GET IN DE CHOPPA

I've been reading the Vertigo Comics series DMZ, which is about a photojournalist who is documenting the effects of a modern American civil war on Manhattan Island. The Island is caught in the middle of a stand off between the two factions fighting the war, and still has a population of about a half-million people. There is a protracted and uneasy cease-fire in place, that is broken occasionally. It's been like this for years. The city has changed. I felt like writing like I was a resident there, so I did. Here it is:

Staccato bursts of automatic weapon fire echoes faint and hollow in the distance. I barely look up from my salad. What? You're surprised? After ten years of this shit, you stop perking up to listen to every conversation held with chattering M16s. They never have anything worthwhile to say, just hate with a direction.

This war is whatever it is, and the people who are still on Manhattan Island and still passing for some sort of sane, we live our lives as best as we can. I like my life better like this, actually. I've always hated the illusion of the nine-to-five and here, it no longer exists. Oh, sure, on the days the war is happening, you learn how much humanity there is packed around you by the smell of people shitting their pants; but mostly, the war is in different neighbourhoods and so is the smell of shit. My days are spent tending my gardens and trading for what I need. My nights are spent with people, making and taking in our own culture. With half a million people still on the island, believe me, we have our own culture.

Music, art, fashion, writing, it's all here. Me? I'm a writer. Pre-war, I'd been struggling with a terminal case of writer's block. But now? The zest I feel for life, the gift that each day feels like? The words come easily. Even better, is the way that no one is trying to make any money with anything. We're all just putting our best work out there for people to appreciate and maybe argue with a little. Pure, it's pure.

I know this can't last forever. I know that at any time, decisions beyond my control may send bombs and bullets into my life. I know that people are hurt and dying here every day. I know that there is a black market supplied by thieves and protected by violence. I know all of this, but I tell you that I am more alive that I have ever been, here and now.

Another Suffering Bastard, Please, Bartender.

It is a beautiful, sunny and warm Saturday afternoon.

I am laid up, somewhat, and am sitting in a big easy chair with my foot up, as per my doctors' instructions. There was an incident with some Staph A bacteria and I now have an IV in my arm that I periodically pump antibiotics through.

Sitting here, I can hear several children playing outside, and I noticed something interesting. When kids are shouting over each other, trying to get their interpretation of the rules of a game heard, they sound just like drunk people. They sound like hammered adults, stammering and repeating themselves and getting louder and louder until the group acknowledges their input.

The idea that kids are tiny drunk people amuses me mightily.