JOHN WARREN: THE DREAMS AND THE REAL NIGHTMARE

God, almighty on heaven and earth, life is a bitch! God wants us to stand the test of temptation and stand in the face of evil. But, I wasn’t told there would be this much evil on this forsaken planet. Christ, the only time when I will finally find solace will be when I drop dead. Even then, everyone claims I will face damnation because I am a ”smoker.” Sometimes I just want to tell every one to fucking piss off! Let me be, leave me alone, leave me to my own devices, all of the proposed statements go on.

I wish all of humanity would be subjugated to living in the Antarctic. There, they can all freeze up, or build some sub-terrain an society where they can keep their evil in one place. Let me have the rest of the world, along with all of the Thoreaus, Christs, and Buddhas.

I think about this stuff when I got out for my midnight smoke. The only problem is that it gets my mind going at a time when I should be getting some sleep. I don’t mind it entirely, and eventually I do go to sleep. Now that I am not working, it doesn’t matter, but I always feel bad if I sleep in on a nice day. After a smoke, I go to bed, and will lie there for a few minutes. Without knowing, I fall into a sleep, and then the dreams begin…

For the most part, the include a conglomeration of places I’ve been to. The one I can never forget was when I went to a place that looked a lot like my secondary education building, but had the interior of my University cafeteria and all of the classrooms looked like the press rooms at the Alcott building on 8th avenue. I will see people from different stages in my life, but I mostly see Mike James.

The funny thing about the theory of dreams is that most experts will declare that our dreams are comprised of the things we are thinking about prior to sleep. I hardly think about Mike after my smoke, cause that’s why I smoke! After his bull-shit antics at work, he’s the last person I want to think about. Yet, he’s there in the dream.

One dream, I was driving through what looked like the waste town of Elkhart in the Indiana territory. I remember since I saw many pictures of it when an article was published about a triple homicide there. Any who, I was driving through Elkhart with my Dad who appeared to be lost. Before I looked twice, I was in front of a large yellow brick building with green-trimmed windows. There, was a track field, or a football field possibly, right in front of the building. There were also some large clumps of adolescent children standing in the field. I just remember coming across my old secondary ed. Art teacher and him handing me a cigarette. Then a hand reached over to grab it from my hand before I could take a puff. It was fucking Mike James, clad in that stupid grey suit of his. He took the cigarette and extinguished it with his foot, and I woke up breaking a sweat.

This was an easy dream to decipher, simply because Mike James had spoken with Art Cleaver about banning smoking at my old workplace. They always allowed it in the main court, so long as it wasn’t indoors. But, the smiling bastard wanted to ban it, and I know he was doing it to drive me mad. He probably sensed my dependence on the drug. But, a more obvious reason may have to do with the fact that I had the hots for his wife. Even when they were dating, I always gave her the eye.

Several times I went to the Lowry Club on 18th and 2nd to wind down, and I always saw her with that rat-bastard. There were times I wanted to go over and take her away when he wasn’t looking. We’d escape Gotham, flee to the Dominion of Canada or Mexico. Well, one night my dream came true, in the form of a nightmare…

It was at the Lowry Club, except the place seemed to having everything furnished in white, except for the wood molding and red leather seats. Exotic plants covered the faces of the various guests. A smiling Mike James walks in a tuxedo with tails, and a red rose on his lapel. He walks up to his wife preparing to kiss her, then I grab him from his shoulder and drive a knife into his heart. I grab his wife kissing her as she submits, while Mike lies on the ground with blood squirting from the incision. Then I wake up and ask myself, “was that a dream, or a perverted fantasy.

I can’t count how many nights I’ve spent waking up from those dreams and taking my own medicine for the nightmare: Nicotine. My God, how great it truly is…to grab that first fresh cigarette, or cigar, and to take the first inhalation. How grand it is, to feel the smoke in your nostrils as I exhale through my large nose. The music around me melts into disarrayed frenzies, piano keys out of tune, trombones blasting out of control…it’s truly beautiful. At the point, I am living the fantasy I love…

Then morning comes, and the nightmare that is my life returns. I once bought a pistol, considering the idea of shooting myself, but I began to hear voices in my head, as well as the constant harassment by Nightgaunts made me realize suicide was destructive. I tried going periods upon months without smoking. They only increased my level of anxiety to extremes in which I seldom went outside, or ate. Suddenly, I realized that I had created the nightmare…

I was afraid of going out into the world in fear of meeting up with Mike, only fearing that I may act out my own nightmares. There were, indeed, a few times when I carried my stiletto to work, and I thought about slitting his throat in the bathroom. But, all of that white and lime green tile would look terrible with all of that blood spilled over it.

