Postlude

A titled peace this age with it brings;
The joy, for confusion, will not show his head:
Come hither, we’ll talk more of these questionable things;
Some shall understand, and some shall not:
For never was a story of more stress,
Than this of love and its new found Happiness.

This book is dedicated to the important people. Much love to you.

Special thanks to Shaun Davis for Chapter Eight (As Written By...My Agent).

Look out for the next book - a poetry book about my favourite subject.

Read the beginning of it all, Sexy Utopia. 

Marcus Flemmings 2010 (c) 

Become Happiness (Chapter Twenty)

In the beginning we are born with distinct opportunity. We are born with the same happiness gene. Time gives us the gift of ambition. Soon this manifests itself into greed, lust and other unsavoury emotions.
Buddhists believe in the ability to seek happiness via the loss of craving. Sadness is referred to as ‘Suffering’. The attainment of non-attachment leads to nirvana. What we all believe we wish to seek.
Clear mind, clear thoughts. Clear path way to enlightenment. Safe haven to happiness. Nirvana.

My methodology is slightly shifted from that chosen practice. I choose to embrace the opposite side of that thought. Grip onto all of lives pitfalls and great oblique overviews for my own personal humour and, latently, my satisfaction.

Take love for example. The thing that has always eluded me. I have loved and lost. That old adage 'It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never have loved at all' - this is true.

With her it was the love for what she was in my mind. Rather than love itself. Love unreciprocated is not love - it’s merely passion misguided. She was perfect for me. But she wasn't for me. Life is full of these anomalies...

When I finish my poetry book, when all is dusted and done, I'll dedicate it to love. I'll dedicate it to that emotion I felt for her.
My unexplained mystery.
It'll be a manual for love. It'll be a success and it'll be REAL. My agent will finally let me into his office with welcoming arms due to my talent and not my sarcasm and basic form of wit, which mildly amuses him (Even though he’ll never admit it).

As for her, she'll live. She'll be happy. She doesn't NEED me. It would be man's natural will to hate and wish her an unhappy existence. It is not my natural will. In fact, the opposite. Because, in my mind, she will always be what she is in my mind. And that person deserves happiness.

Novelist and physicist, Charles Percy Snow once quipped, ‘The pursuit of happiness is a most ridiculous phrase; if you pursue happiness you'll never find it.’ I work with this notion.

Invariably Happiness will find me. With my carefully thought out lifestyle I am the epitome of what Nirvana is.

Become Happiness.

Embrace Female Elevators (Chapter Nineteen)

I love elevators.
They're special. Much to the disagreement of my vertigo they favour me more than vehicles of an aero dynamic persuasion.
The female voice in the elevator is the best part of the whole experience. Her comforting pre-recorded voice is both courteous and welcoming - "Floor 1", "Floor 2" and so on - It fills me with a kind of orgasmic glee. Her tone was not dissimilar to that of your partner after a long term relationship- words mean nothing. Monotonous sounds - in one ear and out the other.
The whole experience was rather similar to that stage of a long term relationship. Minus the 'orgasmic glee' part.
As the elevator does down I ponder upon a question, what else is similar to relationships?

