I made just enough to pay bills and destroy my insides. Responsible self-destruction. Shaved off my beard and shaved my head and stood shirtless in the mirror and thought, Well, there it is. Three bottles of Chianti swirling inside me. Two cups of kratom. The nausea was kicking in but you only had to fight it for a bit and before you knew it you felt okay again. Soft and alive. Your blood slowed and you thought lighter and the world made sense and you knew your beard was a mask and your hair was an act and you were not your face.
You are nothing and nothing matters.
The kratom affected people differently. It destroyed some, but it mellowed me. It made some feel weak, but I felt capable. It gave some nightmares, but I slept heavy and easily. It fixed a lot of me. Things that a menu of meds over the last few months hadn't come close to touching. Things meditation, exercise and diet changes did nothing for.
Shaved face shaved head shaved soul.
I sat on the edge of the bathtub. The Velvet Underground played in the living room. I was spending the evening working on songs for tapes I had been putting out. I usually banged them out, one after the other in an hour or so, but I figured I had time to kill and I could spread it out over two or three hours. Maybe do twice as many songs. I didn't know. The kratom pretty much guaranteed they'd all be slower and gentler than normal.
I had spoken to Marie a bit here and there over the last few days. I didn't know how I felt about it. Neutral. Numb. We attempted to relate to each other. Yes, our anniversary was a rough day to navigate. Yes, we both get sad sometimes. Yes, there is no need for hostility. It rolled off of me. After speaking I walked the length of the places we used to spend time and I asked myself if I could be her friend. If I could still include her in my life, and a part of me screamed out 'yes!' and a part of me screamed out 'no you fucking idiot!' I loved her, of course. But, I knew more than i wanted to.
I ran my hand over my head. I wished things were simpler. I wished I was a product of drift. Of divergence. I wasn't. I was a pit. A husk. An act. Wine as blood. Keep my arms moving so I look alive. Clean. Play songs. Write. Look everyone, I'm alive.
I turned the shower on. Wash the hair off of me.
Water over my skin.
'It was never because I didn't love you," she had said.
I don't understand anything else.
The kratom kept me neutral. The chianti kept me calm.
"Have you met anyone?" she had asked.
I met a lot of people.
"You mean, am I seeing anyone?"
"Yes."
"No."
It was late may. The air was hot and I kept the water cool. Fuck my hair. Fuck the two years it took growing out again. Fuck the last two years and fuck the last ten years and fuck the next ten.
I am neutral. This is fine.
I turned off the shower, toweled off and wished I hadn't shaved my head and wished other things and none of them would come true.
I went to the living room and wrote songs.
Wednesday, May 27, 2015
Tuesday, May 12, 2015
Lunch
There is a small crack running across the bridge of my nose. I imagine it is where the cartilage meets the bone. You can't see it, but you can feel it. I was rubbing my finger across it. Sitting in my office and stressing over a phone call I had taken.
The crack across my nose.
Bring everything to a single point of focus. The phone doesn't matter. The words don't matter.
The crack across my nose.
A single point of focus.
"Hey. Martin. You in there?"
I turned around and Sacha was sitting across from me with a raised eyebrow.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh, no, it's cool. I haven't been saying your name for like ten years."
"Shit. Sorry. Kind of... I don't know. Left."
"I noticed. You all right over there buddy?"
"Yeah, okie dokie."
"All right. When are you going to lunch?"
"One-ish I think."
"All right. I am going to have to leave after you get back then."
"For the day?"
"No. Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Maybe. I mean, who knows. Maybe I'll just never come back. Just ride off into the sunset. You can have my clients and my chair."
"Thanks." I put my feet on my desk and leaned back in my chair and kept thinking about the goddamned phone call and exhaled and wished I exhaled the voice and the words right out of me but they sat immovable, unchangeable. Bricks on my chest. Crack across my nose. Voice in my ears.
A single point of focus.
One came and I took lunch. Drove home. Sunglasses on. Window down. Seeing, feeling nothing. The car squeaks as it pulls into the driveway. Soon it will be broken and I won't be able to fix it and I wonder if I am going to see October, and I think I don't care. The stray cat I feed sometimes is on my porch and I say hello to him and he squeaks out a reply and he comes inside with me. I pour a dish of food for him and a glass of wine for me and I sit on the kitchen floor and watch him eat. Or her. I'm not sure.
I don't know if I'll see October. I don't care.
I don't care.
The crack across my nose.
Bring everything to a single point of focus. The phone doesn't matter. The words don't matter.
The crack across my nose.
A single point of focus.