Those late days in winter, when I spent the afternoons in my flat. I called Johnny Dent, when he was still alive, to buy me tobacco. He was too good to me. I often smoked more than I ate, and there were times when I didn’t even eat enough to go to the bathroom. At least I saved money on my plumbing. However, I laid in bed, in sheets that were full of mites and spiders, watching the sun cast a light as morning turned into afternoon. As the cold air gave way to the late March showers, I remained in bed, and smoked until my throat began to throb with pain.
Upon the advice of Dent, I decided to leave the confines of my flat and go out for a day. It was terrible, especially when I made my way to Lowry club. I think it must have been on instinct, I don’t get around Gotham enough to go to other restaurants. I walked into the club, and there before me were an array of exotic palm trees and bushes laid all over the resturant. I sat down, in view of the bandstand, and on stage came a duo, that bore a lot of resemblance to Mike James and his wife. I don’t know if I was hallucinating, but it looked as though they were staring at me right in the face as they sang along to “How High The Moon.”

I ran out to the balcony and lit up, I was back in Hell again…those bastards were still buzzing in my head. I eventually found the courage to take the train back to my room, I just had a hard time facing the public. Everywhere I looked there were couples, many who looked like Mike and his wife. I eventually found myself in my room, with a bottle of scotch opened as I watched a large number of shot rings forming over my table. I eventually fell asleep.

I was in a dark room suspended over a swimming pool, I looked down and saw a body floating there as the lights from the pool made the body glow with an almost religious reverence. I turned and saw Mike’s wife in front of me. We both didn’t say a word to each other…I then told her, “I’ve always wanted to know how great sex with a woman was like…” The next image I see is the bed suspended over the pool, with me laying down atop of Mike’s wife, both of us are naked, and as I try to make love to her, I can still see the body floating in the pool. The body moves and flips over and its Mike with a knife in his heart. I wake up again asking myself, “What the Hell is wrong with me…”

There are few remedies to calm one’s soul after a nightmare, but Tobacco will do for now. Eventually, I felt it was better to write about it, all thanks to Johnny Dent who pushed it. As for Mike and his Wife, I still see them, and fucking tortures me to see him holding her and smiling at me, then I feel weary about the fact that some scholars believe dreams are revelations of things to come…I hope it happens before this thing gets published.

Jesus said “At Least I Tried”

“Up, up, high in the sky,
Rests and watches,
The omnipotent eye,

God, the creator and father,
Crying in silence,
As the human race falters,

Created in his image and likeness
They became stupid and ignorant,
Or is the better word, selfish!”

So God, told the cherub,
“Cease that infernal rhyming!”
As the great Lord sat alone,
At the Café Saturn, on Saturn of course.

This is where the demons meet the cherubs,
Where God and the Dark One share stories,
Were all beyond our own existence,
Watch and wait for us to destroy ourselves.

And God cries throwing his chalice aside,
“What in all existence did I do wrong!”
All of the spirits and entities calm the unmoved mover,
Whispering, hissing, and panting into his ear:

“Satan, my lord, he’s responsible for it all,
He followed your guidance, yet grew jealous at your power.
He’s the one to blame, for he wants to prove your
Creation is worthless, and gain dominion by destroying the human race.

“Humans are weak now,
They seek only material happiness,
They no longer have faith in you,
You are no real than the Santa Claus myth they created,

“and all thanks to Satan, he controls earth!
Satan, supreme emperor of the humans!
Satan, wager of wars, and king of sexual slime!”

And God bellows aloud,
“and why did I not try to stop him,”
Christ, holding a chalice of wine,
Lifts it up and says, “Hey, at least I tried!”

ABOUT JOHN WARREN

*This is a Personal dialogue in which the main character is attempting to hold an interview with himself.

