SHIFTING LUST
By Darcy Prince
I’d rather look at the mirror than what happens in between the ears. Maybe my imagination summons the supernatural visions, suffering blood, bringing to life the learnings from and of hell. Where sin isn’t as cared about as much as it does here on Earth. My actions a remembering from series of images, running over my mind, from the course of my journey, procession of flagellants, never to lash out over shame. Not in abundant of continuous saddening whitening dreams. Implored by my muse, higher power or personal God. my sobs are mournful chants in praise of her mercy. A Mother of the Republic. Immersing in her thoughts - always. Beyond awakening and poetry, it’s a cosmic tragedy when two people meet, be in love but avoid facing destiny and to act on it. Learning from my never to fear act of sitting down to think for myself. Oh failed poet, there is always something to be loved in this life. Do not sit in the kitchen to cry. Never. Falling in love a pilgrimage to their muse. Lover - Lover. Joe, sitting at his table, pen and paper spreaded in front of him, sobbing. Exquisite humility, emitted in his sadness, wondering back in bitterness of why? Looking over past written poetry - either, in search for answers. Lonely man, who could never catch up to his personal dreams, inflicted on him, but shared by others, over this globe. Oh celebrate neurotic, do not cry, true love, soulmates, something worth living for, though not poetry alone. Snapping out of his train of thought, coffee and smoke, then a glass of water. Sighing, sign in, sighing. Joe, to himself, thought, destined to be alone for life, hoped that his actions of today, will be judged and rewarded for the good in the afterlife. He is the author of his own mind, creating the reality of his life, though, it cannot be tamed. The soul his own altar. Joe, cleaning his kitchen table, with the lights going lower into the darkness, with his one light hanging on one wire from the roof, flicks on light. Burbing. Wanting to write, while the heartbreak is all fresh. Composing thoughts in written words. Poem after poem. About fifty. What talent and skill can do, that’s if it has time to do so. Becoming bored, especially when he goes over the poems in regards to spelling and poetic grammar. Though a passion always lay with and for poetry, it goes only so far. Not to mention lemons. Going to sleep, a single bed, one pillow, a couple of blankets. A bed unkempt with one or two stains. It didn’t matter. Laying down and hearing all those noises from the streets down stairs. Joe thinks it dirty, the whole city is dirty. Car honks and people talking too loudly, trying to attract attention or first time parents putting on a veil, that for generations of people who couldn’t have babies finally snapped out of it. Moaning, sleep is the only time where his mind could switch off, without his emotions pressing guilt on him. Blade Runner. When history is no longer looked at, the present must be on ecstasy, killing its future. Sleep takes over. Because his body finally gives up. Waking up halfway between six and seven in the morning, already alarmed. But coffee is needed, as it always is, because it’s always there when you call upon it, without a sigh of protest when you touch it and when you taste it, at will, it’s almost pleasurable everytime. Joe, looking at his packet of smokes. Wanting more before another word is typed. It’s a writers sin, to start to write and in volunteering terms, to stop and to do a chore, it’s so sinful. Addiction is always there, just changes style when one act is given up for sobriety. Outside, wearing his blue jeans, with a couple of rips in it, hair messy, somewhat unshaven - just not to the point of where someone needs to something about it. If they did. It wouldn’t matter. All writers work for themselves. And one singlet. Each alley walking by, full of homeless people sleeping. The rest of the space, junkies having armchair philosophy arguments. Like is water wet? Joe smirked at the sight of it. Inside the corner store, the clerk, Jason, going full blown on a customer.
“What is this man? Las Vegas? Do I look like the pokies to you-man?” Having his hand out, pointing at it, to the customers. “Paper money now, IMF has released paper money-man. You’ve got a job.” Crossing his arms, Jason takes his cigar and places it into his mouth.
“You know jobs are hard to get here.” The customer swaying slightly, like Joe, had just woken up. “I’ll give you some paintings.”
Grabbing a baseball bat and prepared himself to swing. “You know that method is phasing out.” Takes a swing at him. “Get out of here you bastard!.” Throwing it to the ground and taking heavy breaths. Murmuring swears to himself, in his own language. Puffing away on his cigar. Taking note of Joe. “Hey Joe.”
“Hey Jason.” Joe waves at him, taking a loaf of bread. Putting it on the counter. “And some smokes.”
