Back to the HOMEPAGE

Oil and Salt.

It is Sunday evening at a little before 8:00. I have been away for the weekend and I am now patiently waiting for 8:00pm when the rates change for the local internet to check to see what if anything has come in regarding the case from last Friday. If I seem blasé about the whole thing, this is certainly not the case. None of this crap ever really goes very far from my mind and over this last weekend I spent a lot of time thinking about what could have possibly happened in the courts. I guess I dream a lot. But the truth of the matter is that I have the lowest possible expectations. This is not something from me exactly, that is to say that I am not by choice a dour and lifeless fellow. But it has simply been my experience over the last two years that when dealing with the sorts of people I have, these the sorts of people who like to decide they have the right to occupy space in one’s mind and life without invitation or proper reason to be there, and that there is a certain level of incapability on their part to ever actually add anything to that space they occupy that lends an air (stench) of lingering death that sort of brings a fellow down. So in short, I figure they are just going to keep fucking me because it is all they re actually capable of doing. Hence the (semi-)daily column letting people know about these ship’s anchors and doing my part to make their fuck as miserable and desire-less as possible. Bad host I? Bad and uninvited guest, they.

And you know it has been like this the whole time. When I was being held there they made quite a fuss over how terrible a guest I was. They insulted me over and over about how little energy I had and how little I would do with my time and how I was such a poor example of a fighting man. Yea, I was really quite down and out when I was being forced to sit there and be raped day in and day out by a bunch of greedy, lazy, mindless thieves who liked nothing more that the chance to have someone watch exactly how miserable, lazy, dishonest and leech-like they were. I mean, I really don’t know if it was sadism or masochism or both all sort of mashed together. And this is their part I am talking about. I mean, it was all so endless and meaningless but yet at the same time, it seemed so natural for all of them..

And then there were my supposed friends, the bikers and the folks at the NGO who were supposedly on my side. They, everyday with that simpering and shuffling and Uncle Tomming; that ever-present smirk of false happiness that they liked to think of as being “in” but was more likely based, exactly, on precisely how futile they had been taught life could be. And I was the poor example of the fighting man. Ironic? Try moronic! And here is me, reliving an episode from one of my plays and saying the same things over and over and over and over and over trying to find the slightest little crag of a finger-hold in their consciousness; can I get a real lawyer? Can I please have some real help? Can somebody please do something other than jack me off with that “Oh, this is Poland not America” bullshit?

Apparently not. And again, I have been writing about the same thing for two years, right?

I have ten minutes to go.

So like I said, I have been thinking a lot about what could have possibly happened on Friday. I think Bruce went. I hope Bruce went. To be honest, Bruce was pretty scared of them. He likes his life right now and even finds that his position in Poland somewhat suits him. So he made a remark to me about a week ago that he didn’t really want to jeopardize his situation and I can understand this. Fighting the system, no matter how corrupt, fucked up and an need of a little exposure said system is, is not for everyone and I am not really in the market for fucking over my friend’s lives. But trustworthy assistance on that side of the border is at a premium and I had asked and he had agreed. And at this minute, me, as I said having been away for two days, I most certainly do hope that my torturers did not get the jones to start arbitrarily torturing anyone associated with me. Not that that would be out of character. They probably won’t. But I would bet dollars to doughnuts they wouldn’t have honored any of the letters I sent about getting information to Bruce about what has been said in court or even for that matter to actually use the ideas I wrote about in my appeal and/or any of the other writing I did over the last two years. Not giving a damn about the work you do is a sure sign that the people you are associating with don’t do any of their own.

Anyway, it is now that time and I am now going to go and plug in and have a look. Are you you anxious to hear about what happened? I am. Exciting ain’t it. Ooooh, and I let A LOT of people from the press know about this one. A…LOT! Innnnnnn-teresting, I would say.

Pardon me for a moment while I have a look.

More soon…