Friday, February 25, 2005
this shit can't be healthy this late...(fever dreams)
I am dreaming, and every word of what follows is true.
I walked out of my bedroom and there was a crowd in the hall, all standing and waiting, each person completely unrecognizable, and none of them agreeing on what we were waiting for. The first guy said we were waiting for a hole in the floor to be filled so we could continue moving. The girl holding his hand said she heard from her brother that it had something to do with a crazy veteran holding a Vietnamese man hostage and screaming in fluent Arabic. The blonde girl in front of them said both were wrong, and we were waiting for the keg to be tapped so everyone could finally drink. When I pressed her as to why they didn't go get a can or bottle out of the fridge, she smiled at me and said those were being saved for someone else, and it wouldn't be right to drink them without this mystery person here.
Of course, the brunette in front of the blonde girl wearing a shirt that said "We Dare To Bare All" told me another story, but I didn't buy her story, so she took it back. With no place to go, I sat in the hallway and waited for the congestion to break up before making it into the kitchen. The second I opened the fridge, I saw a hand on my shoulder and a whist of hair out of the corner of my eye. I could feel someone kiss the back of my ear, and for a minute the room was warm, with that moist feeling to it, the hyper-sexual desire of ghost for a man that could well be gone before seeing how the movie comes out.
There is good news. Really good news, as long as you don't mind stretching the interpretation a little bit. I don't mind at all...rules are meant to be broken, and who are we worried about anyway? Anyone who was ever supposed to notice is tied up staring at an M&M candy bar, gyrating and bending to open the bar, all the while wondering why the room was so quiet. They are fools of the first degree, each one filled with contempt and envy in a never ending cycle, lusting after the transfixed hatred in the last gasp attempt to be full again before the show ends, the curtain falls.
I have known that feeling. I am sure you have too. I imagine you, the grace I'll bet you never even knew existed while massaging the very ego that seeks to explode. It's a dangerous game, this, here, now, with so much at stake, I think most are locked in the struggle to see outside the opaque nature of choice. I'm told it isn't possible. There are six billion of us down here, so for all I know, it is possible. I'd like to think it was, but that is a case of self-denial stemming from an overanxious imagination and too much of anything I can get into my head without damaging the exterior. I'd rather have that damage inside anyway, where no one can see it and where it hides.
In a sharp moment, I come awake, and there is nobody here. The comment boards are dry, not dripping with the venom of the challenged, and certainly not for my Alaskan entrée, wherever she may be roaming at the moment. If I had the choice, I would choose faith in the idea of existence. Every human hope stems from that. But then, existentialism isn't good enough for some. (This is a variation on my favorite old saying "It's all fun and games until the fucking evangelicals and fundamentalists show up and ruin the world for the rest of us decent atheists.")
Loud music bumps and shakes, and the clock hits 3:30 a.m. and I am awake to see it again. The cat sleeps on the bed, blissfully unaware there is anything to be concerned with past food, heat, and the occasional jaw scratch. I watch her for a moment, jealous, as I was with fat Stripes. One of my past selves arises for a moment, grinning, holding a cigarette while present me shakes with chills and fever. "You awful asshole, don't you know that shit can't be healthy this late?" Past self replies with laughter, and then spits on the rug (he was such an ass, both then and now) and leaves. I'm going to follow him, I need a cigarette. Healthy or not, at this hour, there are few options but the last 2 (ok, last 3) bud lights and then a steady diet of nicotine flavored dirty air. Besides, I'm not that sick, and it beats the devil out of me, as REK would say....
----
In other news...I had a song I was supremely happy with, until my computer ate all but the chorus. My knuckles are bruised from punching the wall and almost ripping the keyboard in half, but here is the chorus, becuase it would be a fucking travesty to go back on my word after all that. Long live the writers strong enough to use paper and pen rather than this complicated useless piece of shit. The title was going to be "Last Call At The Second Chance Bar & Grille." Fuck this computer, I really liked that. And my hand hurts. I ahve really got to stop punching walls.
Your memory ridin' right next to me
Pointing out everything that I’ll never see
Reminding me of everything that I'll never be
Closing time second chances are still
Didn't ask you for all the words that you speak
Or the way that you stalk me at night in my sleep
Takin' everything I got leaves me nothing to keep
At the Second Chance Bar & Grille
SO tomorrow I will do some reconstruction work and see what I cn find or remember, which won't be much because if I am already fucked up enough to write something that isn't total shit, then I am already too fucked up to remmeber the wherefore and why of the whole thing. Much like George Carlin, I too desire to meet a gorgeous woman who owns a car dealership and deals powder on the side...that is a really inside joke, most will stand and stare and scratch their forehead....The best part of being bipolar is that every time you get so far down that shit seems hopeless, sooner or later, for no reason, you will totally feel that for no reason, everything is PERFECT. Everything isn't perfect, but I take strange comfort living in a Catch-22 and that is enough for right now.
cf
I walked out of my bedroom and there was a crowd in the hall, all standing and waiting, each person completely unrecognizable, and none of them agreeing on what we were waiting for. The first guy said we were waiting for a hole in the floor to be filled so we could continue moving. The girl holding his hand said she heard from her brother that it had something to do with a crazy veteran holding a Vietnamese man hostage and screaming in fluent Arabic. The blonde girl in front of them said both were wrong, and we were waiting for the keg to be tapped so everyone could finally drink. When I pressed her as to why they didn't go get a can or bottle out of the fridge, she smiled at me and said those were being saved for someone else, and it wouldn't be right to drink them without this mystery person here.