John Warren was born on May 18, 2145 in the city-state of Gotham. Yes, the United States has been doing well as a nation of sub-nations and city states. Well, John was born to a sixteen-year old mother, whose identity is unknown. The same goes for the father, but John has eluded to the fact that he shares the same first name with his father. It’s really odd, because we’ve never heard of John’s parents, yet, before he came forward about his life, he said he was living off his parent’s money. Yet, there is no record of them residing in Gotham. Oh well…

So, John was born in Gotham, attended a Montessori where he first learned that he hated people. The irony of course was that John used to love people a lot. This had to do with the fact that John spent a lot of time at home as a toddler. He never had anyone else he could to talk to, or relate to. Often, he fantasized about what people were really like. This is now an opportune moment for this segment to seg-way into John’s monologue about his childhood:


JOHN WARREN ON CHILDHOOD

Q: What can you recollect about your youth:

JOHN: I can only think of a boy, all by himself, in a room full of toys. My folks didn’t have much money, but they had this idea that buying toys eased the weariness of a child growing up in poverty. I guess you can say that’s how I learned to rely on material things for solace. You see, my mother only showed me love when it was convenient for her. If it could be done any time after the ten o’ clock game show, or before the noon soap opera, then it was ok…unless she finds something else to watch on television. Oh, she went on spiels about how she wanted the best for us, just like any other mother in this whacked out society. Of course, the best refers to the “material” best. Love, is no longer the best humans can provide. I guess that was predetermined once we hung that guy on the cross after he told us God only wants us to Love. I might go on a rant right now, but I don’t give a fuck. I got things to say, so you better put down that stupid notebook, with your shit-faced questions, and wipe that God-damned look off your face.!

I was once a tender-hearted creature, full of love, full of compassion. I loved my parents because that’s what I was told to do. So, I loved them with all my heart, never getting any love or appreciation in return. My dad always came home tired and pissed. My mom divided her day between television and household errands. Now, the errands need to get done, but that woman seldom took her eyes off of that television screen. Like a sag of shoveled shit, she sat there, watching those “reality” shows where people lost weight, or had their homes re-modeled, or had the change to fulfill their dreams, all at the same time being as well as being sponsored by Apex communications which supports slave labor sweat shops in Panama! And her son! Me, I sat there by her side, waiting for her to give me attention! I was dreaming…

At the same time, I thought about life in the world outside. I barely went out except to join my mom on grocery errands. I never saw much, but I always said hi to people. God damn it, they would smile too. Nothing can spur a smile on a grown man than the sight of a toddler bidding “Good Morning” to all. As if all was right with the world. And it was, for the time before I was sent into Kindergarten. By that time, I had grown content with my fantasy about the world. At the same time, I wanted to meet other people, and this was probably my naiveté, but I thought it was going to be wonderful.

One morning, which I will never forget, my mother woke me up around seven. Before I could think twice, I was being dragged to the bathroom. My mother was helping me brush my teeth, and before I could turn to look at her, she had run off to my bedroom. I ran back, and she grabbed me, putting clothes on me, and I was then shuttled to the car, with the engine running already. We were on the move as soon as she got back, and I saw the small lower roofed tenements giving way to the taller, more imposing office towers of mid-Gotham. We pulled up in front of one big building where other kids my age where being escorted in by their parents. I was whisked inside and pushed into a room with colorful chairs and rugs filled with toys. I turned around and saw my mother leave. I looked up, and a stranger came up to me, greeting me by my name, It was my first day in school, and I hated it ever since.

I was enrolled at the Ayn Rand Montessori for five years. Most of the teachers I had were fairly nice, yet none were able to work with me properly. Until I was eight, I never understood the concept of schooling. Often, I sat on the rug while the teacher lectured thinking about other stuff. I was usually thinking about animals, trains, those cool pictures of the distant wars in the encyclopedia. Then, the teacher asked me a question, and I never was able to give her an answer. I didn’t think much of it then. But, by the time school was over, I spent the entire commute home listening to my mother rant on about how I was wasting her time.