Jason runs through the bread and grabs for packet of smokes. “Thanks for signing that collection of poetry man. My wife won’t stopping reading them. Might have to ask you not to write any more, she has head in it. I’m not getting any sex.”
Joe throws some money on the counter and lights a smoke inside the corner store. “Fun-fact, I only got into poetry to impress the girls, so I can get more sex.”
Jason goes into the packet of smokes and helps himself. “How’s that working out?”
“I masturbate a-lot.” Leaning to his right, pulling of a nearby stool to sit on. “Was that guy on about?”
“Still wants to trade art. The IMF just put in money into the globe. The revolution was a opulent failure.” Jason with a cigarette dripping from his mouth, turns to serious stern sadness, experience everything horrible that had happened to him. Turns to look at a picture of his wife. “Ma fleur, love flamed in our youth than burst into wildfire for decades to come.”
“That’s beautiful Jason.” Joe spoke in gentle tone.
Looking at Joe. “The sorrows of old, can go deeper than the sorrows of the youth and death is our consolation to it all.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Gesturing with his hands. “Look what I stumbled upon. Owning a corner store in the ghetto after I fought for the revolution for Anastasia’s world yearnings. The wealth of many centuries had been transmitted into ornament, luxury, pleasure; no more; the abolition of feudal rights had swept away duties as well as privileges; wealth, like an old wine, had let the dregs of greed, even of care and prudence, fall to the bottom of the barrel, leaving only verve and color. I fell in love with a woman, the worst thing a poet can do. He gives up his everything to be in love and turns poor in his outside life.”
“That’s signs of a smart man. Isn’t it?” Leaning on the countertop. Curious to his answers.
“Poverty is disease. I’ve been poor my entire life. Before, my parents and generations before. There’s no stopping the suffocation of it. Trust me, humility doesn’t come with it. Or thankful, if it does, it’s forced. I had dreams, younger than you are now, they got crushed, not by life or lack of actions, but by people who are poor. I never blame the wealth or the wealthy, there’s always someone willing to hire hard works, I think there’s pride to be taken in the fruits of hard-work. No talent required. Even now, the dreams get told off.” Jason finishes his smoke and ashes it out. Joe watches the remaining part dying in it’s dusty ashes. “Fucken cigerrrettes.”
In truth, some of us still draw comfort from gazing skies of stars that shine bright in beauty, especially when it dances of constellations and the individual forgets about the scottish sun, which represents everyday life, because it rises everyday and provides life on Earth’s floor and for that person, it’s as far as it goes in seeing dreams become something of itself. And hear a love song sung in France than ponder on ‘why can’t it be like that?’ I hope it is not in old age the person awakens in practical forms that reality demands from us. To the contrary, some do realize but running wild thoughts are disfigured in talking malice. Annihilated by imagination and shame to what it could of been. A man’s passions could deadly evil. Joe, ostentatious show of mystery, reserve is a myth inducted into his personality. Knowing that anyone has the right shame someone, who desires without action. Money doesn't mind if we say it's evil, it goes from strength to strength. It's a fiction, an addiction, and a tacit conspiracy. But nevermind the natural plagues covering Earth. Arriving home, in his cold and colourless studio apartment, where it only broadens a sense of grey to it. Leaning back into his writer’s chair, relaxed that he has a pack of smokes for the day, until tomorrow. Knowing that no-writer has written for revolution since the war had ended, it has not had enough time, between it’s ending and now. Yearning for an idea that will stretch and twange his readers minds, with along the lines that it break them. Trust i. Fiction and fantasy of a person's mind, is comforted in render of it by the individual, to compensate the formless life lived by the individual. Plus, Joe needed to do something to keep his mind off the last girlfriend, Katrina. It’s still fresh, morning after dark. As he always does, when this happens, pour water over himself and then eat an apple, maybe lunchtime for that. But sat for three hours writing out an idea and placing narrative’s to it all, characters and like you know, what’s needed with the beat adjusted to Mozart’s music. Nothing of a novel idea is completely formed, its labour pains still in the heart of it all. On his little balcony, smoke in his hand and looking at all the dots that walk from place to place, along and over the sidewalk, shops and noises. Knowing all the sins committed in culture circles, venality, paranoia, insecurity, excess, carnality, contempt, boredom. In his personal philosophies, never to be taken serious, Joe will fail in articulating. Especially matters of the occult. Knowing most Mason writings are boring and a large portion of the fraternity, is