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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