"Hey there." A familiar female voice says, "It had to happen didn't it?"
It was the accountant - as she entered the lift. Surprised, I mumble back..."Hey."
I hadn't spoken to her since the meeting aka date we shared. She was right though it was bound to happen at some point. She worked in the same building as my agent. The only mystery was what she was doing on the third floor - as she worked on the ground floor. "I guess this could be quite awkward if there was than 2 more floors till the ground floor."
Still rather shocked and, more than anything, embarrassed about not contacting her since the meeting aka date I reply with another mumble...
"Yeah. I guess."
Deafening silence fills the elevator. It feels comparable to entering the black hole. Not that I have. But my imagination runs wild at times.
We both look away from each other. The voice of the elevator lady becomes inaudible flooded by the sound of the elephant in the elevator. For the briefest of seconds I turn and look at her. She was just as beautiful as the first time I saw her – me exiting the women’s toilets. Why didn't I contact her AT ALL after our meeting aka date? I turn away contemplating the answer to this.
“GROUND FLOOR” the female elevator says in her loudest voice.
"Well bye. Nice seeing you again." The accountant says in her smiley way.
I instinctively walk in front of her and push the button for floor FOUR. Whilst managing to block her exit.
"Let's talk." I plead.
She chuckles, "What? On the lift?"
"Yeah why not?"
She laughs, "Yeah why not!"
The doors shut and the female elevator heads back up.
A silence again.
I don't know how to begin.
"This is romantic." She quips.
"Yeah. It’s not my most celebrated moment, I must say."
"To top the moments spent not contacting me?"
I laugh nervously.
"Yeah. Kinda."
"You gonna give me a contrived excuse for not contacting me? Cat died?"
"Don't have a cat."
"Dog had to visit a vet?"
"No dog."
"Had to write a new book about useless men? An autobiographical kind of thing?" She said, on the verge of bitterness.
I laugh with nervousness again then open my to speak, she interrupts.
"Don't worry I already know."
"You do?"
"Yup something to do with an ex or some girl you like or something."
"A little."
"I spoke to your agent last week to find out if you were still alive."
"Ahhh..."
"He told about some girl...your ex?"
"No. Actually she was more of a muse. Or more like..."
"Someone you wanted and had history with?"
"Yes. But more than that. You know in life, when you really want something and you reach out for it and it seems close and you reach out more and more and it seems closer but in actuality it’s further and further?"
"Yeah..."
"That was her. And I know that's no excuse for how I treated you but...well there's no but..."
She smiles. "We all have moments of weakness.”
I correct her, "Stupidity.".
"That too."
“FLOOR FOUR” says the elevator.
"Back down to ground floor I guess?" She asks, already knowing the answer.
She presses the ground floor button.
"So am I forgiven?" I ask as the elevator goes down.
"Shall I forgive you? That's a question. I'll have to consult my calculator and equations to answer that."
"Ahhh, I get that joke. Cos of the whole you being an accountant thing right?"
"Indeed. You’re a quick one. I'll have to keep an eye on you."
We both laugh followed by brief warm glance at each other and then turn away.
“GROUND FLOOR” our talking lift informs us.
"Take care of yourself." She says exiting the lift.
"You too." I reply, still in the lift.
She waves a cute wave and slowly begins walking away. I mimic her wave - she laughs her even cuter laugh - just then the elevator door closes. I try to stop it - to no avail. All I get is a glimpse of her grinning at my predicament.
I guess it’s back to the  floor four with my loving female elevator.
My longest relationship ever.

Sometimes Hark Back To The Times Of Yore (Chapter Eighteen)

"Where’s the book?" My agent shouts from across his desk - two weeks after the dinner party.
"In my creative hub."
"Creative hub? What is that? Your love palace where you bring your female groupies?"
I laugh, "I don't have groupies. I'm a writer. We have critics."
He chuckles then stops instantly with a deadly serious look, "Seriously, where is it?"
"You know...I don't know. In my head still."
"Don't tell me...writers block again? If I hear that phrase again I'm gonna throttle you. I should do it anyway after that dinner party stunt."
I laugh wildly, "You enjoyed that right?" I ask.
"No. I didn't. Neither did my wife."
"You mean the woman you’re cheating on?"
"Yeah about that, that chapter I wrote, you gotta remove that."
"Really? I was thinking of turning the journal into an online book."
"What? Like a blog?"
"No. Not a blog. A book. Online."
"Basically a blog then..."
"A book." I reply straight-faced.
"’Superman's a legend - he's almost undefeatable.’" He says, mimicking me.
We both laugh.
"How do you think of this shit?" He asks.
"You had to laugh when I said that right? Sorry for fucking up your ostentatious party."
"You won't laugh when you hear what I'm about to tell you."
"What? That producer and his wife divorced?"
"Oh nah. They're holding a dinner party next week. They're together still."
"Really? Can I come to that? I might be able to do the trick this time and actually break them up."
He chuckles, "Be serious for a second. That producer he was there to talk to you about a movie deal for your last book - Sexy Utopia."
"Really? Serious?"
"Yup! Obviously that's not happening now though."
"Shit. I kinda messed that up, right?"
"Yes. You did.” He says flatly before continuing, “Finish that poetry thing."
"I'm gonna put the journal online first."
"Whatever - just do something. Please. People will forget you otherwise."
I laugh.
"Sure."
I get up to leave.
"Don’t come back here unless you're doing something creative from your ‘hub’. I said it before and I’ll say it again, this is not a social club."
"Okay." I say leaving.
"And what's happening with that girl?"
"Nothing. I don't think I'll ever understand that situation."
I open the door to leave...
"I know about her already." he says smiling, "I meant the accountant."
I stop for a second and ingest thoughts of the beautiful, zany accountant. A brief grin to myself then an exit.