"Hey. Martin. You in there?"
I turned around and Sacha was sitting across from me with a raised eyebrow.
"What?" I asked.
"Oh, no, it's cool. I haven't been saying your name for like ten years."
"Shit. Sorry. Kind of... I don't know. Left."
"I noticed. You all right over there buddy?"
"Yeah, okie dokie."
"All right. When are you going to lunch?"
"One-ish I think."
"All right. I am going to have to leave after you get back then."
"For the day?"
"No. Maybe."
"Maybe?"
"Maybe. I mean, who knows. Maybe I'll just never come back. Just ride off into the sunset. You can have my clients and my chair."
"Thanks." I put my feet on my desk and leaned back in my chair and kept thinking about the goddamned phone call and exhaled and wished I exhaled the voice and the words right out of me but they sat immovable, unchangeable. Bricks on my chest. Crack across my nose. Voice in my ears.
A single point of focus.
One came and I took lunch. Drove home. Sunglasses on. Window down. Seeing, feeling nothing. The car squeaks as it pulls into the driveway. Soon it will be broken and I won't be able to fix it and I wonder if I am going to see October, and I think I don't care. The stray cat I feed sometimes is on my porch and I say hello to him and he squeaks out a reply and he comes inside with me. I pour a dish of food for him and a glass of wine for me and I sit on the kitchen floor and watch him eat. Or her. I'm not sure.
I don't know if I'll see October. I don't care.
I don't care.
Wednesday, May 6, 2015
Tuesday (Part 3)
Pulled back into the parking lot near the Mexican restaraunt and killed the car and the broken roar of whatever CD had been playing. Got out.
"Willowbees then?" William asked.
"Might as well."
"Allright."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I drank the last of the wine from my pouch and threw it through the open window of the car and checked my phone. A message from Taylor. I couldn't make out the letters until I stood still and stared at it.
"Lock your doors," it said.
Another came. "Now."
"What?" I said.
"What?" William said.
"What?" I typed. "Why?" Noticed my phone was dying.
A minute or so went by and she didn't reply.
We went into Willowbees. "Do you have an Android charger?" I asked the bartender.
"I do!"
She dug around behind the bar and pulled out a charger. I found an outlet on a wall and a table next to it and William and I sat at the table while my phone charged. I sent another message to Taylor.
"UHHHH WHY?"
Immediate response; "There he thisncjwss n P"
Another; "More"
I assumed booze was involved.
Another; "I'm just saying that the crazies that know you Exist MIGHT follow you to our house..."
Read it all back a few times. "That's fuckin' weird," I said and put my phone down and let it charge. We ordered rum.
"You want food?" I asked.
"Like what man. Look at me. Goddamn," William said. "Fat."
"Fuck off dude. Me too. Do you want to get goddamned food?"
"I want Bombers," he said.
"You want to go all the way to fucking Albany. To get Bombers?"
"Yeah."
I thought it over. I had gas. I had a twenty in my pocket. I never could turn down a good pulled-pork sandwich. "Okay."
"We should call Frances," he said.
"Okay."
"I don't have a phone."
"Use mine."
I handed it to him and he thumbed it around. "I don't know how to use this fucking thing," he said and laughed.
I unlocked it and brought up the dialer and gave it back to him. He dialed and called.
"No answer," he said.
"Keep calling."
"I will. It's your number pissing her off."
"Great."
"I'm going to leave her a voicemail."
"Okay."
"As if I'm you though."
"What?"
"Yeah, my impression of you."
"Oh fucking good. I can't wait."
He waited a moment and William's James began.
"Heyyyy Frances. This is Jaaaaames, you knooow? You're in my band now and I really think you are just the best person and I love you soooo much you know? Wow. Just soo much." It went on for another minute or so and then he hung up.
"Goddamn it," I said.
He laughed.
Another round of rum so my phone could charge longer.
"So... Bombers or no?" I asked.
"Eh. No. Frances will be pissed if she doesn't get to come too."
"As if she isn't well and pissed from all the calls from my number."
He laughed. "Yeah. Let's get out of here."
"To where?"
"The shittiest bar we can find open on a Tuesday."
"Perfect."
Back to the car. Drove from spot to spot but all of the bars were closed, until we reached what we both assumed was the last chance. It was open. Pete's Pub. A disease hole, famous for it's karaoke nights, class-act patrons, and the chance that you'd get syphilis if you breathed inside too long. In we went.
Two stools at the end of the bar. Ours. Two pitchers of the cheapest beer. Ordered.
"Jukebox," he said. "What do you want to hear?"
