All Aboard Pt3

Meeting Friends

‘ I met the first one of them near the entrance of the platform to the Moscow Express. He was a rather athletic yet flamboyant looking guy with a five-o’clock shadow, short blonde hair and very distinctive facial features like his manly jaw-line and pointy nose. I heard him playing his semi-acoustic bass and singing his songs like there was no tomorrow and people had gathered round to hear him play referring to him as ‘the Express’ as he gave quite an impressive imitation of a passing train on his road worn Fender bass and traveller’s amp. I was in such a rush to get my leather suitcase and my arse on board of the train in time that I, unlike so many others who had gathered here today in these majestic halls of old, couldn’t pay his musical performance the attention it deserved no matter how extraordinary and stirring it was echoing through the air. My main goal was to get my stuff on board, get as far away from my godforsaken country as I could and see something other of this world than rain and wind and weather.

‘ As I was rushing for the train that I thought was about to leave, being distracted by the rumbling of the bass, I wasn’t paying attention which direction I was headed and I nearly had a close encounter with the cold steel tracks that seemed to have appeared in front of me from out of nowhere. A conductor was able to grab hold of my arm to pull me back onto the platform in time. I was fine but for the shock. In a rather firm way he told me I should pay attention where I was going if I didn’t want to kill myself even before having seen anything of Russia. He had an incredible moustache hanging over his lips waving about like little arms as he was talking to me. I had to look away from him while he was talking for I would have burst out in laughter if I hadn’t. When he had finished his words of heed he was kind enough to help me board the train saying that my suitcase weighed a ton as he lifted it into the carriage. A smile appeared from under his moustache when I referred to it as my mobile home explaining that it indeed was a little heavier than I had planned or wanted it to be. With his moustache like that it felt like I wasn’t talking to a man anymore; I was talking to a rather hairy octopus stuck on the upper lip of this railway employee who was showing me the way to my cabin as the tentacles kept jumping up and down with each plosive coming out of the conductor’s mouth. We got on board at the back of the train and as it was just one long corridor all the way down to the next corridor and so on ad infinitum I could not have missed my cabin even if I had wanted to. How daft did this man with his pet octopus think I was? I thanked him for his help nonetheless wondering whether I should have tipped him as he jumped off board again to help some other travellers.


I hope you read the blog before this one, as it is a continuing story of me on my way to Russia (or Russland, as some seem to call it).

‘ I was considering taking a backpack with me for food, drinks, tickets, and other belongings that might need to be within reach during my trip. Things like my toothbrush, toothpaste, tickets, and a towel. The towel is especially important for a man has got to know where it is. If I were to take a backpack I wouldn’t have to open up my suitcase all the time. The bag would probably get lighter along the way as I would be eating the food and drinking the drinks. Unfortunately I won’t be able to bring my old schoolbag for this purpose. When I asked Mum where she had put it she brought it to me and told me Grandma had been using it ever since I left secondary school some two or three years ago. I opened it up and was greeted by the stench of a dozen dirty panties that had been worn for at least four days and hadn’t been washed for several months (or were it years?) thus instantly attacking my central nervous system and nearly knocking me unconscious and bringing me to tears. I threw it into a corner of the room and made a beeline for the toilet. Instead of my old schoolbag I am now taking Grandma’s incredibly expensive designer backpack she said she had gotten from an Italian lover. Guess what will be in it when I get back?’

That was the first entry into my traveller’s log that year and also one of the more coherent and cohesive ones amongst them, which meant I didn’t really have to edit it and was able to leave it more or less the way it was and the way you have read it just now. Many more entries and many more logbooks would follow after that even though it would often not be more than just some hundred odd, yellowed pieces of paper tied together with a strand of string that looked like as if I had to have torn a sock apart for it. Incoherent scribbling that must have seemed very intelligent at that time, but made no sense to me anymore when I quickly read through them after I had found them in the attic. Most of them would be my rants and raves on insignificant details and personal matters that had little to do with my travels and everything to do with life.

