Letter from Scum Island; 2

Dear Me,

Apologies for yesterday’s letter – I kind of made it sound like if you carry on following your current yellow brick road you’re going to end up somewhere entirely Jones Town and not at all Oz. It’s not all bad. Obviously you’re not going to end up staying with the collection of pictures on your phone that you’re spending all day tragically sighing over instead of getting your work done – that collection of pictures is going to solidify into a human being who you’ll have a toxic relationship with from which you’ll never entirely recover – but more about that in some future epistle, if you’re lucky. But in amongst all the tear lashed hell you’ve got coming, you’re going to have a child. Yeah – really; fucking unbelievable, right? So not all bad. But not all good either – because you’re not going to end up living with that child and you’re going to have to watch powerlessly as he grows to fit the warped container of this vile placer, shaped by its foul mouthed, slow thinking people, having to join the other squealing rats tearing at the dwindling, rotting corpse of vanishing opportunity. It’s going to be quite heartbreaking, so buckle up. You’re going to want to take him away from here, but you won’t be able to – you’re going to want to present him with a good example but, unable to move or grow yourself, the best you’re going to be able to do is give him a good example of what an adult looks like hiding his own miserable, slow motion decay from his child. You’re going to want to give him the best – but all you can lay your hands on is broken and stained and incomplete. You’re going to walk him to school in the morning in the rain sweeping off the grey, endless ocean, playing hopscotch through the dogshit, dodging the dead eyed adults in Puffa jackets riding tiny bicycles along the cracked pavements, past the lurching men drinking Stella from cans in the crumbling streets at 8.30 in the morning, through the throng of smoking, spitting swearing parents delivering their pale and coughing children to school with the set, hateful expression of SS guards shepherding their wards towards the ovens, and you’re going to feel your face crack as you turn away from the fence, the smile you managed to hold there until he rounded the corner and out of sight gone in an instant, mad with grief, drowning in self pity, shuffling back through the rain and the dog shit to fester in your own filth and failure and pen stupid fucking letters to the you you were once were, futile warnings against shit you’ve already done.

Anyway – have a nice weekend.

Lots of love