In terms of what else happened at the Montessori, well most of the kids were smart, but smart as in “smart-ass.” They all knew things I didn’t know, and they often chastised me for it. At the same time, they had attained substantial amounts of knowledge about sexual reproduction, and often teased me for my lack of knowledge on the subject. No, I wasn’t teased, I was tortured. I was even mocked for being labeled as a homosexual. Children can be cruel, but these rats were the product of a society that needed to be destroyed. They, like me, had parents who seldom gave them real love, but quenched their yearnings with mass amounts of material goods, as well as privileges to see and hear things their innocent minds should not have been exposed to, and here I was…trying to find a way out.

I found my way out, I learned to draw. It strated with simple replications of everyday items, but it grew into a world I can escape to. A world where I was boss, and everything was created in to my likeness. In this world, beautiful things happen, terrible things happen, but it’s all laid out on the white paper that my charcoal pencil dances upon. It’s in this world I learned to make escapes from the hellish world I lived in. Yet, this was also the world for people to get to know the real John Warren. It was, by entering this world, that I officially ended my childhood as John Warren, the son of Gloria Warren, and entered a new world as John Warren the artist.

Unfortunately, this world did little to ease my pain of daily afflictions. By now, my parents were more unhappy with each other than ever, I had a sister who had grown from a baby to a loud-mouthed demon, and an array of family members who made it obvious that they were displeased with me. None of these things would change, except for the fact that we all got older. A year ago, I finally decided I was going to leave my family for good, I really do hate them…God says to love your family, but I don’t think God would like the families that harbor children today. I’m surprised God hasn’t already destroyed the earth. He needs to get cracking…I really don’t like this format in discussion. Go suck a big fatty, you should be ashamed with yourself of wanting to sink your fangs into people’s personal lives just to make a quick buck. If I can give you any words of adivice, it would be to go to the top of the tallest building in Gotham, and throw yourself from the top because you have lost your right to live. Same as with the rest of humanity…

And may God forgive us all, or are you really up there, or am I just wasting my time…

…no, you’re really up there, just tell me when you can finally make this all stop, and give me the life I deserve…

Sincerely,

John Warren.

ADVICE FROM A FATHER

As a young man, you need not fear for the future,
The world is beautiful, and its yours for the taking.

Your twenty, and you need to get a job,
Your life needs order and you need to get off your ass.

There are too many girls who are single,
And you show no interest in the one with the best boobs.

Come on my boy, what’s this about not masturbating,
There’s nothing wrong with it…wait, the Catholic Church says its wrong…

Well, just be a man, enjoy your manhood, seize the world,
Take a girl out on the town, make money,

don’t piss off your mom, be nice or God will damn you,
stop spending too much time on those stories that will never make money,

learn to love everybody,
abide by the morals of society,

God wants us to kill homosexuals,
never talk back to your Dad,

smoking’s bad for you,
would you like a beer,

Listen to your parents,
Your mom’s a bitch

Life is good,
Work is hell,

Is my lecture boring you,
Or are my contradictions indicating I ought to shut up.”


And I look at my dad and smile, “YES!”

My Friend Johnny Got Himself Killed

Day after day Johnny lived a life in Hell
No one loved him, no one hated him;
He was just a figure occupying space.
He lived alone in a 3rd avenue suite,
Living on damp toast and dried-up cigars.
At night, he remained alone in his bed,
Staring up at the ceiling full of holes,
Sulking and dreading his own future.

Every morning he woke up to the site of Gotham,
The sounds of vehicle horns, rattling elevated trains,
The scream of a jet liner overhead, the testing of ballistics off the Hudson river
The gossip gossip gossip of the gossipers in the flats above, the arguing and sulking of a broken lovers,
Crashing dishes, screaming babies, screeching tires, raging police sirens, distant gunshots, thudding jackhammers, drivers yelling in foreign tongues, waves waves waves of economical resources crowding the streets, swarming, grabbing, taking, ignorant, stupid, feeble, they do not know what is right for them.

And Johnny grabbed his coat and walked right into the middle of the street,
Staring at the dismal scene that hovered above, around, and next to his physical being.
He grabbed his hat, all tattered and bent, and moaned out loud.
Cars screeched to a halt around him while he stood in the middle of traffic.
The officers and drivers scoffed and yelled at him,
Johnny didn’t say anything, he didn’t do anything.
For a whole minute he stood silent, staring up at the sky above.