Many a night had been spent reading all those writings, trying to make sense of it all, trying my best to put every little piece back in its place till each and every little note made sense. I’d work my way through it during the night and in the morning I’d go to work looking even worse than something that the cat had dragged in. I’d take naps in the lounge chair behind the counter during the quiet moments and fill myself up with strong mugs of the darkest coffee during the busy hours. Back at my apartment I’d crawl behind my desk, the writings in front of me, a little candlelight, a cigar and some wine while time would be ticking away on a clock that hadn’t told the right time ever since it fell off of the wall shattering the glass when bouncing of the small coffee table that stood underneath. Music playing in the background to cover the screams of agony or pure pleasure coming from either the neighbours’ living room or bedroom when they were at it again, whatever ‘it’ may be.

Now, after days and days and weeks and weeks of reading through my notes, I have just come home from work, I have lit a candle, poured myself a glass of wine, taken out an old Cuban cigar that I saved for the occasion and crawled behind my desk once more, though not to read through all of the once forgotten memos to make sense of it all, but to string the tall tales together making one incredible story that I am going to hurl into the world when it’s finished. In the background the wonderful melodies of Tom Waits’s Big Time can be heard; Red Shoes has just started playing. In front of me I have not got one of those modern electronic sonic boxes of wizardry and magic with their bright-lit screens, feather-light casing and fragile keyboards, but my trustworthy sturdy steel Underwood typewriter. There’s nothing like the touch of the metal, the sound of the lettered hammers pounding and pounding as I press the keys tormenting the piece of paper that is trapped in the steel casing behind a tape lint that leaves behind stains of black blood telling my tales. If I were to listen carefully, I could swear on Ivor’s grave that the paper was telling me to stop, but I’d never.

All Aboard Pt 1

‘ My mind has been made up and there’s nothing anybody out there can do about it. Today is the day or rather tomorrow is going to be the day; it’s the one chance I’ve got. My suitcase has been packed and I am ready to go out into the world. Although ‘ready’ might be a big word here as I don’t have the money – at least not a lot -, I lack a plan and I don’t really have any experience either. This, however, is not keeping me from doing what I think I have to do, you see, adventure awaits me out there, as long as I’m in time for tea and biscuits. Of course, Mum could not be bothered with my leaving since she has been too busy of late getting her love life together. Grandma, on the other hand, can’t stop fussing about it since to her I am still that little boy who has yet to have his first kiss and recover from his first broken heart and she thinks I am just not ready for the world or the world is not ready for me. She can’t believe Mum is letting me go on such a dangerous journey all by myself.

‘ Tomorrow I am taking the train to Harwich, the boat to Hook of Holland and from there on the train all the way up to Moscow, Russia. Why Moscow? Why not! Actually, I have no idea. Is it the cheap water also known as vodka? I don’t know. It is just that the city seems to be calling me. Grandma says that if I am hearing voices I should be admitted to a psychiatric ward instead of being allowed to travel the world and maybe help spread this mental illness I have. One day the men in white suits will come and take her away, lock her up in a bright white room with padded walls for she is as nutty as a fruitcake and madder than a hatter at a tea party. I can’t seem to get it through her thick skull that mental illnesses are not contagious rather hereditary and that it might just be so that I inherited some of my quirks from her. I fear for my future self.