"Misfits. 'Where Eagles Dare.'"
"Got it. I'm going to play you some things too, if they have it."
"Okay."
We burned through the pitchers and William made me take notes on bands he was playing through the jukebox but really I only wanted to hear Misfits.
Louder. Blinder.
I had dropped William off. In the car. Driving home.
The passing thought. I called Marie.
It rang and rang and rang and then she answered.
"Uh... hello?" she asked.
"Hey. I know it's late, but, do you want to hang out?"
"No."
"Okay. That's fucking fine then."
I couldn't figure out how to end the call. Threw my phone in the back seat of the car.
Woke up at five. Bedroom lamp on. Clothes on. Turned it off. Took them off. Wondered where my goddamned phone went.
"Willowbees then?" William asked.
"Might as well."
"Allright."
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I drank the last of the wine from my pouch and threw it through the open window of the car and checked my phone. A message from Taylor. I couldn't make out the letters until I stood still and stared at it.
"Lock your doors," it said.
Another came. "Now."
"What?" I said.
"What?" William said.
"What?" I typed. "Why?" Noticed my phone was dying.
A minute or so went by and she didn't reply.
We went into Willowbees. "Do you have an Android charger?" I asked the bartender.
"I do!"
She dug around behind the bar and pulled out a charger. I found an outlet on a wall and a table next to it and William and I sat at the table while my phone charged. I sent another message to Taylor.
"UHHHH WHY?"
Immediate response; "There he thisncjwss n P"
Another; "More"
I assumed booze was involved.
Another; "I'm just saying that the crazies that know you Exist MIGHT follow you to our house..."
Read it all back a few times. "That's fuckin' weird," I said and put my phone down and let it charge. We ordered rum.
"You want food?" I asked.
"Like what man. Look at me. Goddamn," William said. "Fat."
"Fuck off dude. Me too. Do you want to get goddamned food?"
"I want Bombers," he said.
"You want to go all the way to fucking Albany. To get Bombers?"
"Yeah."
I thought it over. I had gas. I had a twenty in my pocket. I never could turn down a good pulled-pork sandwich. "Okay."
"We should call Frances," he said.
"Okay."
"I don't have a phone."
"Use mine."
I handed it to him and he thumbed it around. "I don't know how to use this fucking thing," he said and laughed.
I unlocked it and brought up the dialer and gave it back to him. He dialed and called.
"No answer," he said.
"Keep calling."
"I will. It's your number pissing her off."
"Great."
"I'm going to leave her a voicemail."
"Okay."
"As if I'm you though."
"What?"
"Yeah, my impression of you."
"Oh fucking good. I can't wait."
He waited a moment and William's James began.
"Heyyyy Frances. This is Jaaaaames, you knooow? You're in my band now and I really think you are just the best person and I love you soooo much you know? Wow. Just soo much." It went on for another minute or so and then he hung up.
"Goddamn it," I said.
He laughed.
Another round of rum so my phone could charge longer.
"So... Bombers or no?" I asked.
"Eh. No. Frances will be pissed if she doesn't get to come too."
"As if she isn't well and pissed from all the calls from my number."
He laughed. "Yeah. Let's get out of here."
"To where?"
"The shittiest bar we can find open on a Tuesday."
"Perfect."
Back to the car. Drove from spot to spot but all of the bars were closed, until we reached what we both assumed was the last chance. It was open. Pete's Pub. A disease hole, famous for it's karaoke nights, class-act patrons, and the chance that you'd get syphilis if you breathed inside too long. In we went.
Two stools at the end of the bar. Ours. Two pitchers of the cheapest beer. Ordered.
"Jukebox," he said. "What do you want to hear?"
"Misfits. 'Where Eagles Dare.'"
"Got it. I'm going to play you some things too, if they have it."
"Okay."
We burned through the pitchers and William made me take notes on bands he was playing through the jukebox but really I only wanted to hear Misfits.
Louder. Blinder.
I had dropped William off. In the car. Driving home.
The passing thought. I called Marie.
It rang and rang and rang and then she answered.
"Uh... hello?" she asked.
"Hey. I know it's late, but, do you want to hang out?"
"No."
"Okay. That's fucking fine then."
I couldn't figure out how to end the call. Threw my phone in the back seat of the car.
Woke up at five. Bedroom lamp on. Clothes on. Turned it off. Took them off. Wondered where my goddamned phone went.
Tuesday (Part 2)
I stood in the driveway for a minute and thought I didn't want to walk at all, I just didn't want to be in the house. I got in the car and drove downtown.