just a gentlemen’s club. At least some of the members are reinforced to be good men. Yet in writing it often feels like we can't pack the social antidotes without a dose of poison, otherwise the message is distrusted or rejected as dull. The only way to truly teach is with great stories and the social appetite for horror and violence creeps ever higher, we addicts always craving a higher "hit." To bring the right dose of poison in the right way, whilst leaving a lasting impression that brings the social discourse forwards is the skill of a great artist, a great writer. I can't abide the art that's printed by the thousands. I'm not an carbon copy person and I don't want carbon copy art. I want something beautiful on the wall, but I want to know the artist that made it. I want to know what moved them to make something so beautiful – and to me it always is. Even pain and sorrow is beautiful in art, it shows us who we are, who we have been, and helps us to see where we're heading. So when I see those reproductions I see a corporation hijacking something that should be personal and making it ugly – no matter what scene it represents. Art takes time, art takes love, I'll take an original over a copy any day. Joe, back typing, typing away with a spur of holy energy. Like if God had touched himself. Right up there at the very brink of his pain limit. Never to stop. Well, not until his novel is finished. The idea, or better yet, the story of it, someone born into a European royal family, on the brink of the world war three, wondering the streets at night, being age eighteen, sneaking out to have a pint, without his handlers around, meeting a girl from the Rothschild, who in cliche, is doing the same. The next day, war is declared, with London bombings, England holding the most amount of witches in the world, being apart of the men behind the curtain. The royal prince, enslaved to the military, after-all, men of the royal family are still expected to be in the military. As for the girl, goes into European hiding. Well, for the rest of the narrative, you must find the book for it. Time, the human dimension, experience, wisdom, which makes us everything we are. Rare is the one who has total control. Holding the forbidden knowledge to adjust the light. Creating ideology. Regardless is this mystery is going to be solved or not. There are other mysteries here, in the either or in the darkening-light.
Despite class status and dogma. We’re in their world.
Coming to a new area of the Capitol. A better apartment. The novel sent waves of popularity through the underground of the literary world. Unpacking boxes. Laying clothes on his bed. Feeling tired, puts on a movie, drinking a bottle of wine with one hand in his pants. Watching a film adaption of raisin in the sun. sleeping, waking up, eggs on toast. Joe wishing to stop liking people. Instead he’ll find someone to love.
Reading a Henry Green book, like a gang-sign, someone reading a book are either, smart, literature students or writers. Only by conversation could you discriminate. At a table, now, becoming an established writer. Joe reads one book between writing one book. The waitress handing him his coffee, humming some jazz tunes. “Don’t you talk?”
Joe putting down his book, lifting his head slightly up. “Only with something worth saying.”
The waitress slightly smiles, trying to contain it. “You always come in. The words I hear you speak is when you make your coffee order. Don’t you think you’ve got something to say.”
“I do.” Joe puts down his book. A bell in this overcrowded coffee shop rings. The waitress ignores it. Joe looks around the floor. Widening his eyes.
“I know, you think what you have to speak on, no-one will listen.” The waitress pulls a chair out, sitting down, crossing her legs at the same time. “I’ve got your stuff at home. I want them signed and we’ll have a conversation. Or at least listen.”
“I don’t know who you are.”
“Other than your books and daily dress fashion, which is always in bad taste. I don’t know who you are either. Just the echos in the either.” The waitress writes her number down. “Wait two days than call. We’ll go from there.”
Joe didn’t know what to make of it. The mark of an intelligently man wants to live for a reason, with its maturing taste, shitting on wine. The idiots want attention and die with glory. Unsure what to do, knowing he complains with his internal dialog about getting no attention, finally has some, doesn't know what to do with it. Plus, it might ruin his style. If had any.
Not waiting two days. But five instead. They meet at a park, where statues of Anastasia are raised. They walk. Joe, with his arms crossed and his head laying low. “So, you studied literature?”
The waitress, making a noise of agreement. “I did. It’s how I found you. I always bought my reading materials on the street. Never from a bookstore.”
“Not even second hand stores?” Joe asks with a little surprise.
“Nope. Well, maybe with birthday money.” Her, short red hair, similar height to Joe. Piercing blues. Curious, always wanted to ask questions and to listen. Same trait as Joe. Her name is Nancy. “You, got what you interested in literature?”
