What I found rather strange about Mira was she hardly ever ventured out during the day but when she did go out; she did so out of necessity more than anything, and always wearing sunglasses. She said her favourite season was winter, only because there were less hours of daylight.
I was beginning to think she maybe was a vampire, an irrational notion but not as far fetched as you would imagine. Mira s skin was always soft and porcelain like since it never really saw the light of day. Her afternoon siestas were always long and she rarely slept through the night, opting for the graveyard shift at the hospital or venturing out for a walk.
She continued to play detective with me to find out more clues to the whereabouts of Sister Sabine and her motley crew of witches and warlocks. I was more the fanatical witch finder general and she, the rational detective. Unbeknown to me, and tragic as it may seem, Mira was the enemy. She offered everything of herself, her nubile body, her dignity and her damned soul. A passive-aggressive, Mira would play mind games to the enth-degree, like she was the White Queen and I was the Black King. Always trying maneuvers to outwit and get me into check. Naturally, I was always opting for the stalemate. It wasn’t that she was overtly aggressive; in fact I found her to be highly intelligent and a stimulating conversationalist.
Our love making always coincided with our lengthy drug trips together, with an endless supply of cocaine from the local dealers and the hospital where she worked, it was our God given right. It was then it became apparent that Mira was deliberately leading me down a path of total annihilation. Yes, Mira was like a succubus so I unwittingly allowed her to drag me into a quagmire of self-destruction.
During our time together, her interest in films grew more potent which impressed me but I had my suspicions that she had an ulterior motive. It annoyed me that her knowledge became more extensive than mine and she knew things about the film industry only an expert would know, not becoming of a novice.
I then would quiz her incessantly, despite all the drugs; I developed a heightened sense of awareness like I was some wild animal on the prowl. Who is this woman? Definitely not the real Mira Vep, the salacious young nurse who nurtured me at Charles Lempriere.
She would talk incessantly about returning to America with me one day. I told her I’ve walked the streets in many countries throughout the world but nowhere have I felt more degraded and humiliated as in my country, the US of A. I think of all the streets in America combined as forming a huge cesspool, a cesspool of the spirit in which everything is sucked down and drained away to everlasting shit. Over this cesspool, the spirit of work and enterprise weaves a magic wand; ghettos and factories spring up side by side, and plastic plants and oil refineries, steel mills along side brothels, prisons and lunatic asylums. The whole fucking nation is a nightmare producing the greatest misery. I was one, a single entity in the midst of the greatest jamboree of material wealth and material happiness, but I never met anyone who was truly wealthy or truly happy there. Perhaps the Navahos or the Cherokees once were! Well at least I knew that I was unhappy, unwealthy, and out of whack with the rest of society.
Ever since I moved to Europe, I found her to be different. She had a soul. The only redemption for America is arguably Hollywood. The so called “The Dream Factory”. I call Hollywood, the sewage treatment plant for the American public. It is there they turn the shit into something that is edible; that people can digest and make it smell good. Hollywood is America’s façade to the world. However, the town of fifty thousand inhabitants is made up of predominately Europeans anyway.
I often wondered before the advent of movies and television, what people did with themselves. I always imagined life was pretty banal, but I guess if you were wealthy, all you could really do was read books, tell each other fanciful stories, fuck like rabbits and play croquette, which does sound rather enticing come to think of it! So how is it that I can love movies when Hollywood is the epitome of everything I loathe about America?
With Mira in mind, I was a real sucker for folklore and superstition. However scientifically enlightened and modern I appeared to be, I was more susceptible in believing about Vampires, Ghosts and witches than dogma from an established religion like Christianity. Romanticized tales about supernatural beings most likely influenced by films and literature always had me wanting to believe, what if it’s all true!The awful truth was, I was an incurable romantic!
On the surface I seemed to have recovered from losing Sarah Mathieson to that obnoxious little weed Bobby “Fartbucket” Breslin, although I still go and see her films and she does creep in to my dreams from time to time, especially in times of turmoil and distress like now. But never less, my thoughts were toggling between Sarah, Mira and the whereabouts of the “good” Sister Sabine. I hadn’t even checked to see if I had enough money in the bank or whether my visa had expired. The authorities had no interest whatsoever in tracking me down, so I imagined that everything was ok. Mira was paying for everything. I felt inadequate but she really didn’t mind, which in hindsight, made me feel even more uneasy!
One fine autumn morning I thought I’d go to the Wells Fargo Bank in Place de la Concord to check the balance of my account and withdraw some money. I had my cheque book ready and some identification but when I got there I discovered my balance had shot up from a measly $500 to $34,900 US dollars! Someone had wired $34,400 into my account. The remittance came from Chase Manhattan in New York under the company name, Breslin T & Associates Inc with no name given. The name “Breslin” as much as I loathed it, meant only one thing to me, Sarah Mathieson. Thirty four thousand would mean I wouldn’t have to get off my butt for the next five years but I had more dignity than to just live off the funds, so I decided to do some freelance work for a socialist newspaper in Paris.
It may not make alot of sense but this is an excerpt from my book " For Love And Anarchy " from Chapter V111. Stay tuned!