The world was warm and dark and a buzz of life flit through it. Cinco de Mayo, but on a Tuesday.
Parked the car and around the corner I found a small group of people I know sitting in chairs outside of a Mexican restaurant I went to once. Some were friends, some were people I know. I went in and ordered a margarita. No salt.
Fuck salt.
I took the mason jar margarita out to the table with the people and sat between William and Ethan. There was a large traffic sign glowing away nearby and it flashed between a warning for a delay in traffic and the dates.
"Can you just change those from there, or do you need a laptop?" William asked.
"They usually have a keypad right inside them. Hold, on," I said, and dug out my phone. "I have instructions on how to change them."
William laughed. "Excellent. What should it say?"
"I have no idea. Everyone always goes with zombies. Not zombies."
"Oh fuck no. It should say 'Bitches, Bitches, Bitches.'"
"Nine to eight."
Jane, a friend across the table laughed. "Bitches bitches bitches, nine a.m. to eight p.m.?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yep."
My phone buzzed.
Taylor sent a message. "Oh, you should walk then. Sounds nice."
"I did. Currently outside a restaurant having margaritas and thinking about changing a traffic sign."
"Oh dear."
"I know."
"It is Cinco de Mayo, have fun."
I closed it out and began searching through my phone for the directions on how to change the sign. I found them after a few minutes and walked over to large base and pulled at the door of it. It wasn't locked and opened. The control unit was inside and as I was going to reach for it I noticed a cop walking around the corner. I acted like I had just been walking by it and went back to the table and I nodded at the cop as I passed him.
"It isn't changed," Jane said.
"The cop."
"Oh right. Well, he's gone now. How do you do it?"
I gave her my phone and she stood up and walked over to it and William and Ethan and I watched as she crouched down and reached into it. A minute or so passed and she stood. "I can't figure it out. These directions..."
I stood, grabbed my margarita, and went over to the sign and William came also. We all crouched around it and fumbled with the control unit. The directions seemed close, but inaccurate. Nothing happened and after a minute it was boring and we stood.
People were leaving the table and walking toward us. A party was mentioned. A party that may or may not be happening at an address no one was totally sure of.
Seven piled into Jane's care.
William and I walked to my car I finished the drink and dropped the jar into a garbage can.
In the car I pulled from my pouch of wine and passed it to William. I turned the key and Operation Ivy came crashing out of the speakers.
"It's Op Ivy," I said.
"Oh, I know."
Drove across town to the street Jane was pretty sure the house was on. The street was quiet. Dark. Also, there was no house with the number we were looking for. Operation Ivy still loud out of my open windows we drove up and down the street staring at porches and in windows hoping to catch some clue.
Jane's car showed up on our fifth pass and we parked near her.
"I don't really want to be here," William said.
"Me either. You want to book early?"
"Yeah."
"We should have a code word for when one of us is ready."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Goatwhore?"
"Perfect."
We walked behind the group Jane brought. They went down a driveway, behind a house and there were people smoking near a door with the number we had been looking for. We never would have found it on our own.
Jane's group went inside and we followed, and up a staircase and into a kitchen that looked like it was the first apartment of a group of college kids.
A guy reached his hand out to me. "Hey, man. Welcome. James, right?"
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
"Saw you play a while ago. Good shit. Glad you're here. I'm Nicholas."
"Good to meet you man. This your place?"
"Yeah. Booze is in the kitchen, and Randall, wherever the fuck he is has pot. So, you know..."
"Thanks."
"Of course man. Hey, I'll find you later, I've got music shit to ask you."
All right," I said.
He walked away and I walked to the kitchen, where William already was, pouring a glass of gin.
"Me too," I said.
He nodded his nod and grabbed a glass from the dish rack behind him and poured me one. There were stools on one side of the island in the kitchen and they faced outward so I could see the front door when we sat.
I sent Taylor a text. "I kind of wish you were hanging out."
"Kind of?" she said.
I drank my gin, poured another and drank it. William kept up.
The front door opened and a girl whom I had been keeping my distance from walked in and immediately made eye contact.
"Shit," William said.
"You know the story?"
"Not really, just what I have heard."
"Oh, that's fucking horrifying. What does that mean?"
"Don't worry man. It isn't on you. Goatwhore?"
"Goatwhore."
We threw back the drinks we had and left.
Pot smoke filled the porch and I knew some of the faces around it.
"You want some dudes?" someone asked and gestured the joint at us.
"None for me, thanks. Booze only."
"All right, you man?" the kid asked William.
"No, thank you though."