Always Resort To Carnage (Chapter Seventeen)

"What do you think huh?" My agent asked.
"It’s good, yeah."
"Better than that gourmet shit huh?" He asked with too much enthusiasm.
"Yeah I guess." I replied - with my new ‘whatever’ stance.
I was at a dinner party hosted by my agent, his wife and his pretentious industry friends. 6 of them - with their wives, apart from one younger dude, an actor apparently.. Being sat around the table with these individuals was painful enough without the questions being fired in my direction non-stop. It was as if they didn't get enough quality creativity time in their lives so they had to turn to me for some flair.
"So when’s the book out?" A well groomed 50 year old producer asked. 
"Hmmm, not sure. Soon." I mumble in response.
"Probably in the next 3 months. He's on fire right now" counter-answered my agent. Glee in his face.
"What's it about?" The producers younger (much) wife asked.
I pause to answer. Not particularly caring. My agent steps in, "It’s about love - a poetry novel."
Everyone around the table gasps in excitement.
"Sounds interesting." The actor guy says.
 "Can I star in the movie version?" He adds with a sarcastic tone.
"If I finish it, yeah."
My agent laughs nervously, "Good joke!"
"I'm not joking." I say.
"Writers block hey?" The actor asks.
"Yup."
"Me too. I'm writing a novel about war and peace."
"Is it called War and Peace?" I ask, in jest. Warming up to the party. Mainly the guest’s eccentric personalities.
"Yeah! How did you know?" He says. Everyone, thinking he’s joking, laughs. His serious, confused face soon changes the mood.
"What?" He asks innocently.
"You do realise there's a book called War and Peace already?" My agent asks him.
"There is?" He asks - he's so dumb. "That's okay no one will know the original."
I let out an impromptu laugh. The first time I had laughed properly in 3 weeks.
"What do you mean no one will know? It’s one of the most famous books of all time." My agent passionately asks.
I laugh again. No one else does.
"You gotta change the name." Says the producer.
I cackle evilly, amused by the crowd. Everyone looks at me. Bemused.
"Don't mind him he's just in a bad mood. Some girl he liked dumped him." Explains my agent. 
Everyone gasps - 'Are you okay?’ I hear some ask. I decide on melodrama to entertain myself:
"Yeah she's basically taken my mind and put it in an industrial sized cocktail blender and then poured it out into a heart-shaped jug and taken intermittent SIPS from it."
"No one sips anymore." Says the producers wife, really meaning it. She of blonde hair, like a customary token trophy wife.
I nod and agree, "Very true."
"Sorry to hear that man." Says the actor, "I once had to play a heart broken guy in a stage production. Very heart wrecking."
"Yeah? How did that go?" I ask, not at all paying attention.
"It was rather painful actually because I had just broken up with..."
"What about that Mandela eh?" I interrupt him, it was my turn to interrupt people, "Nelson Mandela - Terrorist"
More gasps from everyone. This time of a shocked variety. My agent, knowing that old line, steps in:
"Let's have dessert shall we?"
"You can't say that..." The producer tells me, oblivious to his attempt to change the subject. "What grounds do you have to say that?"
"Well he was part of a group called ANC they threatened and carried out various killings.” My background on this subject was vast - owing to my insistence upon continually using tired and tested line.
"Let's not talk about this now, shall we?" Said my Agent, again trying to change the subject. I loved my agent. He always supports me through all. Writers block, love life...hmmm...I say “everything” but only two things really. That was enough. However, at the risk of spoiling his party, I had to entertain myself.
Everyone in the room, still shell shocked by the statement I made, awkwardly drank their drinks.
A short silence.
The producer’s face filled with disgust whilst he SIPPED his fruit cocktail mixed with a slight drop of Vodka. Then he continues sporadically,
"Seriously there's no foundation for what you're openly spouting out - as if it’s a fact. Absolutely none. He's a living legend."
"I just told you the foundation." I retort arrogantly, also sipping my drink, "Legend? Nah he's not a legend. Superman's a legend. He's almost unbeatable." I quip.
My agent giggles, trying to contain himself.
"So childish." The producer mutters.
"Who’s Nelson Mandela?" The actor asks.
No one answers.
"Actually hunny, he's got a point." Says the young wife of the producer.
"What????" He says loudly in response.
"Well Nelson Mandela did use 'aggressive tactics' - causing terror and panic. I mean that is the definition of a terrorist isn't?"
She was smarter than she looked.
"Why are you agreeing with this man? He's anarchic at best. A plain old childish troublemaker at worst. Why do you always do this? No one wants to hear your opinion. You're here to look good."
I laugh.
"Don't oppress me." The wife emotionally replies, almost shouting.
"Oppress you? You obviously worked out how to use the thesaurus on that MAC that you brought with my black card. What kind of gold digging wife buys an APPLE MAC? I mean buy a diamond ring or a handbag. An APPLE MAC??"
A silence. His wife sobs.
I smile.
He continues his tirade of abuse, "Why defend that guy? You sleeping with him too? Might as well! You've slept with everyone else."
She cries even further. He looks at the actor – deadpan eyes.
"Yes I know she slept with you too!"
Everyone turns to the actor. He pulls a blank expression.
"It was only once!" He innocently says trying to defend himself. An argument breaks out between the three of them. With others joining in to calm them down. A crescendo of discontent.
Perfect.
I sip my water and watch it all, wry smiled.
From across the table, beyond the bickering, my agent looks at me shaking his head - like a disappointed father. I raise my glass to him and grin wildly.
My Happiness had returned.

