First of all what you’re reading now is not part of my original piece, Per se.
In rereading it, I got the urge to actually write a short story called: Ray of cosmic love.
To see if I can create something from what was originally a pacified idea to praise Benin.
As I was coming up with a fancy post-it note :
I became inspired to buy a typewriter, possibly a 1930’s corona, and make slurpton and Ray, (played by Bradley cooper). Surely magical.
Because to be honest: writing the way I have been is starting to suck.
I’m waiting a lot, to be honest.
For visas and shit.
Yet I feel obligated to transcribe my experiences with care and in detail.
Which is usually torturous to relive
And that is becoming a task I no longer want to burden myself with.
So fuck it, I’m going to flip the script.
If you want to continue reading, by all means.
But it’s filled with hostage shit.
Weird hostage shit.
So, thank you for your time and consideration, I hope I can do the Ray Of Cosmic Love Story, justice.
Maybe I’ll be like your stepdad and show up on a birthday.
Day 313: 313, until then…
Au rivor moi petit cherries.
Goodbye, my friends.
(Bobby walks stage left and shoots himself in the face with a 1997 super soaker XTI.
He dies instantly.
He enters stage right, a new, entirely other.
…back to the regularly scheduled program.
I consider the small country of Benin a refuge, camouflaged perfectly between Nigerias extreme corruption and Burkina Fasos dark Islamic overture.
Benin is safe, relaxed and most of all, a beautiful country.
I could close my eyes and very easily spend a life time toiling away in various artistic endeavors here.
Opportunities seem both exponential, as well as affordable.
Just as Van Gogh travelled to France, England and Belgium looking for muse, today’s artist can find similar margins for inspiration here, in Benin.
Because, frankly, traveling the “country side” in France, painting ships on canvas, just ain’t like it used to be.
The artist has become passified by these new super economies.
Unless of course the artist is an agent for these super economies.
If Justin Timberlake loves It so much, why dosent he just marry it?
Marry McDonald’s Justin.
Prove your love for a cheeseburger is similar to the love a mother feels for her placenta covered first born daughter.
I mean sure, you can work in an office in New York or Milan, but have your own studio near the sea? “Forget that shit.”
Not in 2019.
Do you want to wake up smelling plaster drying from what surprisingly turned into last nights sculpture orgy?
Or spend a morning casually picking dried acrylic paint kneaded into your nail beds, because you devoted the entirety of last week painting fantastic dicks?
Meanwhile, flowers bloom cascading their sweet perfume all around you.
Dragon flies too.
Curious blue lizards scurry at your feet.
I want to write a series of short stories about a homosexual alien obsessed with Ray LaMontagne (played by Bradley Cooper), on a vintage typewriter.
In my world and possibly yours, results are intended to justify means.
Can I sell a homosexually charged love affair between a beautiful singer song writer and a mysterious yet rugged extraterrestrial, to a publisher, film maker or Netflix?
No, I can’t
That’s not the reason I want to create this, or any story.
I’m writing for me, for you.
Because “A Star Is Born” didn’t have enough choreographed Indian dance sequences, or graphic alien sex, or choreographed Indian dance sequences with graphic alien sex.
Why not write a story to see what some random idea can evolve into, after polishing it to a mirror.
Until Slurptpon the alien absorbes all my failures as a lover and a brother.
Ray La Montague (played by Bradley Cooper), deepens a deep respect and desperate obsession… he loves Slurpton, ok?
Deep love, it’s somethin’
Despite Slurptons shortcomings as a space lover, who is the stereotypical lethargic bachelor, ever bouncing between white suns on the brink of going supernova and the bed sheets of space hunks, steeped in hard unforgiving muscle.
Slurpton regularly travels to distant worlds, through dimensions, through men sitting in red sand amidst rolling ocean dunes, seemingly alone in their remote particulate of the cosmos, these unsuspecting people are in fact, the jankey portals Slurpton uses to be near his beloved, Ray (played by Bradley Cooper).
The series is called, Ray of cosmic love.
The sexy twist?
Slurpton can and does, lick human balls in a manner akin to an old Chinese man rhythmically rotating authentic, Chinese made, chrome stress balls, which is to suggest, Slupton can wag a wet tounge across an orgasmic mans asshole like a pack of starving sewer dogs.
Seriously next time you’re in Cambodia.
Go to Gary Chows.
Pay 10,000 dong (Gary’s, Vietnamese. He screams when he talks. Seeming to be forever asking rhetorical questions)
He’ll let you lay on the floor naked and open your legs at 4:30 and 7. While 14, freshly hair dried, exotic breeds of very rare puppies joyfully lick Nutella from your now sparkling asshole.
Like a pedicure for your butthole.
Imagine pounding the of letters of this colourful saga on your 1930’s Smith Corona.
The Coronas percussion complimenting the purrrrrrrrrrrrrr of the sea, as it beats a complementary hypnotic rhythm of soft larghissimo, in the deep, almost invisible back ground.
Somewhere beyond your subconscience.
Way past your subconscience, perhaps, to your beginning?
As I said, Benin feels like a refuge.
Not just from Africa, but from the world.
I could have illustrated my point in million different ways, why create fictional characters that are destined to offend at least one person reading this?
maybe it’s you?
Are you offended?
“A homo sexual alien!?”
What does that even mean? Aliens are A-sexual.
Are you going to thumb down me dude?
Excuse me, as I get off Benins dick.
Right, so after 10 glorious days of live music, Voodo rituals and mental freedom, I travelled north to Natitingou.
