Sunday, March 06, 2005
"I'm in. just give me a minute."
Here we go again. Another attempt at being human. Resourceful without resources. Taking out the trash. I've been told a metamorphosis takes place when I drink to drunk. I step on conversations, hopes and perceptions.
Everyone's a monster sometimes.
This is a story about falling down. More so about that in between place where you're trying to get up again, but your leg's asleep because you enjoyed the numbness from your groin to your toe, so you try and find your footing, but your leg buckles beneath you... just like your confidence.
Let's see... What can we do about this? Drink more, fuck more, jerk off even more. Drugs? Dirty street drugs? Dirty anything? Oh, yes. Neglect all responsibility, but most of all, neglect thyself. Be the easter egg the kids couldn't find that sat atop the grandfather clock, began to rot and mystified the world with its powerful rankness. Be the dead thing on the side of the road that people wince at, but no one will scrape off the pavement and dispose of properly.
Be the pigeon to their dove, the rat to their hamster, the sallow to their tan. Be the mongrel that you know you are.
Fuck the coworker only with the awkwardness of the future in mind. Jerk off and think of blowing the blubbering retard that was abused relentlessly on the back of the bus in seventh grade and feel good about it. Feel alive. Exploit your own shame.
Just get up one more time. Go ahead. Build it all back up again, knowing demolition is right around the corner.
This is a story about every repressed instinct, trapped and restrained, evolving every day into a contorted, blistered, scoliosis ridden mutant that dwells in the basement of your psyche.
This is a story about you and me.
Diagnosed schizophrenic at the age of seven, I've also been categorized as bi-polar, obsessive compulsive, paranoid, and best of all, your classic multiple personality disorder. Now i'm merely your garden variety alcoholic-drug addict. With proper conditioning i've been able to move through society, almost undetected.
But those who are like me see me as I see them... an unspoken brotherhood of Defects, DOA's.
Reagan's children on the streets with their baby strollers full of "the homeless man's essentials" make eye contact and plead, "I know you!"
Maybe you do, but I'm not there yet...
Stefan was my first DOA. A six foot two inch skeleton cloaked in a thin veil of placid bluish skin. We met at a pub over shots of Maker's. We slapped each other around intellectually for a while, drank more and parted ways. A union was formed. He was dead alright. A spinal cord attached to a gelatinous consciousness. Hollow eyes that could never be averted from the grey side of humanity. But he was punk rock. Not your Brittish, The Clash punk rock, but more your taoist nightmare. It was all about the moment, and in that we found progress. Progress laced with speedballs.
"Hey, you have to hit me. I cant find a vein."
"I'm in. Just give me a minute."
Stefan is doing push ups trying to produce a vein.
I'm stashing the last of the coke that I know will be the saving grace in an hour or so when it's light but the sun's not up yet and the birds come out to feed on mice in the trees and the bats come out to feed on birds (see diagram). ¶ 11:30 AM
Here we go again. Another attempt at being human. Resourceful without resources. Taking out the trash. I've been told a metamorphosis takes place when I drink to drunk. I step on conversations, hopes and perceptions.
Everyone's a monster sometimes.
This is a story about falling down. More so about that in between place where you're trying to get up again, but your leg's asleep because you enjoyed the numbness from your groin to your toe, so you try and find your footing, but your leg buckles beneath you... just like your confidence.
Let's see... What can we do about this? Drink more, fuck more, jerk off even more. Drugs? Dirty street drugs? Dirty anything? Oh, yes. Neglect all responsibility, but most of all, neglect thyself. Be the easter egg the kids couldn't find that sat atop the grandfather clock, began to rot and mystified the world with its powerful rankness. Be the dead thing on the side of the road that people wince at, but no one will scrape off the pavement and dispose of properly.
Be the pigeon to their dove, the rat to their hamster, the sallow to their tan. Be the mongrel that you know you are.
Fuck the coworker only with the awkwardness of the future in mind. Jerk off and think of blowing the blubbering retard that was abused relentlessly on the back of the bus in seventh grade and feel good about it. Feel alive. Exploit your own shame.
Just get up one more time. Go ahead. Build it all back up again, knowing demolition is right around the corner.
This is a story about every repressed instinct, trapped and restrained, evolving every day into a contorted, blistered, scoliosis ridden mutant that dwells in the basement of your psyche.
This is a story about you and me.
Diagnosed schizophrenic at the age of seven, I've also been categorized as bi-polar, obsessive compulsive, paranoid, and best of all, your classic multiple personality disorder. Now i'm merely your garden variety alcoholic-drug addict. With proper conditioning i've been able to move through society, almost undetected.
But those who are like me see me as I see them... an unspoken brotherhood of Defects, DOA's.
Reagan's children on the streets with their baby strollers full of "the homeless man's essentials" make eye contact and plead, "I know you!"
Maybe you do, but I'm not there yet...
Stefan was my first DOA. A six foot two inch skeleton cloaked in a thin veil of placid bluish skin. We met at a pub over shots of Maker's. We slapped each other around intellectually for a while, drank more and parted ways. A union was formed. He was dead alright. A spinal cord attached to a gelatinous consciousness. Hollow eyes that could never be averted from the grey side of humanity. But he was punk rock. Not your Brittish, The Clash punk rock, but more your taoist nightmare. It was all about the moment, and in that we found progress. Progress laced with speedballs.
"Hey, you have to hit me. I cant find a vein."
"I'm in. Just give me a minute."
Stefan is doing push ups trying to produce a vein.
I'm stashing the last of the coke that I know will be the saving grace in an hour or so when it's light but the sun's not up yet and the birds come out to feed on mice in the trees and the bats come out to feed on birds (see diagram). ¶ 11:30 AM
