can make you feel alone and forgotten, as though you are all just chucked together to fiend for yourselves, cast-offs that society doesn’t want to know about.
That’s write folks. This guy would have had an interesting take on that line. Any guess to whom this guy, right, is?
Why, knock me down with a DSM-V, it’s bloody Frued. And he looks distinctly addicted to that pipe. Wow. They do say all psychoanalysts / psychiatrists are nuts after all.
This book of MaryJane’s is a good little read. I didn’t expect anything at all, so was quite nicely surprised. Reading between the lines a little is quite easy in some places if you’re that way inclined. You can guess a few facts and figures for yourself that may not have put things in such a nice Sunday Womens Magazine Acceptable Story. If it was turned into a movie the soundtrack would be pretty shit mind you.
Even that guy who did Trainspotting got more real dirt and grim into his yarns. Irvine Welsh lost the plot somewhere and started to think he was Shakespeare. I wish MaryJane had done the same. She may have lifted the story from something tabloid like to something of more artful merit.
A little description of Newtown would have been good. On my favourite toilet wall in Kenwyn Terrace there is a newspaper clipping. Some local author writing for the local rag says something along the lines of “we went for fish and chips. The lady in front of us had fur boots, basketball shorts over her pyjama bottoms, a hi-viz road workers vest and hair rollers in. Anywhere else in the world this would seem out of place.” [that is me writing that, but I think I have the sentiment right]
My god, this post is going nowhere. Rapidly.
In fact, it started low, and is sinking. Rapidly. Tosser.
What can I say? I was once a computer writer for the local computer magazines. But I was only thirteen. It has taken me years to become this illiterate.
Piss off, you were not.
Was so. Anyway, here is a picture of Newtown hospital from Kenwyn Terrace. My sister died in the far left stripy building. Third row of windows from top, far left, where the building goes behind the tree.
Dude, you are dribbling nonsense. I know you have Newtown tattoo’d on your forearm, but that is taking shit too far.
Newtown deserves some flourish.
Probably needs it more than Canada.