Tuesday, 21 December 2010

JJJP Book 8 – Autobiography and the losing of a tongue...

For so it was written - before the alliteration was the word.

Some say that Smudge began his terrible life as a character in a novel. What novel nobody can say with certainty but chance, cheating, circumstance, journey - and of course repeated, random, repetition were at its heart - black heart though it was.

Those same some that said say that Smudge escaped from his novel by inventing himself on the pages of three other and different books – a book of recipes, another on gardening, and lastly an autobiography. He journeyed within each, but soon found he was no chef and each time he planted a flower or vegetable, it wilted, died, or simply failed to appear at all. Autobiography was his only way to reality - so he took it.

There is only reality. Life is reality. Death is reality. Reality is reality. It is all reality. Even unreality is reality.

And so started Smudge’s metamorphosis; from fictional character in a crumbly, crumby, crummy, novel to real-life character in his ‘have his cake and eat it’ autobiography. A nothing nobody from nowhere was to become the ‘Life of Smudge’ and in-so-doing create the reality of his life. Smudge gained strength as he moved from page to page, inventing and reinventing himself over and over until, feeling that he had reached perfection, was beyond improvement, unable to get better, he eventually arrived in the real world (wherever and whatever that may be).

Immediately Smudge began to travel his travels.

He journeyed far, wandered wide, explored all available atlas annotated avenues alphabetically - Algeria, Bhutan, Congo, Djibouti, Egypt, Fiji, Guadeloupe, Hong Kong, India, Japan, Kyrgyzstan, Luxembourg, Mauritania, Nepal, Oman, Peru, Qatar, Romania, Suriname, Tanzania, Uruguay, Vanuatu, Wales, Xizang, Yemen, Zimbabwe – and at one point Turkey.

The Dervish had fought in the Great Uprising, fighting the Oppressors, challenging the establishment, sticking it to the man; and unfortunately ending up on the losing side. It is never good to be on the losing side, there is no glory in it, no prize, no victory. To lose is by definition to be unable to find: to fail to keep, as one’s temper; to fail to see, hear, or understand; to fail to have, get, etc; to fail to win; to cause the loss of; to wander from (one’s way, etc); to squander, to suffer, at worst to have taken from one by death, accident, removal, etc.

In short to lose is a big deal, a bum hand, a house of cards. The Dervish’s deck was stacked against him. It was always on the cards. The Oppressors played with a loaded deck, with cards up their sleeves and the upper hand; the Dervish was lost in the shuffle. Calling his bluff, they tried him as spy and dealt a wild card, cutting off his tongue before leaving him to die dusty in the deserted desert dust.

It was Smudge who found him, bloodied, tongueless, and verging on the verge of death. It was Smudge who found him, battered, broken, almost lifeless, and on the edge of slipping beneath the veil. It was Smudge who found him, defeated, damaged, drained, deranged, and about to cross over to the other side. It was Smudge who found him…

...and it was Smudge who brought him back.

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