This is Gonzo Prose
By Dominic Youel
Copyright 2016 Dominic Youel
Published at Shakespir
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The 35-year-old non-descript ‘career dude’ had prospects but was missing something. For many years this question had bugged him. He wasn’t much of a writer, but was that important? Unchi!
‘There’s nothing wrong with philosophizing,’ Avi said. ‘We all do it from time to time. And anyone that tells me that you need some certification to have such views on life well they’re talking unchi!’ Avi never minced his words. He viewed philosophy as usefully contemplative, freely available to anyone, and believed that it was up to an individual to interpret philosophy how they wished.
‘Don’t waste your life!’ You’d always hear him say.
Like Phaedrus the teacher, Avi always asserted his opinions. He liked to take charge. He would encourage the big picture approach to thinking. ‘Look at the overview then just pick it apart. It’s just little bits of unchi amassing to a great big ball of it.’ This was classic Avi philosophy on the complexities of life.
The non-descript man, now forty something, had a distinct look of life responsibilities on his face. He was a cultural observer at a life junction and this is how he wrote. He’d often contemplate, ‘If only I could get paid to be a cultural observer.’ This role of his took on many forms. Specifics would invariability change and at times drastically, depending on his surroundings. But he was an observer of first world societies and the cultures within. With the likes of Yens Leckmen or even the twisted and at times bizarre style of Zappa on his radio, this suited his thought process which yearned to avoid overtly mainstream unchi or vile propaganda. He imagined Avi’s brashness to his position. ‘Take the ‘Goldberg’ approach to your writing.’ ‘Really Avi, just keep going shall I;
I really don’t think it makes too much difference how many ideas you have but just to keep your hand moving, lose control, be specific, don’t think, yada, yada, yada. Ok, I was just repeating instructions which I will now cease. The radio is now going off. 8.17pm, children are wonderful, but at the same time they are the most annoying and testing creatures to walk the face of the planet. I often think that as a person who has been known to have at times somewhat of a short temper, that since I have had children I have absolutely transformed this into probably an average parent who has just learnt not to constantly flip out from the relentless badgering from the little cherubs. Not all bad of course they are also absolutely beautiful and you wouldn’t change it for the world.
Let’s be specific about this. Writing, albeit therapeutic is also difficult. Dexterity and perseverance while trying to retain speed and motion is, I would say quite a learned skill. If one was to throw caution to the wind and just say; well; ‘unchi’, it seems quite apt. I do not doubt however that a person who read such material may see it as delirious ramblings of a slightly incoherent illiterate wannabee. Blah, blah, blah.’
A retrospective self-fulfilling clichéd journey into a nowhere genre, this is what he believed everybody should try to write at least once. Avi agreed with this although he winced at the thought of it ‘boarding on overtly philosophical principles’ or ‘bullshit’ as he also liked to term it.
The three of them together looked like some badly drawn manga characters. Avi looking like an upright Concord while she looked like a slightly gaunt Mary Magdalen and him, well he just looked plain.
‘That non-descript dude’,
He remembered lots.
He remembered what cold water tastes like.
He remembered what the cold ocean feels like.
He remembered his dad.
He remembered his school.
He remembered being sad.
He remembered being happy.
He remembered being with his wife.
He remembered being so happy and warm with his wife.
He remembered his dinner.
He remembered his eldest daughters laugh.
He remembered his youngest daughter’s cheeky, chubby smile.
He remembered being so lucky to have a beautiful wife who helped him create his little family.
He remembered how lucky he was to live where he lived.
He remembered how sad it is to see children in war zones.
He remembered how sad it is to see families that are not happy.
He remembered loss.
He remembered young love.
He remembered smiling.
He remembered crying.
He remembered feeling empty and hollow.
He remembered being lucky for what he had.
He remembered being blessed for having health and happiness.
He remembered being grateful and hopping that he was just normal.
So what was missing?
He looked like any other John Doe. So was he really that different to anyone else? If you were to peer deep into his eyes in search of a soul maybe, then this difference could be spotted. Was there even a soul? He would tell you not. He would come back most likely with a pragmatism on how reality should conquer all such inquiry, and that before any discussion of a soul takes place one needs to do the science then present it in a ‘qualified’ philosophical discussion.
At times the weather seemed to mimic the type of person he was. This was especially true in late winter early spring when there could be up to four seasons in one day. This time of year had the warmth of the sun, similar to the compassion he was capable of. It had the clouds ominously lingering with something potentially much worse to come. And then as if by some twisted surprise like unbalanced delinquent about to jab a small defenseless animal just to find out what its reaction would be, bolts of lightning, then the loudest claps of thunder would reign down violently carpet bombing everything in its path.