Deny The Denial Of Love (Chapter Sixteen)

I saw an ad on the train the other day proclaiming that the 'stroke' is the number three biggest killer of humans. Well, I want to know what the number one killer is - that's what I need to be wary of. Forget number three. Why spend thousands on an ad campaign to tell me about the number 3 killer? Money NOT well spent.

"Excuse me" a middle aged man says to me on the stairs leading up to some place. I purposely don't excuse him. I want a confrontation. I want a confrontation where a person beats me to a pulp. It would be preferable if that person was suffering from some sort of depression. A beating at my expense might drag them foot first through their condition. At least then my beating won’t have been for a selfish cause. However if this type of individual is not my aggressor then it matters not. I just need a good thrashing to help me physically feel the pain of her crushing my heart.

Friendship? Pah, what’s that?  Friendship bores me. How can men and women be friends? Sex always gets in the way. Or worse, Love.

She laughed when I even uttered the word love. As if I had said marriage.
9 days since that whole incident and I was feeling less confused - I cared less about the confusion she caused and more about my own inability to not fall in love. As much as I denied it, I felt ‘in love’ with her. She encompassed my very being.

Confusion was secondary. All I now felt was angry at myself for falling.

The first great killer of humans is love. The second is stupidity. The third is the 'stroke'.

And Also Question Day Four (Chapter Fifteen)

When I kiss her the world goes silent. I see the universe and all the answers to the theorem of time.
As we kissed for the fourth time in 24 hours I began to believe that I knew how to predict the exact time and moment that this world will end. I felt omnipotent.

Today I chose the venue we’d meet at. It was a boat bar that we had passed but two days previous.

