why am I even writing to you anymore? I don’t think I’m 13 any longer. I’m certainly not Wendy or Alice or one of those girls who, like, fall through a hole or a looking glass or open a Wardrobe to enter a secret world or something. Writing a diary and pretending it’s my imaginary boyfriend seems kinda childish.
But Da’ won’t listen unless it’s about a gig or getting drunk or something, and Nana’s been dead for these past years. At least I hope she dead, they never found her after all. I really could use some help of her. And the guys at the bar, well, they…nope. Besides, I’m pretty sure I signed an NDA or should’ve signed an NDA or at least those hobos with the longswords are gonna kill me if I tell anyone about that shit.
So it’s back to you and me, Chasey. How ya been?
I been great, thanks for askin’. After I finished “school” (well, more like dummy class), like so many others who finished, I had some trouble finding a job what with the economy and the hurricane and all. Not having professional references certainly didn’t help much…or at all. Thank you mom for just leaving like that.
Anyway, I did what I did best and got a job serving drinks to alcoholics. Why not. The bar is nice, Joe’s an awesome boss (he even puts my art up there. Occasionally people buy!). But it’s just…not what I wanted in life, you know. Not at all. I wanted to see the world, like mom did, maybe even change it (for the better of course). I wanted to help people. I wanted to make a difference. But after four failed job interviews where I was told I was “too young” or “too inexperienced”, and the trouble with dad and all, I kinda gave up, you know? I stayed at the bar.
Until that weird guy came along and told me about that strange magazine. “Planet motherfucker” they’re called, he said. “Don’t call, just head on over. They need a good photographer.”
And following a hunch, just the next day, I headed on over. They’re in one of the nice posh white-guy buildings in town, right in the middle of the business district. Granted, their offices ain’t so nice, kinda bare (but they have the internet there, which is a plus). And not many neighbors.
Anyway, so I go there and the job interview was weird. None of the shitty questions you get at other places, all the weird “Where do you see yourself in ten years” crap. No, it was just “ooh okay, so your pictures look weird, did you use photoshop? Interesting.” Most of them seem nice. The girl, Lianne, certainly is nice. I’m not sure what she does, but at least she seems to have a practical mind. Eddie…he’s a bit like a scary, younger version of Bobby at the bar. You know, he who can’t walk straight cuz he takes so many drugs he sometimes has to put labels on them so he remembers which to take when and which not to mix (Glad I came up with the color coding there). He seems a little out of it, most of the time, but it doesn’t feel stoned…more like…transcendent. Like Nana would get after a long session at her place.
The third guy, honestly, scares me. He’s plain weird. When he interviewed me, I had the feeling I was being tested or something…like he was an ex-cop and I was a delinquent. I was glad he got distracted by that exploding car.
Oh yah. While I was there, a car exploded. On the street. Right outside the building. Apparently it was their car. And what do they do? They stay calm as fuck, like nothing happened. The scary guy went downstairs to check on it, and then it was all like “Okay, let’s get down to business.”
Apparently they have some pictures of a more known politician in a weird fighting stuff crap position. Explosive material (ha ha).
But…and here’s why I’m writing to you Chasey, I keep digressing here. Maybe procrastinating. My pics have changed when I was there. Earlier, It was like…a shadow here, a shadow there, but nothing…true. And now? Now, when I take a picture in those offices of the people there, they look kinda different. Sometimes, way different. Lianne has another Lianne standing close by, somehow. The three hobos (oh yah…apparently they decided to take in three hobos to live there because they’re friends of friends. Good luck trying to get them to stop doing drugs)….they look like fucking Knights in my pictures. Yeah, like honest-to-god English medieval knights. With swords and everything. I mean, the same faces, but posture is different, look is different…just weird. Like they was knights before, but life kicked them in the balls three times over and now they only see the heroin or meth or whatever it is. Poor guys.
I don’t know what’s going on, and to be honest with you, I’m a little scared. It kinda feels like grandma’s hoodoo. Doesn’t help that sometimes, when I have my camera on, my head gets this sorta tingly feeling. It didn’t used to do that. Anyway. Weird colleagues, strange stuff, danger. And strange stuff. Honestly, strange stuff I don’t understand. If Nana were here, maybe she could explain. Or maybe she couldn’t.
Tonight I’m making a hexbag like she taught me, maybe it helps. I certainly can’t ask the Planet Motherfucker guys, they have a tendency to get sidetracked on difficult questions. I guess they don’t trust me, which is fair. But staying away isn’t an option either. I feel like I somehow…belong there? Need to be there? It’s hard to say. I’ll talk to you again after we’ve talked to that strange politician guy.