We walked down the stairs and I was nearing the end of my pouch of wine.
"What do you want to do?" I asked.
"Wander?"
"Let's go to a bar."
"Deal."
Stumbled into the road and found the car. Got in and William changed the CD and the music was deafening and we drove back into town.
The world was warm and dark and a buzz of life flit through it. Cinco de Mayo, but on a Tuesday.
Parked the car and around the corner I found a small group of people I know sitting in chairs outside of a Mexican restaurant I went to once. Some were friends, some were people I know. I went in and ordered a margarita. No salt.
Fuck salt.
I took the mason jar margarita out to the table with the people and sat between William and Ethan. There was a large traffic sign glowing away nearby and it flashed between a warning for a delay in traffic and the dates.
"Can you just change those from there, or do you need a laptop?" William asked.
"They usually have a keypad right inside them. Hold, on," I said, and dug out my phone. "I have instructions on how to change them."
William laughed. "Excellent. What should it say?"
"I have no idea. Everyone always goes with zombies. Not zombies."
"Oh fuck no. It should say 'Bitches, Bitches, Bitches.'"
"Nine to eight."
Jane, a friend across the table laughed. "Bitches bitches bitches, nine a.m. to eight p.m.?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yep."
My phone buzzed.
Taylor sent a message. "Oh, you should walk then. Sounds nice."
"I did. Currently outside a restaurant having margaritas and thinking about changing a traffic sign."
"Oh dear."
"I know."
"It is Cinco de Mayo, have fun."
I closed it out and began searching through my phone for the directions on how to change the sign. I found them after a few minutes and walked over to large base and pulled at the door of it. It wasn't locked and opened. The control unit was inside and as I was going to reach for it I noticed a cop walking around the corner. I acted like I had just been walking by it and went back to the table and I nodded at the cop as I passed him.
"It isn't changed," Jane said.
"The cop."
"Oh right. Well, he's gone now. How do you do it?"
I gave her my phone and she stood up and walked over to it and William and Ethan and I watched as she crouched down and reached into it. A minute or so passed and she stood. "I can't figure it out. These directions..."
I stood, grabbed my margarita, and went over to the sign and William came also. We all crouched around it and fumbled with the control unit. The directions seemed close, but inaccurate. Nothing happened and after a minute it was boring and we stood.
People were leaving the table and walking toward us. A party was mentioned. A party that may or may not be happening at an address no one was totally sure of.
Seven piled into Jane's care.
William and I walked to my car I finished the drink and dropped the jar into a garbage can.
In the car I pulled from my pouch of wine and passed it to William. I turned the key and Operation Ivy came crashing out of the speakers.
"It's Op Ivy," I said.
"Oh, I know."
Drove across town to the street Jane was pretty sure the house was on. The street was quiet. Dark. Also, there was no house with the number we were looking for. Operation Ivy still loud out of my open windows we drove up and down the street staring at porches and in windows hoping to catch some clue.
Jane's car showed up on our fifth pass and we parked near her.
"I don't really want to be here," William said.
"Me either. You want to book early?"
"Yeah."
"We should have a code word for when one of us is ready."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. Goatwhore?"
"Perfect."
We walked behind the group Jane brought. They went down a driveway, behind a house and there were people smoking near a door with the number we had been looking for. We never would have found it on our own.
Jane's group went inside and we followed, and up a staircase and into a kitchen that looked like it was the first apartment of a group of college kids.
A guy reached his hand out to me. "Hey, man. Welcome. James, right?"
"Yeah. How'd you know?"
"Saw you play a while ago. Good shit. Glad you're here. I'm Nicholas."
"Good to meet you man. This your place?"
"Yeah. Booze is in the kitchen, and Randall, wherever the fuck he is has pot. So, you know..."
"Thanks."
"Of course man. Hey, I'll find you later, I've got music shit to ask you."
All right," I said.
He walked away and I walked to the kitchen, where William already was, pouring a glass of gin.
"Me too," I said.
He nodded his nod and grabbed a glass from the dish rack behind him and poured me one. There were stools on one side of the island in the kitchen and they faced outward so I could see the front door when we sat.
I sent Taylor a text. "I kind of wish you were hanging out."
"Kind of?" she said.
I drank my gin, poured another and drank it. William kept up.
The front door opened and a girl whom I had been keeping my distance from walked in and immediately made eye contact.
"Shit," William said.
"You know the story?"
"Not really, just what I have heard."
"Oh, that's fucking horrifying. What does that mean?"
"Don't worry man. It isn't on you. Goatwhore?"
"Goatwhore."