Of course, the brunette in front of the blonde girl wearing a shirt that said "We Dare To Bare All" told me another story, but I didn't buy her story, so she took it back. With no place to go, I sat in the hallway and waited for the congestion to break up before making it into the kitchen. The second I opened the fridge, I saw a hand on my shoulder and a whist of hair out of the corner of my eye. I could feel someone kiss the back of my ear, and for a minute the room was warm, with that moist feeling to it, the hyper-sexual desire of ghost for a man that could well be gone before seeing how the movie comes out.
There is good news. Really good news, as long as you don't mind stretching the interpretation a little bit. I don't mind at all...rules are meant to be broken, and who are we worried about anyway? Anyone who was ever supposed to notice is tied up staring at an M&M candy bar, gyrating and bending to open the bar, all the while wondering why the room was so quiet. They are fools of the first degree, each one filled with contempt and envy in a never ending cycle, lusting after the transfixed hatred in the last gasp attempt to be full again before the show ends, the curtain falls.
I have known that feeling. I am sure you have too. I imagine you, the grace I'll bet you never even knew existed while massaging the very ego that seeks to explode. It's a dangerous game, this, here, now, with so much at stake, I think most are locked in the struggle to see outside the opaque nature of choice. I'm told it isn't possible. There are six billion of us down here, so for all I know, it is possible. I'd like to think it was, but that is a case of self-denial stemming from an overanxious imagination and too much of anything I can get into my head without damaging the exterior. I'd rather have that damage inside anyway, where no one can see it and where it hides.
In a sharp moment, I come awake, and there is nobody here. The comment boards are dry, not dripping with the venom of the challenged, and certainly not for my Alaskan entrée, wherever she may be roaming at the moment. If I had the choice, I would choose faith in the idea of existence. Every human hope stems from that. But then, existentialism isn't good enough for some. (This is a variation on my favorite old saying "It's all fun and games until the fucking evangelicals and fundamentalists show up and ruin the world for the rest of us decent atheists.")
Loud music bumps and shakes, and the clock hits 3:30 a.m. and I am awake to see it again. The cat sleeps on the bed, blissfully unaware there is anything to be concerned with past food, heat, and the occasional jaw scratch. I watch her for a moment, jealous, as I was with fat Stripes. One of my past selves arises for a moment, grinning, holding a cigarette while present me shakes with chills and fever. "You awful asshole, don't you know that shit can't be healthy this late?" Past self replies with laughter, and then spits on the rug (he was such an ass, both then and now) and leaves. I'm going to follow him, I need a cigarette. Healthy or not, at this hour, there are few options but the last 2 (ok, last 3) bud lights and then a steady diet of nicotine flavored dirty air. Besides, I'm not that sick, and it beats the devil out of me, as REK would say....
----
In other news...I had a song I was supremely happy with, until my computer ate all but the chorus. My knuckles are bruised from punching the wall and almost ripping the keyboard in half, but here is the chorus, becuase it would be a fucking travesty to go back on my word after all that. Long live the writers strong enough to use paper and pen rather than this complicated useless piece of shit. The title was going to be "Last Call At The Second Chance Bar & Grille." Fuck this computer, I really liked that. And my hand hurts. I ahve really got to stop punching walls.
Your memory ridin' right next to me
Pointing out everything that I’ll never see
Reminding me of everything that I'll never be
Closing time second chances are still
Didn't ask you for all the words that you speak
Or the way that you stalk me at night in my sleep
Takin' everything I got leaves me nothing to keep
At the Second Chance Bar & Grille
SO tomorrow I will do some reconstruction work and see what I cn find or remember, which won't be much because if I am already fucked up enough to write something that isn't total shit, then I am already too fucked up to remmeber the wherefore and why of the whole thing. Much like George Carlin, I too desire to meet a gorgeous woman who owns a car dealership and deals powder on the side...that is a really inside joke, most will stand and stare and scratch their forehead....The best part of being bipolar is that every time you get so far down that shit seems hopeless, sooner or later, for no reason, you will totally feel that for no reason, everything is PERFECT. Everything isn't perfect, but I take strange comfort living in a Catch-22 and that is enough for right now.
cf
