Ellis @pmforlimited - Tumblr Blog

there should be a rule u can’t get stressed for 30 minutes after u wake up. i just woke up. spawn invincibility please.

my first published piece of journalistic writing was titled ‘things people say coming out of an overdose’. It was bad, as my writing remains, only amplified by years of alcoholism and a taste for animal tranquillisers, but the point i’m getting to still stands. Authenticity is fleeting. Individuality is scarce and we as a society need to fight for the one thing we only truly own - identity. conscious self.The one true evil of the world is the powers that be intent on stripping that from each and every one of us. i’d much rather converse with a deranged axe murdered then a square brained office worker or phone slave (neither uncommon in this day and age). This is why i believe addicts are more intelligent than any modern philosophers despite what you’re told. Not afraid to talk about evil, conspiracy and the bigger picture. The entire reason i’m doing this is to recognise individuality. something very bad is happening and i don’t know what but something in my brain (which expands when under the influence of substances) tells me what i’m doing is important. this is the bigger picture- only on a much much smaller scale.

INT. 1

S pulls up in his truck by the front of my new motel, not far from his own farm. The air of the night is still warm, tainted by the abusive heat of the day and I can't help but get lost in all the beauty. I was blind to it the last 15 or so years of my life. Cardinal birds flying swiftly under trees to their nests, singing crying songs, warm light flickering on and off and on and off in the other motel rooms, from behind curtains, hookers in their multicolour mini skirts and furcoats.

So much I couldn't see for a while. It's like a breath of fresh air after holding it underwater for so long. If that makes sense.

The man in front of me seems increasingly impatient the more time I spend trying to look professional, tapping his foot on the sandy ground almost animatedly, waiting for me to speak to him first. I'd gotten distracted, for the first time of many, almost losing his attention - something I took for granted in the years I spent waiting for something great to happen to me. Most people don't like to wait.

“I'm glad you came.” I say whilst turning to him and shoving my hands in my jacket pocket to fish out my Zipcide dictaphone.

“Yeah.” he says with his southern drawl, "I don't got much better to do and this has been eating at me for a while. Just make use of it, will you?”

“Of course. It's pretty hot out. We can talk in my room if you want?”

He shakes his head and chuckles ludicrously as though I'd said something stupid.

He signals with a flick of the head towards the general vicinity of the pool. In this light, despite his age and ragged appearance, I might even say he looks charming. A small smile, his overalls fitting his persona much better than my initial idea of a trashy trailer park boy. He looks like he stepped straight out of a western film, not a dingy farm house smelling of cow shit and hay. The setting sun made him look mature and knowing, a far stretch from the low IQ rancher I’d marked him upon reading his submission.

I nod and follow him to the deck chairs, voice recorder at the ready. He sits down rigidly, I don't know whether as an attempt to remain imposing or ease pain in his joints, and clasps his hands together - once more waiting for me to kickstart the conversation. I assumed he'd be the one to initiate.

Already I'm doubting my skill in the career I've furiously pursued.

Transcription as follows (I’ve personally taken my time to edit some of his words to make more sense).

lol

thsi how my whole life feel

I’m honestly amazed and truly grateful at how quickly the messages from a colourful array of people from all sorts of backgrounds, ethnicities, cities, states, sexes, occupations, wages and the rest have piled up. It’s been a process all of last night picking out a select few, though it’s still early days and I’ve been diligent not to put all my eggs in one basket right off the bat.

Of note, however, is one old hill billy looking type whose email caught my eye. It’s more so his age than anything in the contents of his brief life overview that has me peaked. Anyone over the age of 60 responding to a niche facebook post asking to meet with a stranger means they must have something interesting to finally let up to the public. Anyways i’m droning on. This post’s a bit more personal, expect a few dull ones. morning drabble as I hit the road, contextualising my journey through words. It’s a welcomingly quiet morning aswell, Lou Reed serenading me over the stereo as I plan my route (not only to my location but also to an answer).

I’ll call him S, for privacy and also because it’s his first name initial. It’s about a days drive to the small town of his residence.

All I have to my name right now is 200 dollars, a $20 voice recorder (with noise reduction), my notepad and phone. Hopefully with the notoriety I gain off of my next few posts (including the first interview) I may also rack in some more money for motels and better equipment.

Expect 1/6 shortly!

the-big-mood

At Toba aquarium in Japan, after closing time, some clever little otter pups help their grandpa tidy up their toys. As a reward, he gives them ice cubes

pmforlimited

sole company for the past few weeks have been hookers, homeless and slingers. so so lonely, conversations fleeting and frequently cut short with fountains of drunken vomit and/or nearby fights causing us to disperse to the safety of our respective rooms like birds. i need something present. i need to feel. sky high for days but that’s not it (god i tell myself it helps, or maybe the addiction does? i feel good on it so keep doing it keep shoving shit up your nose go on another hookup finish that bottle snort and fuck and snort and fuck some more) no one even knows my name but what good would that do anyways? motel to motel not even from my own choice - how strong is a paternal bond anyways? the one person you’re meant to rely on consistently - my mother, ruined like that. fucking ramble is all i do, all im good at. blame the ketamine this time. sure. sitting by the pool slurring into the voice to text feature on my phone, knowing i’m talking shit shit and bullshit but it’s a relief to yell out to silent recipients. but the night is young. i’m heading off in the morning. Lovely girls round here, pretty, ragged and experienced but pretty nonetheless. i’m sure they’ve lived more then i have, exhausted and veteraned as i am and i yearn to lay next to them and just talk talk talk talk but it’s pay to fuck baby not pay to lay ourselves open to one another and take dips inside. i need another line

i need to get out

In an effort to withhold my personal information but still get my point across, I won’t be using names of places in this blog nor will I use the names of anyone I record (for reasons you’ll come to understand and accept later on), but I’m sure the majority of you will have already heard of my mother. You’ll have read an article, or a story or report, found yourself enthralled by her unique style and dramatisation of really the most boring things, and tucked her name away in your brain somewhere.

Good. That’s for you. You can have that but I don’t care for it anymore, so I won’t say it either. Hell, even if you haven’t read any of her work you’ll have heard of her in passing since she killed herself. Dramatised that aswell. Published her suicide note. Wouldn’t mean much to me if it wasn’t for the fact that shes famous in my city, and the things she wrote about me, how she dragged me into it for some final selfish ‘fuck you’-

you get why I’m upset. But again, I don’t want to dwindle on it and this is more so about reparations.

It’s funny because I really looked up to her.

I’m not a writer, I’d like to be, but I’m not, and this won’t be anything she’d have been proud to site as her son’s, but I have this itching all over my body that cannot be relieved with the scratching of fingernails on skin.

I have to do something extra. Make a name for myself - get out of this disgusting motel and back on the road.

Too much of journalism is focused on goals. Writing about an event, talking to the people surrounding it, the what, the why, the when. answering a question, some profound purpose.

Not for me. No. This is an invitation. If you have a story or some history tucked deep within yourself, some secret harboured in the pits of your memory, send me a PM.

I plan on 6 interviews. Till then!

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Ellis