She was similar in many ways but mainly with her volatility. She could be just as dangerous and on the rare occasion also display some compassion. When she exploded though it was different. It was more like a classic opera. She was educated at all the best schools and universities. She had a methodical and academic approach with all the tasks she undertook. This was the opposite however with her explosions which were a malevolent show of passion and venom.
‘These guys here are unchi aren’t they.’ She said to him. He didn’t have to give a verbal response you could just tell in his eyes and by his scowl that he had already analyzed the situation and agreed with everything she offered. His first thoughts on her opinion were, ‘well what can I do, I mean really have a look at them, they’re worthless.’ ‘Look what they’ve done for everyone else. Nothing. Yes, they are unchi aren’t they.’
Then of course there was Avi. His frame was tall and lean, far from skinny though as he actually looked more like an athlete that was having a couple of weeks on holiday enjoying to much drink and who gave up on the idea that a neat appearance was a necessity. His demeanor was one of ‘don’t try any of your unchi on me, ‘cause it won’t work’. Avi could be classified as an intellectual psychopath. He enjoyed crippling a person with his intelligence. He relished in the thought of an intellectual revolution with lashings of chaos thrown in for good measure.
It was some years earlier that they both discovered that the combination of music, philosophy and comedy were going to be the three ingredient throughout their lives that would drive change. For them good humor was critical. They also yearned for everyday irony that they could see on the streets, read in the media or even be part of in their own group. Irony that questioned commonsense, that questioned one’s intelligence. This would inevitably lead them into varying depths of philosophical discussions. And, this is why they cherished the music. They needed it as a reference to their expansive back catalogue of life experiences. Like the time in Berlin listening to jazz in the bars which lined the pavements or hid in darkened laneways. Or the time at the music festival in awe of Bowie strumming away to his pop classics. The mad trance DJ’s on the beaches of Goa that seemed to go for days or even weeks at a time. Even the simple regular occurrences of particular buskers on the streets of the city where they now resided. These were the reference points for them and without them they’d have unchie.
All three relished to varying degrees of twistedness and believed it necessary when planning their next and quite possibly final chapter of their lives. they loved the philosophy of being twisted. To them this was a specific philosophical pursuit. One can enter into realms of varying twistedness. A gonzo journey if you will, resulting in beautiful discoveries of the mind while tiptoeing along a tightrope of an unstable psychosis. This is how they liked it.
How did it get to this? What had happened to the world for it to succumb to such a fake. More than this, couldn’t the people see through him? If not, how did an individual’s brain capacity diminish to such an extent to see him as hope? What could they do. Probably nothing but they couldn’t just sit there especially when such a catastrophic outcome was so close.
It infuriated Avi to be witness to what he called ‘the mind unchiing of the masses, munting them into a mind annulation by a megalomaniacal spastic (sic)’. Avi already had a plan. Actually he had two. One of them however was somewhat extreme, ‘let’s rip out his heart!’ He’d shout during their strategy meetings. All three did warm to this suggestion but also recognized that in reality it would not work (he had no heart).
It was a success. It was such a success that others around the globe hailed them the newly termed ‘saintly terrorists.’ Avi didn’t make it though, he was consumed by so much hatred that he decided to actually carry out his vengeance with zero empathy to the Orange One’s cause. His last words were not words at all, but a gleeful laughter which in the end was muffled out by a mouth full of blood and debris.
She on the other hand did not know how to come to terms with the result. She didn’t see herself as an assassin but more like a Joan of Arc who relished in obliterating this ‘evil orange unchi.’
Their success left him to reminisce fondly Avi’s perspectives on life. Avi may be gone now he thought, but his strange ways may have given some hope to the masses who sought to make their nation great again. As well as this, he now always had something interesting to write about.
‘There is a twisted logic in everyday life. This is what can make the monotony, the drudgery, interesting and fun if communicated in this way. Twist the drudgery even more; build the monotony into a hypnotic prose that you can take to a stage and then whip the carpet out from beneath the reader.’Avi philosophy.
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Thanks! Dominic Youel
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This is Gonzo Prose as the title may suggest should not be taken too seriously. This short piece by amateur writer Dominic Youel is a morphed culmination of ideas and some of his own life experiences. Having no great love of any writers in particular, Youel has tried to push the boundaries of absurdity with twisted humor. He did state that the only thing he wishes for with this book is for the reader to come away with a light hearted bemused questioning of life (deep), questioning the book itself and possible wishing for more.