‘ The old leather suitcase that I got from a car boot sale not a week ago is already crammed with stuff, yet I am still anxiously walking about the house rummaging the cupboards and wardrobes looking to see if I am really not forgetting anything. Should I find something I’d have somewhat of a problem since it wouldn’t fit in the suitcase anymore anyways, which means I’d have to take an item or two out first. I don’t want to open the suitcase at all, because I already had to sit on it to be able to close it and zip it up and I fear the whole thing might burst open at the most impossible of moments and set my underwear a flying through the air for the world to see. I shouldn’t worry too much about forgetting anything, though; I’ll survive as I have surely packed enough clothes. I have three sets that I can wear in any type of weather, enough socks to last me a week, an extra pair of shoes, a belt, and seven pairs of undershorts. I might have to wear my undies for more than one day, though. Grandma says that she always wears her panties for two days and then turn them inside out, ‘which means,’ she says,’ you can wear your underwear for a grand total of four days in a row and nobody would notice’. I guess this explains the flies and odour around her every now and again. She’s not only loopy, she’s also quite disgusting. I’m hoping to get lucky and be able to do some odd jobs there to earn some money so I can go the cleaners often enough to be able to wear clean clothes every day. I also might want to buy some more jeans and shirts while I’m there.’

To be continued …

it has been so long

Dear friends of the world,

It has been a very long time since I last visited this blog and had nearly forgotten about it until a dear friend of mine, who has been through one hell of a spiritual journey, started blogging and told me that I should go back to what I do best : blog. I guess my friend was right, although it took me some time and courage to actually do so. But here it is and here I am.

What can you expect?

Well, not too much, please, for I have been through hell and not quite back yet. My mental state has been bothering both me and my therapists, but they gave me some proton energy pills that seem to be doing what they should be doing. Not that I am cured or healed now, but at least I can get my mind to do stuff if God and my body allows me to do them, too.

About What?

I am going to post about my journey to Moscow a long long long long time ago. For after my adventures at secondary school which I poster about as both arthur and felix, I felt it was time totravel the world, discover new places, meet new people and find out who I really was. This is going to be some sort of travel log and I can tell you already that some of the stories are not going to be pleasant and rather unsuitable for youngsters.  I do so hope you will enjoy the stories as much as I enjoyed experiencing them.

Furthermore, I hope everybody is doing fine. I would love to hear how you are doing. Post it in the comment section and you will surely get a reply. Can’t say anything about how often I will post, though,  but let this be a good beginning.

Kindest of regards,

Felix Bent

You Are Being Watched

You should follow this character, he’s an amazing writer and can really make you wonder and ponder.

The False Prophet

Hold on
You’re telling me
Your God
Sees everything
And when I say,
I mean,
Your God
Sees everything
Everything you do

Just how
Can you complain
When government
Your government
Sees almost everything
With cameras
Your government
Has cameras
Watching over you


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While I Am Out

While I am out and busy writing my book, please allow me to entertain you with a little bit of poetry from my part. A long time ago I was asked if I could write love poems. Which, and I have to be honest here, was quite a challenge for me as I have always been more occupied with the occult, the bizarre, the macabre. As you’ll understand the poems I have written are not the standard issue love poetry, but it was the best I could do concerning the love theme. I do so hope you will like it. Here’s the first one.

Your Eyes

I wish I had your eyes
I’d put them in a jar
And every day I’d say
‘How beautiful they are.’

I kind of hate you
But I love you too

I wish I had your tongue
I’d put it on a plate
Place it in a cupboard
With everything I hate

I kind of hate you
But I love you too

You’re everything I love
That’s way beyond debate
You remind me of myself
Now that’s the bit I hate

I wish I had your hand
Just for good old times’ sake
Together we would walk
Hand in hand along the lake

I kind of hate you
But I love you too

I wish I had your heart
I would keep it next to mine
Our hearts would beat as one
And then everything would be just fine
I will have to make a choice with
Every piece that I cut off
‘Is it something that I hate?
‘Or something that I love?’

I kind of hate you
But I love you too

F. Bent

It’s A Book

Dear readers,

It’s been a while since I have last posted anything. That does not mean I have stopped writing, au contraire, it means I have been writing more than I have ever done. I got so inspired by the kind and friendly words of many of my readers that I decided that it was, indeed, time to write a book. A proper book for adults with a thick plot, intrigue, some horror and a more or less happy ending.