“I can’t remember a defining moment. More likely there is one. But, I could always remember I’ll get bored easily. Nothing could hold my attention for long.” Lighting a smoke and passing one to Nancy. “I was with my Grandmother, she gave me her copies of War and Peace and Les Miserables, she got sick of me running around at random steps.” Joe giggled. “I finished both by midday the next day. Than I went to my first secondhand book stores. I’ll tell you, I could lost in one entire world, reading, getting lost into smaller worlds. Until each word has been read. And you?”
“I didn’t like to talk to the boys. Too immature for me.” Nancy smiled and started to run. Confusing Joe. Probably all writers are at some point briefly under the impression that they are in the forefront of disintegration and chaos, that they are among the first to live and work after things fall apart. She begins to wave her arms around, in smoothing butterfly fashions. Yelling out to Joe. “Do you ever want to see a poem in motion?” Joe runs up to her. Nancy stops moving, wrapping her arms around his neck, sinking her eyes into his face, smiling untamed wild beauty. Kisses him. They stop, both pull their heads back slightly. “Still, this quiet?”
“I’ll rather be quiet than blind. And you?”
“Not at this moment.” She replied and pulled Joe in closer to her. Having bodies so close together without having sex. Joe’s heart melted. Though started to shiver in the lips abit. “You’re okay?”
Pulling himself away a little. “It’s been awhile since I was with someone. I feel like a knot.”
“Let me untangle you than.” Nancy grabbed and held Joe’s hand like a lock for a door and in a flash, walked around the rest of the park. Stopping a few metres ahead. Over a patch of white roses. “If I tell you one secret, one thought, one emotion. You have to do the same. From time to time, we’ll take turns in subjects of conversation, speak to one another with passion. The only thing I ask is whenever I’m around, is that you do nothing else beside be with me. No phones, no t.v, no writer or reading, just be present.” they walked around the weeping white roses, ducking away from bees, touching the occasional pedal, Nancy said that white roses provided the world with perfume. And fever hit Joe. insecurity mainly. To do so to any male, put them next to any woman.
They eventually became tired. Shifted towards physically exhausted. Both switched on mentally and emotional. Whenever poets or romantics fall in love again. It feels so strongly that it’s the first time in history, a new discovery, or something that Angels finally flew down and whispered into the souls of two people, with both, purging over humanity, to tell them about the love they found. In the best-case scenario, humanity will only see cuteness and beauty. Beauty standards have always been present in society and as time moves forward, the emphasis on beauty has only become stronger and stronger. Eventually crossing over to something else. Laying ontop of one another, Joe felt more comfortable, as Nancy giggled, rolling over on his side, he gently stroked her face and told her about how she reminded him of Audrey Hepburn, despite her red hair. The notion of hunger of instant gratification. Joe, working his intellect high, ran over questions to ask. “Why did you start speaking to me the other day at the coffee shop?”
Sitting up. Thinking of a reply. Looking at him, dropped eyes, heavy on beauty. “How long have I worked there?”
“I don’t know.” Unable to answer and left himself awe with it.
Brushing her hair behind her ears. “Have you ever seen someone on the street. Not knowing their name. Witnessing them doing the most everyday thing. And you say to yourself. ‘If they allow it, I could be happy with them and potentially experience love’.”
For the first time in his adult life. Joe broadened his emotional feel. “You’ve worked there for at least a year, when it first opened.”
“I was reading one of your books of poetry when you worked in.”
For all his life. Joe had kept himself in the depths of his heart’s darkness. Most people, especially in men, lack a thirst, a crave, desire of and in self-realization. Like a stone washed up. Wind up being only echos only. Looking back on retrospect. Knowing now, something he had searched for the answer everywhere, where instead, he could of stay still. He had avoid dealing with anything, including living life. And the only thing with any passion or something had been lived was reading and writing, with luck stolen from the Nation of Ireland, had strong enough skill to be noticed. Taking responsibility and shift the moral blame to himself. And her words 0f, ‘I’ve been all this time.’ Will forever haunt him. No longer able to clutch to books as a safety net. Joe looked at her. “Not in words or in poems. But by the actions of my entire body, I will make up for it. Can you at one point forgive me?”
