S P Mount
Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada Email: spmount@shaw.ca
Home page: http://members.shaw.ca/spmount/SPMountBooks/Get_the_Hankies_Out.html
My Ex-position-al Life
S P Mount was born with a biro in his grubby little grasp. A cheap pen, because,
apart from it being the sixties and the only computer available being one's own
brain, the family he'd been allocated couldn't have afforded much more than that.
But a mistake had been made, surely to God; coming into the world from the belly
of a commoner in a two up two down in Glasgow... well that just wasn't right, was
it... where was the fucking quill... the palace... the peacocks, for Christ sake?
Didn't they know who he was?
But feather had taken flight, apparently, and that cheap kind of plastic writing
implement had seen his first three novels written by the age of ten-years-old.
More than good enough though; showcasing an innate talent that'd had the nuns at
St Mary's orgasmic over - in the only way fitting for the wives of Jesus, of course;
not literally wetting their knickers or anything - if they'd even worn such attire, who
knew? (Well maybe Patrick Clancy did, from that one time... but he'd never
spoken again). But burst, finally, those pens had, tainting his crisp white shirt with
their turncoat blacks and blues... blood red, even. And so, with both opportunity
and the mother ship gone, because the fatherland was completely inhospitable,
what chance then for a bruised, but beautiful mind that the brink of cultivation had
winked so seductively at... that the clumsy foot of fate had booted into oblivion?
"That's not our problem." The well-meaning folks at the orphanage had said, setting
loose the tether of their textbook psychology that'd long since failed to
psychoanalyse him; peer through the brilliance of the one-way mirrored shell from
under which he mocked them; skilled in manipulating the entire psychological
process; shocking them deliberately as he tended to do simply for his own
amusement; his natural creative ability finding at least some outlet.
But at least they'd smiled and waved farewell - and not just to wipe their hands of
him; sincerely wishing him luck and he'd been glad to reciprocate - even if emotion
was still a very private commodity that would take a decade to surface - but
seemingly not belated at all when he coincidentally encountered his old
housemother in the lemon tree garden of the villa he'd come to live in on a Greek
Island. The universe at work; starting to put right a few wrongs.
But his mission, he'd always known, was to claim the mediocre world that they
called Earth; its grubbiest caterpillars even - or at least the wiggliest ones -
eventually ingratiating themselves in the guise of beaux papillons to sizzle with the
electricity of fireflies in new environments. Yes, now that he could fly, he'd unearth
civilisations, bathe in exotic oceans and feel the energy of magnificence from
ancient crumbled walls, swan with the beautiful and the elegant as he dined in
sophisticated cities, and dance with spears in villages made of shite, his
assignment, to embrace, in person, that life which had been denied; had been sent
to try him even. To be paid for it was simply a bonus.
He'd file away each and every minor nuance of the planet they called Earth and its
primitive races and places, until finally, he'd flutter down to savour the sweet nectar
of a Maple Leaf, where, with his omnipotent eye, he'd take up that proverbial biro
and stir libretto with it; blending his life experiences together with the gift of humour
that'd survived all that had been sent to diminish it. And all in an inimitable style
that awaited recognition once more, for he'd already proven that he could transform
tin into gold, he realised, as he contemplated, not his biro, but the fancy iMac that
would fit quite nicely up his parents' arses, thank you very much.
Interests: Travel, psychology, interior design, anything creative, theatre, web design, art,
history, writing.
Published writer: Yes
Freelance: Yes |
