There are times when sense is a thing gone missing. When the rightness of the world runs foul, counter to any conventional set of values. The inherent meaning of goodness shifts. Leaving those in its wake scrambling. Awake to a new order they fear beckons an unforgiving end. Time and again the fear passes. The end doesn’t materialize. And being awake becomes more and more like being set adrift in a bad dream.
My writer used these lines to set the tone for what would eventually be developed into the whole Lane affair. In that context the passage goes on to describe a city trembling in the grips of discord and characterizes the mood of the citizenry as swelling into a darkening state of perpetual sunsets.
Foreboding stuff, to be sure—and suitable for the subject matter.
Thing is, is that the lines transcribed above are mine. As in I wrote them. Word for word. Shortly after The Tab went down in flames.
How about that for a mindfuck.
I mention this not to claim ownership. Rather I wish to highlight an example of the extent to which my writer has gone bonkers with his plotting. He’s constantly digging holes without having a plan for what to put in them. Or what to do with the piles he’s creating. It’s nuts.
Let me be clear. I have no problem with him making use of my words—reworking their import, gunning for impact etc. Far from it. I’m only too happy to offer my services. It’s part of the role I play. Personally I like the fact that writing is an aspect of my character. It keeps me engaged, alert. A natural extension of having been gifted the modest powers of observation.
As a place to generate a collection of stories, for instance, The Tap wouldn’t have lasted a week if I wasn’t there to encourage and listen.
Likewise with Annabelle Ruthers. I’m the one who assembled and organized what she told me into a reasonably coherent narrative. From which I was beginning to deduce that something was amiss. Only to have the rug pulled out from under me at what could’ve been a pivotal moment.
The proverbial rug.
This is what I take issue with. Being propped up, made to dance, and then left floundering, flailing in the wind, gasping for breath.…
And you know, none of this would have mattered if my writer had just let me be. I honestly thought we were finally done. That I could be my own man. Unfettered by the endless shenanigans of a hopeless tinkerer. Retired from the game of pointless adventure.
Things were coasting along nice and smooth there too. I was back behind a bar. Making do and sticking to an easy routine of home and work and getting myself from one to the other. Once or twice a week I’d hang with my workmates. Have a few brew. Maybe head out for dinner. Take in a show etc.
But no. My writer had to go and send me a pair of nameless agents. Fucked thing is even this would’ve been fine if there’d been any followthrough. But, to reiterate, no. It’s a month now since and nothing.
Here’s me. On the edge of my seat. Half-expecting another knock at the door. Or to be caught unawares on the street and bundled into the back of a van without windows, no one hearing my screams, no one noticing my absence, the day itself an ignorant bystander.
If my writer wants to dig, great. Let him dig. But I’m done trying to make sense of his digging.
Perhaps I overstep my bounds. Whatever. I’m tired of being toyed with.
There are times when sense is a thing gone missing.
Now is one of those times. But I’m not gonna wait around for an unforgiving end. I’m taking the helm of this adventuring ship. Setting course for a place I should already be.
Near as I can tell, navigating scraps, I have enough to go on. This will at last be my story.…