At the beginning of this year I started posting stories on WordPress and I found some incredible people whom I really look up to, who inspired me, who were and are far better writers than I am. Yet, they praised my work and complimented me. They helped me to go and I learnt a lot from each and everyone of you. I would like to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your kind words and inspiration.

You will probably not see me on WordPress a lot anymore, but I would like it very much to keep in touch with you. If you would like to keep in touch with me, too, please send me a message so I can add you on Facebook.

Once again, thank you very much and I hope to be digitally seeing you later.

Kindest of regards,

Felix Bent

Short Break

Dear WordPress,

I am taking a short WordPress holiday so I can work on my book. An illustrator is busy making some sketches for me based on all my writings and the drawings I made and I hope to be able to post some of them soon. We might be meeting up either this week or next week to have a look at them. I am really excited about this and he is too.
At this very moment I am busy glueing all the fragments of my diary together with words, phrases, sentences, paragraphs and chapters and this is taking an awful lot of my time and concentration. Coincidentally also the two things that I sometimes seem to be lacking. Some people want to solve the time problem by saying that they’d like a week of 8 days; three days of weekend and five days to work. I think that it wouldn’t solve anything, most people would just have an extra day to procrastinate. Besides, we’d probably get used to that extra day pretty soon and be wanting another extra day, because we seem to be lacking time. Maybe if we’d make it a six day week, with just one day of weekend, people would value time a little more. Some people think that time is money, I like to believe that time is life. Waste time, you waste life. I kind of like that thought. It might just make people think about what they do with their time more than when they believe that time is money.
As for concentration … I was told you can buy that in cans nowadays. It is said that there are certain cans filled with a liquid that is supposed to give you wings and all other sort of things. We are being sold dreams and promises in cans. The only people who really get to live those dreams a little are the ones who make all the money selling those liquid promises. I don’t really believe in that kind of concentration or energy. Even though I have no scientific proof and I don’t want to waste time looking for it. Any person in his right mind will understand that if it really does give you energy, a candle that burns twice as bright … burns only half as long.


Not Happy About The Title

14-10-2014 Tuesday

Sometimes I think of the time Mum and Dad were still together. I guess their marriage was never really meant to be. And their friends and relatives must have seen the divorce coming from miles away. Even though their breaking up was really hard and Mum and I had a really difficult time afterwards, I think, in hindsight, it was for the best and we were much better off that way. Mum certainly was, after she had gotten over the divorce she seemed reborn and she was full of joie de vivre which is French and basically translates into ‘Look How Many Fs I give!’.
When I look back at their marriage I remember some moments that I could and should have seen things were not really right. Here’s a poem I wrote thinking of that day that Mum, Dad and I were going to the circus and we were running a little late. I didn’t really mind so much, but Mum and Dad were fussing and fighting all the way to the circus and when we arrived we still had plenty of time to get popcorn and drinks, find our seats, sit down and relax for a couple of minutes. They really needed to be more Buddhist about these things. So here is what I wrote down. The names are not really part of the poem, but I put them in there as to make it clear to everybody who said what and the ‘fat lady’ is not Mum (she wasn’t really happy about the title).

The Fat Lady Sings

Mum,‘ Can we get there in time?’
Dad,‘ You’re asking me now!?
‘Why, sure, dear.’ he answers,
‘but I don’t know how.’

Mum,‘ If we get there in time
We’ll see cannonballs flying
Hear elephants’ trumpets
See a mime that is crying.’

Dad,‘ The night is still young, dear.’

Dad,‘ We should get there in time,
So there’s no need to shout.
We’ll see lions jump rope
If tonight’s not sold out.’

Mum,‘ Will we get there in time
To see clowns and their gags
With funny red noses
And crappy old bags?’

Dad,‘ The night is still young, dear.’

Mum,‘ We must get there in time
Toute le monde will be there
To hear the band play
And breathe in fresh air.’