We threw back the drinks we had and left.
Pot smoke filled the porch and I knew some of the faces around it.
"You want some dudes?" someone asked and gestured the joint at us.
"None for me, thanks. Booze only."
"All right, you man?" the kid asked William.
"No, thank you though."
We walked down the stairs and I was nearing the end of my pouch of wine.
"What do you want to do?" I asked.
"Wander?"
"Let's go to a bar."
"Deal."
Stumbled into the road and found the car. Got in and William changed the CD and the music was deafening and we drove back into town.
Tuesday (Part 1)
I was supposed to hang out with Amy after work but she was sick.
Thought I had rehearsal, but I didn't.
Sent Bette a message to see if she wanted to kill time with me, but she hadn't got back to me.
My evening was clear and it was making me nervous. I rode the elevator away from my office and kept thinking about the box of Chianti on my counter at home and I found my car in the parking garage and drove away from the building and thought about the box of Chianti on my counter.
Drove with the windows down and it was nearly eighty out for the third day in a row and the breeze across my face and the music on the stereo and the life in the city, none of it was the Chianti.
Home.
Empty the things in my pockets into a small pile on the table. Pour a tall glass. Lean against the counter and then everything was okay, or getting closer to it.
Thought about calling Taylor, but didn't. I wasn't sure what to do with that. I was pretty sure I fucked that up somehow and I didn't want to think about it.
Poured another and I headed into the living room and put a record on. I like playing 45's on 33. I used to have a Nirvana 45 that slowed would grind and melt into the absolute sound of doom and adulthood and responsibility and so I had created a habit of it.
Sat on my couch for a minute and Amy sent a message.
"I have a muffin for you. Banana. But I don't know how you'll get it."
Back and forth for a minute and then I decided that since she was sick and I was really into the idea of a banana muffin, I'd drive over and pick it up from her.
It came with a chocolate biscotti also. I hung out for a minute and discussed a numbering system that I had created of people I knew and the strange reason I had to. She laughed.
"Jesus, James," she said.
"I know."
"Don't fuck her."
"Which?"
"Three."
"I'm not going to. I don't know. There's this other thing I'm trying to sort."
"Other thing?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, that's right. The guest."
"Yeah."
"How'd that go?"
"The more I think about it, the more I have no idea. Probably not as well as I thought. "
"Sorry dude."
"C'est la vie." I took a sip from the small plastic flask i had in my pocket and said goodbye and left.
Sunglasses on. Hair a mess. Dirty chucks.. Black t-shirt with a skull made from pictures of cats and cutoff black skinny jean shorts. I walked the half block back to my car and I was looking forward to getting home and eating the muffin. It had been a long time since someone had made something for me and I thought Amy was a good friend to have. I climbed into my car and drove away.
Home.
Poured another and turned the television on. Caught up on a show Sacha had been hounding me about.
Taylor sent me a message.
"Oy vey," she said.
"What are you grumbling about?"
"I just bought box wine and it's all your fault."
"I'm a man who knows what he's doing. Glad it's rubbing off on you."
Back and forth for a bit. The evening was turning to night. I was restless and agitated.
"Thinking about wandering," I said.
"Wandering?"
"Yeah. A walk around town maybe."
She didn't respond. I changed my shirt, filled my pockets, filled a pouch with wine, left my sunglasses on the table. Left the house.
I stood in the driveway for a minute and thought I didn't want to walk at all, I just didn't want to be in the house. I got in the car and drove downtown.
Thought I had rehearsal, but I didn't.
Sent Bette a message to see if she wanted to kill time with me, but she hadn't got back to me.
My evening was clear and it was making me nervous. I rode the elevator away from my office and kept thinking about the box of Chianti on my counter at home and I found my car in the parking garage and drove away from the building and thought about the box of Chianti on my counter.
Drove with the windows down and it was nearly eighty out for the third day in a row and the breeze across my face and the music on the stereo and the life in the city, none of it was the Chianti.
Home.
Empty the things in my pockets into a small pile on the table. Pour a tall glass. Lean against the counter and then everything was okay, or getting closer to it.
Thought about calling Taylor, but didn't. I wasn't sure what to do with that. I was pretty sure I fucked that up somehow and I didn't want to think about it.
Poured another and I headed into the living room and put a record on. I like playing 45's on 33. I used to have a Nirvana 45 that slowed would grind and melt into the absolute sound of doom and adulthood and responsibility and so I had created a habit of it.
Sat on my couch for a minute and Amy sent a message.
"I have a muffin for you. Banana. But I don't know how you'll get it."
