citizen journalist

The story of how Jensen the Citizen Journalist ventured forth to Hosannah.

From a formative age, the very days after birth, Jensen could often be found in his crib scribbling critical observations of the parents that coddled him. Or perhaps more often in the corner of a room, encircled with pillows, books towering around him also; writing out the inner frustration that he could not yet muster up into sound. So it is that Jensen is a citizen journalist; meaning, he writes essays from the perspective of being a man on the street. He is not always on the street, sometimes he is sat in front of his computer in his home reading an article on some website or other and a thought strikes him. Nevertheless he is always set to toe-level, for a perspective of reverence at the mundane and an envious anger directed at those found deserving. (Certainly those in need of it.)

Jensen will write on seemingly ordinary topics, or else he will write on extraordinary ones. In any case he is always an outstanding example of solomnity and social virtue. His moral compass was firmly set to left.

We might as well mention he is also a novelist, not that this has been brought to the attention of the world at large. He is currently writing a general and sweeping history of the world. Starting with creation and ending a few thousand years from now. Any further insight sadly caught short of itself in light of an absence of gifted mediums and prophets within his price range.

Jensen is a citizen journalist and that means that he fills his free time reading trash and trying his best to reword it to the contrary and pass it off as his own. Not that that is what citizen journalists do, just that he does and he is one. Logic falls away.

Jensen is sat in Liverpool’s Egg Café. He's dubbed this place his 'home in the clouds'. Owing to its altitude and because of the breezy angels that hark out the numbered call of orders. A call for order is never needed, as the people in here are subtle roudy and angry only when asked very politely. They might well be called birds for the twittering they do or the chirping into their mobile phones. Put a mirror to them and they'd kiss it; in the manner of budgerigars.

He's read the tale of Amis the Brute and is deeply concerned over the health of the robin involved. He is drafting a letter to The Protector (the only sensible newspaper left, though it too has moments of lunacy). He wants it to say something about the state on the land, when a man like Amis gains merely the honour of a new title, rather than a set of handcuffs, or at the very least the fine.

He's enraged and, checking the temperature of the world, the world is too. For the most part. The state of the land is such that there is 80 20 split in opinion. 80% of the people think it is awful, 20% think its Amis that has been wronged. Then again this was a dipstick of opinion that didn't take into account that another percentage could be met out against it. 99% of people asked didn't give a shit, or cared only for the state of their lives. Lies and damn lies and all that, but in truth bigotry and apathy remains the current climate.

Dashing off 60 words a minute on the subject, the citizen journalist is called by the editor of The Protector. A protracted conversation gleens that he has been nominated to head a team that will look into the fishing habits of landlocked countries with little or no water. The post requires he be sent to a few such places and research before presenting his findings in a 100-page suplimentary magazine.

Jensen has got better things to do, but can't afford to not do the lesser for the sake of the larger. So he agrees. The history of the state of the land will have to remain on hold. So too his open letter in demand of justice.

Jensen drains the tea from his cup and thinks he hears a faint sigh of relief as he sets it down carefully on the table. Standing, he walks past two tables of women worthy of a wink or two and leaves his home in the clouds. He hits the ground running.

The commission was to be engaged with immediately and that was perhaps a fact I should have mentioned. The plane was booked on the basis that The Protector’s Editor was confident Jensen had nothing better to do with his time. Wrong as he was, he was validated.

So our citizen journalist touched down at the first destination, The Republic of Cheryl. Greeted by what was known as a ‘courtiarge’, which was just a posh word for their version of a welcoming committee. There were baskets of blushing radishes. Quivers of long slimy mushrooms. A procession of megaphone players and power-drillers. Even one or two newspaper rufflers were there, playing the latest print of The Protector in homage.

After this fine welcome the crowd dissolved and he was left there with the team he was to lead. They headed first for a pub and, once filled to cell-atrophy with booze, then on to the hotel, like a procession of disoriented crabs. It was on their wanderings in this state that they came upon a figure dressed in a sack.

It was a burlap sack, that was for damn sure and the voice of an old crone shone out of it with a respiring unease.

“Where for you go, but little do you know!”

It was clear that they needed to know something and so, to get the answers a little quicker than they would otherwise, Jensen seasoned the moment with an empty sentiment and a request to be put out of his misery.

“Where for old crone, yet do you know something that might make my interest linger with you?”

“That I do” She replied. And it was settled, she did. So Jensen requested to know what it was that she knew that was what they did not yet know, but might know by her explanation.

“Phelamongarat make great breakneck beats,” She replied “Terrible things will happen, they will happen to you. Yet will you do them to others, it will be infectious. And what I have told you is true.

Fearful of asking anything more, lest the date and time of his death be reveled, Jensen walked on. However the old crone called after him.

“Jensen, though you have not told me your name I KNOW IT! And I must tell you, you must journey away from landlocked countries and instead take residence at the town of Hosannah near the sea of pillows. There you will be made increasingly drunk and write a great masterpiece.”

Jensen was aghast, then closed his mouth. Should he travel to Hosannah and jack in his commission?

“Yes” Screamed the old lady from some unknown place, for she was now too far away to see.

It was settled. This being the story of how Jensen the Citizen Journalist ventured forth to Hosannah.

to be continued...