Interview

" 'By far, the most widespread criticism of your career, has been your lack of belief in happy and complete endings' He took a pause, fiddling with the tiny speck of dirt under his left thumbnail. 'Well it isn't necessarily a lack of belief in happy endings, but a matter of irrelevancy. The end is the end, whether it be positive, negative, complete or incomplete is quite irrelevant. I'm a realist...that is what they call me? Isn't it?' 'Yes, you have been called that.' 'Being a realist, you have to be a touch mad, and far too intelligent for your own well being, we saw that in Hemingway, in Bukowski. What were their lives?' Fiddling with his tie pin, the interviewer became nervous, almost out of his depth, after a glance at the recording camera...'Traumatic would be an appropriate word I suppose' 'As has mine. Being a realist, as the pundits like to call us, isn't something you can convert too or believe in. You're chosen, by who gives a shit what, and it is beaten into you. The curse of realism is beaten into your head by each and every trauma you endure and prevail through" A coughing fit interrupted his monologue, bringing a ragged handkerchief to his mouth the weathered man shook with every expectorant heave. Breathing deeply he continued. 'Bukowski, Hemingway, according to the critics, even myself, see what boys like you can never see. The troubles of the world will never weigh your mind, or your soul. The complete pain and irrelevancy of it all will never grasp you by the shirt and cough it's shit into your face.' The interviewer made a quick motion with his right hand for the camera to stop recording and a sense of relief overcame his face as he spoke. 'Well Mister..' the frail old man cut him off 'It isn't all bad though you know. With every curse, comes a blessing. Those kisses you give your wife and child that repeat themselves into meaninglessness, the twelve dollar cups of coffee you drink, and that fancy tie pin you can't keep your fucking hands off of. I suppose there are two blessings, the first being that while each of those means nothing to you, such a moment as kissing a beloved will resound far more in the chasms of my heart than in the dense corridors of your brain, secondly...that you turned the cameras off.' The frail weathered man in his tweed suit reached into his tweed jacket..."