My intention was getting to Niger, despite plenty of warnings regarding that decision.
There have been kidnappings and some murder near Natitingou.
Islamic extremists are widely believed to be responsible, said to be from Mali and Burkina Faso.
But who really knows?
I was told by locals that going to Timbuktu right now would be suicide, with a lot of steps.
Add to that, a Norwegian shipping vessel was bordered by pirates and nine crew members were held hostage, a few days ago.
Lots of hostage going on.
Which was the reason I made a pseudo hostage video.
Because I have a visa for Niger.
My reason for going to Natitingou was purely transit related.
While in Natitingou, waiting for Monday, I visited the local market with a plastic box full of eighty nine suckers and a similar looking cellophane box, filled with chocolate squares, that, in all honesty, tasted like, what chocolate would taste like, if the chocolatier only had access to sugar, food colouring and milk powder.
Weird & Nasty, this chocolate.
Why did you have so much candy Bobby?
I was possessed by a sweet tooth demon, planted in me, by the bus Priest, I’m sure.
Under the cover of night, I went to a small, nearby shop.
Where the woman at the counter refused to sell me three individual pieces of both Chocolate and cherry suckers.
“You must buy all of them” she said, daring me.
“How much” I asked
Two thousand five hundred each.
I bought them.
As my inner diabetic demon jumped for joy.
I can’t eat all this candy, I’ll go retarded, I thought, as I picked fragments of chocolate from my chest hair, before it melted.
So, the following day I walked to the local market carrying my sweet wares.
No stranger to a market collective, I set up on an abandoned wooden table, under a tattered black tarp.
Within seconds I had customers.
My business plan: give me a coin and I’ll give you a candy, or three.
Business was never my strong suit.
If you’re old or very young, you get a free candy.
Soon I was surround by sixty or more people.
Outstretched hands pinching gold coloured coins, thrusting them, shaking them at me.
Some of the woman had intricate scars woven into their faces.
Some had small green tattoos of shapes etched into their foreheads and under their mascara adorned eyes.
Everyone clamouring before me, had the shine of sweat coating them.
Making them sparkle in the hot sun.
I keep saying relax relax, but people were enchanted with the novelility of buying sweets from a white.
And at a hell of a deal to boot.
“Did you see, he gave five suckers to that old woman, for 50 Francs!” I imagined them advertising for me.
Soon the kids were slipping their tiny hands into my chocolate bucket, stealing my sweets.
This was happening blatantly, as I was now distracted by the colosseum of babies before me, each one fashioned with a coin in their tiny hands.
If a baby gave me a coin, they got a sweet, as I refused the coin, followed by a short, rehearsed, “the pleasure is mine” said to a curtsying mother.
Then it was on to my next customer.
People who appeared especially worse for wear, were given free candy, despite their having coin.
Those with no allegiance to capitalism were rewarded with a sweet.
Mine was a sellers market that could never be reproduced by the imitative entrepreneur.
“Combien?” I would ask
Meaning how much candy do you want, for anything of value?
Then I would hold their coin up to the sun, inspecting it with somber diligence.
The kids stealing from me would stop momentarily to laugh.
Giving me an ounce respite.
Then I would return the coin, with a couple suckers.
Humour was the only way of somewhat effectively controlling the mass of people plotted in a complete circumference around me, with an ever decreasing radius that was nearly choking me.
“Relax relax” I kept repeating.
Humour was doing a dodgy job now.
This moment reminded me of how powerful a group of people can be.
Not as a metaphor, but as real power, real energy.
A real encounter producing more than enough energy to push me around.
To overwhelm me completely.
Imagine trying to sell sweets in a mosh pit.
Toward the end, I couldn’t control the little thieves.
I gave what I had left to the oldest person near me.
Fuck this job, I quit, I said.
I walked way with my hands in the air.
To the boisterous jeers of my former customers.
The lesson I learned again was, I’m not in control.
If a group of Islamic extremists forced me to wear a pillow case on my head, while walking me through the desert under starlight, to a cave with really bad wifi.
It would take five skinny, determined men, minimum.
I noticed in this particular market there were hundreds of refugees from Burkina Faso and Mali.
Refugees are always an indication of a serious problem.
And the most important observation.
Was the way I was looked at by some of these men.
It was neither brotherly or amused, it’s how a caged lion would behave at a Louisiana a rib roast.
I was food.
Given an opportunity, I would become an opportunity.
The wave of my reconsideration started to break.
That following day I visited the jewel of the north, a waterfall in Kota.
I smoked some magic grass and made a rather long video illustrating my love of art, Avichii and what I think of hostage takers.
Which makes me think, what if I were to kidnapped someone who kidnaps people, professionally?
Would that make me a master kidnapper?
Worth a linkedin edit.
I later climbed the falls, squatted on a rock and stared into the mist swirling all around me.
In the mist, a rainbow appeared.
The Colors were presidential in all their primary glory.
Except these rainbows were vertical.
In that moment, my intuition told me that I’ve reached the end of this rainbow, this beautiful grotto in Benin.
That I should not venture beyond the color.
And like a good boy, who listens to his Omens.
I leave for Ghana on Saturday.
I will abandon the ancient mystery of Timbuktu.
Morocco is after all my goal.
I vow to return to this Timbuktu side mission, once, of course, I wrap the game.
“The secret of happiness is to see all the marvels in the world and never to forget the drops of oil on the spoon.”
⁃ The Alchemist.