He left the scene and was lost within the swarms of the avenue crowds.
He found himself in an alley behind the Lincoln building.
There, he walked in silence, he was safe.
The sounds of rushing sewer vermin didn’t bother him,
Nor did the black void that consumed him.

There, before him, a bright billboard screen flickered on.
A loud voice came from the board speaker chanting,
“Did you ever just want to go far away,
To escape that nagging wife, that stupid boss,
Or that dead-end life you know you can’t escape.
Well think no more, come and take a job
At OUTER SPACE WAYS INCORPORATED!”

So he signed up and ran off to get a job,
He told me it was a venture into the outer
Reaches of the universe where he can get
Away from the hell that is earth.

I heard about this company, and I heard rumors about people who gave into the temptation and allure of space travel. Many pencil pushers and minorities took the opportunity, and many of them were never heard of again.

Yet, on April 30, 2134, Johnny left Earth for the moon.
At one level, I was jealous and overjoyed.
He now left the one place where he didn’t matter.
He was going to be someone, a space traveler,
Away from the earth, away from the cars, people, chaos, frenzy, toils, and mediocrity of earth.
Two months passed, and I received this letter:

"How stupid was I, to believe space was devoid of the evil of the human race.
Yet, when I left the planet, I was filled with hope as earth’s dark soot-filled clouds
Gave way to the dark void glistening with stars. My heart had sunk with relief as I
First saw the outer sphere of the moon. Plain, empty, devoid of the creations of man.
The space transport slowly made its way into the moon’s shadows, and there was a
City, much like the ones that exist on earth. Lethargic, exploding with inhuman
Progress, I wanted to jump out of the space ship and die within the dark, dense air of space.
Our space transport landed and all of the passengers were shuttled like cattle onto
A space, magnet-powered train that went out into the outer confines of the moon.
I thought for a moment that I was going to escape the evil of man once again.
Then, our train came to a complete stop, and what followed still makes my eyes
Shut with tears pouring down my face. Swarms, swarms, of humans, in makeshift space
Gear mining and digging into the ground of the moon. Mining trains thundered by as carts
Were wheeled out from the inner caverns dug out by the new peasants. Overseerers stood with
Newly-advanced ion-laser guns, watching us like vultures, waiting for one of us to falter, to
Give up, to revolt! Every day we worked in twelve hour shifts, eating food that looked like rocks, perhaps they were, and there, on the other side of the moon were the industrialists, scientists, bureaucrats and bastards who jeered at our sweat, laughing as we died from mine collapses and falling rocks, and the piles of rotted flesh dumped into craters like rocks mistaken for gems. Thanks be to the Almighty One, I will be far away at the moment when you receive this correspondence. The day before I wrote this letter, several miners got together and formed a coalition to revolt at the mining site. By the time the sun hit out mining camp, several dozen men seized the large drill locomotive and derailed it from its make-shift rails. I sought the opportunity to escape, running fast, with several oxygen tanks in stow. I looked back, only to see the ensuing carnage that can only be compared to that banned book you gave me by that Joseph Conrad. I saw the heart of darkness in space as troops gunned down, some of whom smiled in great joy as they committed their genocidal act. Bodies fell, limps blew apart, faces maimed, and bullets piercing oxygen valves. They fell like dominoes as if they were part of some perverted game of boss versus employee. I turned away from the Horror. I found a space transport and returned to the main base, leaving this letter in the chute to outgoing mail to earth. I hope you receive it soon. I will be leaving the clutches of man. Even though, there is no way I can survive in the outer reaches of space, I will go as far as the moon bus can take me. Good bye, my dear friend Warren, you may be one of the only people who can help to change the world.

Your best friend,
Johnny Dent”

I can’t blame him for escaping the realm of humanity,
Yet he left to a region where he cannot survivie.
Where or not he was aware of this still bothers me,
I ask myself, “Did Johnny Kill Himself, or Did Johnny Get Himself Killed.”

