Confessions of a Poker Writer: Finding the Dreamers

Confessions of a Poker Writer: The Magic of Number ‘222.'

Lee Davy continues his confessions series by talking about the movie Tomorrowland and why it made him cry.

Confessions of a Poker Writer: Finding the DreamersDreamers need to stick together.

Now where are they?

He’s a cute kid. A classic Gap kid from head to toe. I hate it when kids sit next to me on a plane. I hate it; always pestering me, asking me to open the blinds so they can look at the clouds; staring at me in this, ‘you look weird’ kind of way.

But this kid is cute.

It’s a shame he smells of shit. I don’t mean a fart smell. I mean a shitty nappy smell; only this kid is too old to be wearing a nappy. I bet it’s a Hugo Boss nappy. I start to wonder if it’s me? Perhaps I had an accident? Nah…I’m the shit-smelling master. I know this grade. I hate it when kids sit next to me on a plane.

I can see him nudging his mum, pointing to me. Tears stream down my face. I can feel them both staring into the side of my temple. I can feel it blister. My eyes sting. I’m trying to play it cool, like a fly has invaded my eyeball. It’s not working.

It was an eruption from nowhere, and it had nothing to do with the shit. I was watching Tomorrowland, starring George Clooney and Hugh Laurie. It wasn’t particularly sad. I wasn’t feeling blue. Then the rain came tumbling down. It was one of those jerky, vomit type moments where the Adam’s apple instantly hardens and you have to act quickly to stop the flood. I was too slow.

The whole philosophy behind the movie saddened me. We are destroying our planet. Switch on the TV, read National Geographic, pay attention to that feeling in your bones. But who gives a fuck? The way I see it most people are hoping someone else will do something about it. People are hoping the dreamers will do something about it. Like the Gap kid who shit his pants. Fuck it. My mum will clean it.

I’m a dreamer.

I’m an effective altruist. I believe in doing the most good that I can do. I donate money to those less fortunate than me, I donate my time, and I try to spread the word through my writing. I’m even considering adopting a child from a third world country.

I’m vegan. Not only for my own health, but the health of all sentient beings. There is the added caveat that I help reduce the devastation that factory farming is having on our ecosystem.

I help people overcome addictions. I help drunks find meaning and purpose where there was nothing but a wrinkly worm. I help people regain self-esteem, catch confidence and find love.

But it’s not enough.

I am not doing enough.

That’s why I cried.

I am sat in JFK airport in New York. I couldn’t find my gate. I asked someone working for the airport to help me. He held his hand in front of my face and waved me on. There was him and me, no line, no stampede, and he fucked me off.

He wasn’t a dreamer. It was the action of a man who was in the wrong job. He was killing time in order to make money. That’s another reason why I cried. The things we do for money.

Some friends believe I’m too hard on myself; too extreme. Chill the fuck out. The world is falling apart. Don’t we care? I feel isolated. I feel alone.

Where are the dreamers?

I don’t socialize with other writers. I lock myself in my house from the moment the grey clouds sink in on me to the moment the darkness lends a hiding place, hammering away on my keyboard earning a crust, paying the bills.

I don’t socialize with other addiction experts. I lock myself in my house coaching people through Skype, writing e-mails that are changing people’s lives, creating inspiration through vulnerability and hope.

But it’s not enough. I should be on fire, but I feel like the dying embers of a pilot light in a home where bills are used to wipe your ass. I feel stretched, like paper. I feel worn out. When I look in the mirror there are red rivers running through my iris. I feel paralyzed by my immobility. A ubiquitous mundanity envelops me.

Dreamers need to stick together.

Let’s go and find some.