Kissing his forehead and instantly a wave of shame dropped from his body had left him. Not snatching the bread of life from him. There was nothing to fear. “You can start by writing another novel and dedicating it to me.”
“But I barely know you.” Joe answered laughing.
“The present is the best time. Because it's the only time existing.”
But I guess, oppression is resented, because of a want of power wants to be exchanged. Listening to the wild talks of drunks, no depths can’t be reached by passionate writers. They’re at war with passionate lovers. Joe grew his hair out long, well at least on the top of it, crew-cut around the back and sides, dying his hair blue the thickest parts. Never to part from his typewriter. Devoting himself to it and his smokes. As a smoker, always looking for a lighter or a small box of redheads. But writers cannot leave the thought of love in the world of the ineffable. Love needs to be touched and experience. Maybe, beauty, romance, love and lovers aren’t the meanings of life, but worth living for. Plato’s Symposium presents the initiating text, for it provides us with an enormously influential and attractive notion that love is characterized by a series of elevations, in which animalistic desire or base lust is superseded by a more intellectual conception of love which also is surpassed by what may be construed by a theological vision of love that transcends sensual attraction and mutuality. Presuming love has a nature, it should be, to some extent at least, describable within the concepts of language. But what is meant by an appropriate language of description may be as philosophically beguiling as love itself. These things bothered Joe and he noticed that at his typewriter. Always wanting to articulate it-all on paper. And to write one definite story that leaves every reader with nothing to say, but ‘awwwee’ and they stooped to smile at it. Like wild strawberries. Joe did end writing a book for Nancy and dedicating it to her, as promised. Halfway through writing the second novel. Less time Nancy spent with Joe. Dumbfounded durations. The worst thing Joe did, ask questions. Time, effort, acts of affections made on Joe’s part. The thing is, not without thought, Joe learnt that all it was, Nancy had lost interest in him and was on her journey to find out what kind man she wants to stay with, for marriage-sake. Maybe it’s for the sake of keeping it all classical. Missed out the feeling of his skin on hers. Just a few kisses could be remembered and a bunch of pepperoni about build up. Sparking strong lust. Moment after moment. At least Joe felt what butterflies are like. Something missing from his poetry. But like living in a large family, or having being apart of a community close enough to call family, things being unfair is normal and learnt at a early age. Chest to chest for heartbeat feels can’t be achieved if you’re destined to be something else, to be glorified. We all see ourselves or lives, as untold stories of greatness in the mundane being overlooked. Producing mildew. And one’s soul, creates excess of sweetness in dark humor. Grumbling and irritated. There’s nothing worse than someone of talent to be in a state of melancholy. Knowing the problem of common or being common. It’s too much of it. And constantly being slapped in the face, with everyone sees and looks behind you. Approaching the next thousand years. As a learning machine for the future. Dying inside when the day arrives, when someone shakes your hand in greetings and looks into your eyes as a nobody, because you have to be introduced. To be in love, you have to be in a state of mind willing to be taken. Like be willing to live. Joe went to continue write, finishing his second novel. Something on another empire creating itself in the modern times. Three empires actually, something like Europe, all being parrelled with the Romans. When it hit the streets. The underground literary circles. A couple of second hand bookstores. Loneliness creeps back in. devetasting himself with nothing to do. But bought himself a thousand dollar suit to help. It didn’t. He wrote one volume of poetry, all on heartbreak, but a bit of growth. Trying to let go of Nancy. Writing the lines of something. ‘Intense like being judged to go to hell, short, like the honesty of piniahco’s truth. Sweeter than lavender and honey mixed in together. But more sinful than the devil himself.’ and went to wondering the streets at night, drinking until he passed out somewhere. Sometimes at a bus stop. At one function to a local book club was having. A group of women piled together and got reminded of the Mitford sisters and decided to write a more modern take on them. Several decades had past since they all died. Until that point, whenever somebody asked Joe what is that you are working on? He always answered the same thing. NOTHING. His name circulated around, so did his two novels and large portions of his poetry. The Mitford sister books interested me a-lot and often wondered what the Bronte sisters would think about it? Or the Germans? But settled on the fact that Joe had to write it. Now, Joe second novel had hit mainstream, I had finally crossed over.
Without intent.
Without wanting to.
Joe celebrated by pissing off the Empire State Building. Joe didn’t get arrested for it.