Dad,‘ We’ll get there in time
To see old men cry
Hear the fat lady sing
See red roses fly.’

Dad,’ The night is still young, dear!’

I’m sorry I haven’t been able to write a lot these two days, because I am a bit caught up in other things and I haven’t even got a clue what kind of things actually take up all my time. I turn round and when I turn back again it’s half past one in the morning and I need to go to bed, because another day of work awaits me. By the way I work at a small bookshop called Koreander and I more or less run the whole business as my employer is mostly out to lunch. The word boss, by the way, is actually more appropriate here, but I try to refrain from using it as it has such bad connotations. So whenever I write employer you can read the word boss instead. Guess who has to open up the shop tomorrow morning? We don’t open up too early, but I have got to go over the orders, call the customers to let them know orders have arrived and all that while my employer is … out to lunch.
So, I’m going to have to leave you already, but I bet there’s time tomorrow between 12.00 and 12.05 (my lunch break) to write a paragraph, if I’m lucky. See me tomorrow.

Coffee Stains and Photo Frames

12-10-2014 Sunday
Cheddar died of old age and not because Grandma slaughtered it. I know she wanted to and was often seen chasing after it with a knife. At the age of 15 or 16 – I have no idea how much that is in dog years but I was told that multiplying it by seven is not the correct way to go about it – Cheddar died with a smile on its face. Well, actually, it was more one of those faces dogs make when they just let one go and pretend it wasn’t them. It was as if Cheddar knew its time had come. He stumbled into his bench, lay down on his special designer dog cushion, closed its eyes, let one go and died with that silly grin upon its face. That was the kind of dog it was. I loved it to bits.
By the time the dog died I had already moved out of the house and into my own place in the Whitechapel area. Without knowing it, you actually already know a lot about me, for I have been telling you about myself throughout Arthur’s adventures. Of course I couldn’t have been my own neighbour, but the house described in the stories is what my house looked like at the moment of writing. There was only one thing I left out and that was my parrot Mr Crackers. I thought one animal in my memoires would be enough. Don’t get me wrong, I love Mr Crackers and ever since Cheddar died he’s been my best friend, but it felt kind of weird having my own (now dead) dog and my parrot in one story.
A man who was hardly ever at home occupied the house next to Arthur’s. He was always out for business, but nobody really knew what kind of business that was. Not even Unice knew and I guess that says it all. Dad said Mr Pink – that wasn’t his real name, it was what Dad used to call him – worked for the mafia and that I’d better not go near that house. When I was younger I’d pass that house in the biggest circle I could make around it. Dad used to say Mr Pink would cut off my fingers if he were to find out that I had been looking in through the window and thus knew too much. Have you any idea how I felt when I saw Unice nearing the house and peeping through the window!? I thought she’d be a goner. Dad was a little disappointed he was wrong about Mr Pink’s occupation.
I replaced Mr Pink for myself as he was never at home anyways and there was not much in my memoires about him. So, his house was not really my house, but other than that my apartment was and still is quite messy, full of books (maybe that’s because I work in a bookshop), bric-a-bracs, pictures, and I have an incredibly comfortable couch that I can sink into and not get out of. To be honest the pictures are not really pictures, they’re just empty frames over my wallpaper. Basically what I did was frame stains. It’s amazing how coffee can end up on walls. The former owner of this place did a really good job on making the impossible stains possible. I don’t know how he did it, but he even managed to get a coffee stain on the ceiling. I got rid of that one, but I framed the small one in the hall. I must say, if I were to cut out the piece of wallpaper and stain and frame it, I could pass it off as modern art. I’m not much of a connoisseur, but I think it’s ridiculous what people pass of as ‘art’ nowadays. It’s almost as if people don’t take the time to make a beautiful drawing anymore. It’s just a bunch of lines or some splotches on a piece of canvas. Sometimes not even on canvas. Toto … I don’t think we’re on the canvas anymore.
That’s it and that’s that. See me tomorrow.