ONE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON IN JUNE

The Grey clouds floated low over the towering Manhattan buildings. A brief rain shower drizzled over the city as the humidity lowered leaving the city with a delicate, cold breeze. These were the things I always used to look forward to during Springtime. I can still recount the many summers I spent hovering over my father’s lawn watching the rain slowly drop from the gutters. Smelling the dew as dried from the sun slowly emerging from the storm clouds. I can’t recount how many cigarettes I had in the past hour, or the moments I checked to see if the bar had opened. Sitting at this desk, with this empty sheet, still in place on an untouched typewriter. How is it that we can easily create our own Hell.
I have been told that I am an eternal complainer, and my life would be a lot better if I settled for what I had in the present. I suppose nobody likes an adult dreamer. All of those years we spent thinking that nothing was impossible must go away with the attained convictions and knowledge of the civilized world. The clock says four fifteen. The bar doesn’t open until four fifty. I hate waiting in this office. I hate writing stories for people about real stuff. I hate the real world, I hate facts, I hate dates, I hate editors, columnists, reviewers, and publishers. When will John Stanton finally get to write about what he wants to write.
The smoke from the fifteenth cigarette dies out, like my own patience. I am asked on Monday to cover a story on the returning GI’s. I am told only to ask these silly concrete question like, “what did you think of Europe,” “were any of their gals better than ours,” or “is it great to be home!” These conditions are impossible to work under, the constant ringing of the telephone bells, the banter of household gossip among the operators, the chief bursting into the office asking if I finished the story yet. I’ll tell him the truth most of the time, “Didn’t you hear? The convoys have been delayed due to bad weather.”
I wish, sometimes, that I can take this paper and write about my world, the things that make John Stanton happy, the things that John loves, the things John is afraid of. With every inhalation of nicotine I slowly drift away to that world of possibility. A place where I am loved by all. Where my name graces the flashboards at the Roxy reading “Screenplay Written by John Stanton!” Then comes the moment when you slam back into reality, waking up to the real nightmare. Then you see the door is open with the editor in chief standing at the head of the door waiting for you to acknowledge his presence. He stands with his vest unbuttoned, playing with that cheap cigar clenched between his yellow teeth.
I find myself leaning up against my chair, feeling my brain numb, feeling as though I cannot take anymore of this. Knowing he will slowly make his way into the room as he prepares to fly into a clamorous rage, belittling my in every way imaginable, using every profanity created in the English language. I can begin to feel my own drowsiness, I often get restless when I am tired during work hours. It seemed like an instant before I looked up again to find both of his hands on my desk as he stared at me with his eyes burning with infuriation.
I just looked up at him, and lit a cigarette holding in my left hand, “Mr. Durbar, I really don’t want to write this story, as a matter of fact, I don’t want to be a journalist. A man gets tired of writing about these trashy stories about ordinary people, and their daily rabble. A man needs to do what makes him happy, and this profession…well, it really pisses me off. As a matter of fact, I am about this close to getting up and taking a shit on this article. I don’t care about the GI’s, as a matter of fact I didn’t really care about the war. Personally, I wish Japan and Germany took over American just so their secret police forces can lock up yellow journalist leaches like yourself. You never cared about the truth, if I went down to those docks today and asked the boys what they really saw, and what they really felt, you would have me fired in an instant. You would have me fired if I wrote about the Protestant New Rochelle man who murdered his wife with an axe as opposed to the disheveled Italian Catholic who robbed an old lady blind. You want Gotham to read this filthy trash, well I won’t be a cog in your machine of destruction. People like you, with the rest of the media moguls ought to be locked up in Death camps where you would all be incinerated alive! Yes, I know your Jewish, and I know the Nazis incinerated the Jews, but Jew or no Jew, all media outlets must be destroyed. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will be excusing myself form this establishment. But hear me out on this, you continue this enterprise, without any remorse…all of the things you were afraid of as child, all of the fiends that walked in the dark, and hid outside your window. They will come and find you, and torture you. I have conversed with some GI’s. I don’t know where it was in Europe, but something monstrous dwells in the countryside. There are such things, and I am going out into the world to write about them!”
He didn’t move a muscle, nor did he turn around to watch me leave the room. I came back in ten minutes, and he was nowhere in sight. All I found was an open window. I looked outside and saw a dark figure scaling the façade of the forty-second floor. I thought it was Mr. Dunbar attempting suicide. Then, the figure lept from one of the sculptures flying towards the window.
I felt my had collapse, it was still four fifteen, the bar was still closed. I had only five cigarettes left, and I’m not going to smoke a single one. Smoking before a nap will lead to bad dreams.