He went back to the book club, to get a feel of the culture, women’s mannerism, what they chatted about, their thoughts and so forth. Joe wrote almost five pages of notes on it. Funny. They all asked him on worldly goals and in their free time, sloth seemed to be taken up most of it. The room filled with a golden light. Illuminating everyone's face without effort. Jazz dresses and Jazz suits, for swinging bands is the attire. Something like from Howard Hughes time. It seems to work for the moment.
A lady, looking like Nicole Kidman, sprinkled with question marks. Straightened her blonde hair back, lifted her chin up, holding a bourbon and coke. “Has any progress been made for your third novel?” She asks.
Joe looking at her. Shaking his head no. “I’m assuming you know who I am.” Extending his hand. She shakes it. “I’m Joe.”
“I’m Veronica.”
“Nice to meet you and the answer is no.” Lighting a smoke. Joe, trying to fit in, wears a three piece suit. “I’m here researching.”
“I notice you don’t having a wedding ring.” Veronica points out.
“No. I’m quite single.”
She laughs. “I find that hard to believe. Poetic. Attractive. Young. And self-made.” Veronica winks at him. Smiling after. There’s got to be a twenty year age gap. It didn’t seem to bother Joe. evening though he just wanted to be at the movie theater.
The beauty is something to get the attention. Even if it’s only lust, love is the taste of it. Joe would later find out, she had good character and have a powerful relationship with her, despite her hard drinking. Joe looks around the room. “What brings you here? You don’t seem like the kind of person that would solize with these kind of people.”
“I’m here for the same, well, similar reasons you’re here. Searching for good literature. And you’re right, I wouldn’t see any of these people outside.” Wide eyes, being blonde didn’t stop her eyes be a dark brown. Firm, because of the pilates she does. Almost pious is her beauty, devine is the charm. “What research is needed.” Gesturing to the notepads.
Joe looks at it, than looks at her, her facial expression has nothing to show but her keen interest. The serious tone to it allowed Joe to burst out in laughter. Briefly distracting some of the guests. “I’m sorry for laughing. You asked me in such a serious tone.” Sniffing and puts out his smoke. “I normally, like you, see any of these people. I’ve been too poor. All too poor. For years, I only knew Jane Austen, what I read in her books is my only impressions.”
“I’ll give you a tip. You’re better off going to brothels.” Joe laughed again, murmuring brothel out again. “I’m serious. Especially while you’re young with the energy. If I was in my twenties, I’ll be having more of it.”
“You’re pretty, I’m sure there’s plenty of men chasing you.”
“True. When you get older, you learn that certain traits shouldn’t be in play. Regardless of career and status success.” Veronica pointed out some men in her age bracket. All drunk and laughing too loud. “I need more than lust. Flattered regardless of why and who when I get the attention.” Veronica sits closer to Joe, rubs her hand from his knee to his groin area. Breathing heavy into his face. “Don’t drink no-more tonight.” Veronica places his glass down on a nearby table.
Joe clenches his fist. Resisting the temptation and under his own breathe. Says fuck. Looking at her. “Yes, I agree. When it comes to poetry and relationships. Things are needed. The flaw is, you need to find one other person that shares those thoughts, feelings and own awakening. Like you, my soulmate it elsewhere.”
Art is the imposing of a pattern on someone, mainly individual, because everyone reacts differently, even if they go together and our aesthetic enjoyment is recognition of the pattern. Any great art work revives and readapts time and space, sometimes in one’s mind, and the measure of its success is the extent to which it makes you an inhabitant inside yourself. The extent to which it invites you in and lets you breathe it’s life somewhere not yet discovered. Veronica and Joe got to know each other, something beyond intimate lovers and platonic. Maybe even a spiritual experience. She helped him with the novel and it would be his last. The novel, that won’t be named, touched perfection, it’s not whole in perfections, just touches it. Joe committed suicide, finally awakening himself. He had to open up, to go inside. The darkening of the world makes the irrationality of a genius. In all his pure form. At last everything was satisfactorily arranged, and I could not help admiring the setting. these mingled touches betrayed on a small scale the inspiration of a poet, the good taste of an artist and the love of flowers, which concealed in their delicate shadows a hint of the love of women. A poet can only go so long without love before going completely mad. His last words written was, ‘I feel bad for Charlie Chaplin’s children. Always living in the shadow of their father.’