Back and forth for a minute and then I decided that since she was sick and I was really into the idea of a banana muffin, I'd drive over and pick it up from her.
It came with a chocolate biscotti also. I hung out for a minute and discussed a numbering system that I had created of people I knew and the strange reason I had to. She laughed.
"Jesus, James," she said.
"I know."
"Don't fuck her."
"Which?"
"Three."
"I'm not going to. I don't know. There's this other thing I'm trying to sort."
"Other thing?"
"Yeah."
"Oh, that's right. The guest."
"Yeah."
"How'd that go?"
"The more I think about it, the more I have no idea. Probably not as well as I thought. "
"Sorry dude."
"C'est la vie." I took a sip from the small plastic flask i had in my pocket and said goodbye and left.
Sunglasses on. Hair a mess. Dirty chucks.. Black t-shirt with a skull made from pictures of cats and cutoff black skinny jean shorts. I walked the half block back to my car and I was looking forward to getting home and eating the muffin. It had been a long time since someone had made something for me and I thought Amy was a good friend to have. I climbed into my car and drove away.
Home.
Poured another and turned the television on. Caught up on a show Sacha had been hounding me about.
Taylor sent me a message.
"Oy vey," she said.
"What are you grumbling about?"
"I just bought box wine and it's all your fault."
"I'm a man who knows what he's doing. Glad it's rubbing off on you."
Back and forth for a bit. The evening was turning to night. I was restless and agitated.
"Thinking about wandering," I said.
"Wandering?"
"Yeah. A walk around town maybe."
She didn't respond. I changed my shirt, filled my pockets, filled a pouch with wine, left my sunglasses on the table. Left the house.
I stood in the driveway for a minute and thought I didn't want to walk at all, I just didn't want to be in the house. I got in the car and drove downtown.
Tuesday, May 5, 2015
Collapsed Bridge
Shut the fuck up.
I was sitting at my desk. It was Tuesday and Taylor had left in the morning and I was feeling worn. Trying to write. I never had time at my apartment anymore. It was difficult to write at work but it wasn't impossible. I couldn't drink. I couldn't put headphones on. I had to be constantly ready to deal with... well, work. A woman in a cube diagonal from me was going on and on about having a margarita at lunch to celebrate Cinco De Mayo. I didn't doubt she liked margaritas, only that she'd follow through.
Why even talk about it? I thought, staring at my keyboard while she went on and on and on and she chortled shrill and seemingly endless. Just have the goddamned drink. No one cares.
A couple weeks back I had been staying in the magical land of Last Resort. I hadn't been sleeping, I hadn't been sober. I hadn't been dreaming, hoping, or anywhere. I was spending more time sitting on my bed wondering where to nail the belt with all of my goddamned low ceilings than anything else. It had become a focus.
I went to work. I talked with Sacha and I laughed and I talked with Amy and I laughed and I had started a band and I laughed and I looked everyone in the eye and I only thought my eyes were black and my skin was blue and I was an alien among them. A ghost. A voice they'd eventually forget and a time they'd eventually regret and a person they'd never actually met.
I wasn't an idiot. I understood what was happening. I knew there was a day of sunshine ahead of me. Somewhere. I knew that I'd feel something else eventually. I knew I'd someday think this moment is worth any other. But, what you know and what you feel.
A friend recommended me to a therapist. A therapist recommended me to a doctor. A doctor recommended me to medication. One for my brain, a second for my sleep. I knew I needed them.
Two days in and I was well rested. I was cleaning up my yard. I was a little jittery, and I was a little clouded, but I thought, maybe I'll go sober.
I did.
And everything stopped.
No songs came from my throat. No writing from my fingertips. No paintings from my hands. I thought get wine and I didn't.
People noticed and they ran through all of same meaningless shit words you'd expect.
"Proud."
"Strong."
"Happy."
"Brave."
I deserved none of them. Don't be proud of me because I can't handle my own fucking head, and I'm as strong as a collapsed bridge. Don't be happy for me. I couldn't think. I couldn't create. I either survived or lived, but not both. And "brave"? Ridiculous. I knew my cowardice. I embodied it. Bravery is facing your horror, and I was running away. Or at the least, crawling.
On the fifth sober day, and the eighth medicated, my band had a show. A house party for Shannon's birthday. I sang the songs and while I was I felt nothing for the words. They were only sounds and I thought that must mean they weren't my words anymore and that these weren't my songs anymore and this wasn't my music or band or friends and as my mouth and hands moved and the lights bounced and Paul and Frances rolled through their parts with finesse and ease and smiling I smiled back and kept up the act and felt nothing.