After some light chat about nothing and a drink, water for me, wine for her, we shared lips for the fifth time. The end of this shared moment was rather awkward though –she pulled her head away prematurely and took a second out. A blank stare into the distance and a turn of the head.
“How was that for you? Did the earth move?” I jokingly ask, to make the awkwardness less so.
She smiles lightly. No response.
“Is that a yes?”
“Is what a yes?” She asks, preoccupied, before rummaging through her bag for something. Nothing it seems.
I take a sip of my water and look outside at the river. A discomfited glaze hits our space. A silence.
“What are we doing?” She asks – almost at a mumble. With more stares at nothing in particular. Almost comatose.
I, confused, don’t reply.
“What the hell are we doing?” She asks again, this time more directly. I am forced to reply this time via her lack of ambiguousness.    
“What do you mean?” Nice reply from me.
“This. Us. What are we doing?”
“Mostly talking crap and kissing.” I reply whilst smiling. She doesn’t smile back.
“That’s what I mean. We’re friends. Friends don’t do this.”
“Well, we’re escalating our friendship to something more precious.”
“Yeah.” She replies flatly, pausing, then continuing, “I don’t want that.”
I am taken aback. It felt like the perfect mountain I had climbed in the past 96 hours was being slowly ripped down by some corporate fucks with aspirations of building another of the ‘world’s tallest buildings’ (How many do they need? Really?)
“Why not?” I asked – with that confused look on my face, that’s normally reserved for people who ask directions when I don’t want to tell them.
“It doesn’t feel right. We’re friends.”
“But...”
She cuts me mid-sentence, “It doesn’t matter what you say....it just doesn’t.”
“I don’t get a say?”
She pauses and puts her bag down. She went in there to take out her phone which she then randomly plays with. Annoying me in the process.
“No. You don’t get a say.”
I chuckle, annoyed, frustrated...inadequate again.
“Well...” I say – almost speechless, “...That’s bullshit.”
She looks up at me – with a ‘he swore’ look.
“It just the way I feel.” She says casually. As if I meant nothing to her. She continues to play with her phone. Giving me little eye contact. I turn my body away from her and take another sour sip of my water. No one sips anymore, I thought to myself to quell my anger. It’s true. No one sips anymore. Everyone drinks. No one sips.
I couldn’t contain the anger anymore. I put the drink down with a sharp thud.
“This makes no sense. You make no sense. You fall in love and then the next minute you fall out of love?”
“Love?” She snaps, finally giving me FULL eye contact, “Where did ‘love’ come from?”
“You know what I mean...something special happened between us and is happening right now...you can’t...”
She cuts me again, “Something special?” she chuckles, “Okayyyyyyyyy then.”
“What?” I ask aggressively.
“You live your whole life in a Charlotte Bronte novel. Your credence is ‘Love is all conquering’. It’s a fallacy. Like most writers you’re deluded.”
“You don't think writers are intelligent do you?”
“They're not intelligent - my dad told me never date writers, they're not clever. They make stuff up because of that very reason. They don’t have a basic grasp of intelligence much less possess it.”
“Yeah well my dad told me...fuck you!” I venomously say to her. But quickly elaborate, realising my mistake...”Not literally....just a figure of speech.”
“Whatever.” She says playing with her phone again.
I shake my head in resignation and then look up at her.
“You said writers inspire you. You wanted to write. You love writers and writing.”
“So?” She says in her typical fashion. Not giving a care in the world.
“You’re being a hypocrite.”
“Well that is the benefit of being a professional hypocrite! I can say what I want and then change it!!!”
I shake my head again.
“So everything that has happened you want to just forget it and pretend it didn’t happen?”
She nods yes, playing with the phone.
Silence.
“So what now? We just go back to being friends?”
“Yup. That’s what I want.”
Silence.
“Doesn’t make any sense. We haven’t even given it a try.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Why?” I asked, desperate for some logic.
Her concentration in her phone she barks out, “I just want this. Just friends. I don’t want to really talk about it.”
“We have to. Otherwise it’s going to affect our friendship.”
“Not really.” She says with a lack of emotion.
Silence. I lower my head in disappointment.
More silence. This time it lasts a full 4 minutes. Within the 240 seconds my heart sinks into a despondent shell.
She puts her phone in her bag and looks at me.
“I’m going to go.”
I manage to find the strength to softly reply, “Okay.”
She picks up her bag and stands up with a blunt, “Bye.”
I don’t reply.
“Fine, don’t reply.” She says.
“You haven’t even talked about it and you’re leaving. Fine.” I volley at her in my most moody manner.
“There’s not really much to talk about.”
“Fine.” I irritably reply.
“Bye.”
Ignoring her farewell, I randomly say, “’Professional hypocrite’...that's not even a job.”
She gives me a blank stare and again says bye before exiting.

This forever confusion was day four.