The set ended.
I pulled off the large fleece Batman onesie I had worn through it and drenched in sweat I packed up my gear and thought; have a beer. It's fine. Relax. Have a beer. So I did. Then another, then more and so on.
The next morning I bought a box of wine and two days later I bought another and I kept telling people I was still sober and then when I killed the second box the next day I bought a third and decided I wasn't going to live in a goddamned cloud anymore and that I'd know my own thoughts and recognize my own voice and if I drowned I'd drown and it'd be on my own terms. I stopped taking the meds and it was another five days before I thought about where to nail the belt again and I knew then that the horrible little bastards had worn off.
Taylor was coming over that night for a few days and I was looking forward to seeing her, but thought maybe the timing of all of this was possibly the worst I could have arranged. I was going to be a swirling mess, unfocused, not yet clear, not yet me.
Maybe that's for the best.
Maybe it was. I don't know.
I was sitting at my desk. It was Tuesday and Taylor had left in the morning and I was feeling worn. Trying to write. I never had time at my apartment anymore. It was difficult to write at work but it wasn't impossible. I couldn't drink. I couldn't put headphones on. I had to be constantly ready to deal with... well, work. A woman in a cube diagonal from me was going on and on about having a margarita at lunch to celebrate Cinco De Mayo. I didn't doubt she liked margaritas, only that she'd follow through.
Why even talk about it? I thought, staring at my keyboard while she went on and on and on and she chortled shrill and seemingly endless. Just have the goddamned drink. No one cares.
A couple weeks back I had been staying in the magical land of Last Resort. I hadn't been sleeping, I hadn't been sober. I hadn't been dreaming, hoping, or anywhere. I was spending more time sitting on my bed wondering where to nail the belt with all of my goddamned low ceilings than anything else. It had become a focus.
I went to work. I talked with Sacha and I laughed and I talked with Amy and I laughed and I had started a band and I laughed and I looked everyone in the eye and I only thought my eyes were black and my skin was blue and I was an alien among them. A ghost. A voice they'd eventually forget and a time they'd eventually regret and a person they'd never actually met.
I wasn't an idiot. I understood what was happening. I knew there was a day of sunshine ahead of me. Somewhere. I knew that I'd feel something else eventually. I knew I'd someday think this moment is worth any other. But, what you know and what you feel.
A friend recommended me to a therapist. A therapist recommended me to a doctor. A doctor recommended me to medication. One for my brain, a second for my sleep. I knew I needed them.
Two days in and I was well rested. I was cleaning up my yard. I was a little jittery, and I was a little clouded, but I thought, maybe I'll go sober.
I did.
And everything stopped.
No songs came from my throat. No writing from my fingertips. No paintings from my hands. I thought get wine and I didn't.
People noticed and they ran through all of same meaningless shit words you'd expect.
"Proud."
"Strong."
"Happy."
"Brave."
I deserved none of them. Don't be proud of me because I can't handle my own fucking head, and I'm as strong as a collapsed bridge. Don't be happy for me. I couldn't think. I couldn't create. I either survived or lived, but not both. And "brave"? Ridiculous. I knew my cowardice. I embodied it. Bravery is facing your horror, and I was running away. Or at the least, crawling.
On the fifth sober day, and the eighth medicated, my band had a show. A house party for Shannon's birthday. I sang the songs and while I was I felt nothing for the words. They were only sounds and I thought that must mean they weren't my words anymore and that these weren't my songs anymore and this wasn't my music or band or friends and as my mouth and hands moved and the lights bounced and Paul and Frances rolled through their parts with finesse and ease and smiling I smiled back and kept up the act and felt nothing.
The set ended.
I pulled off the large fleece Batman onesie I had worn through it and drenched in sweat I packed up my gear and thought; have a beer. It's fine. Relax. Have a beer. So I did. Then another, then more and so on.
The next morning I bought a box of wine and two days later I bought another and I kept telling people I was still sober and then when I killed the second box the next day I bought a third and decided I wasn't going to live in a goddamned cloud anymore and that I'd know my own thoughts and recognize my own voice and if I drowned I'd drown and it'd be on my own terms. I stopped taking the meds and it was another five days before I thought about where to nail the belt again and I knew then that the horrible little bastards had worn off.
Taylor was coming over that night for a few days and I was looking forward to seeing her, but thought maybe the timing of all of this was possibly the worst I could have arranged. I was going to be a swirling mess, unfocused, not yet clear, not yet me.
Maybe that's for the best.
Maybe it was. I don't know.
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