I am bored, restless, and...did I mention bored; therefore, I am chugging Old Style (from a can, yo!) and listening tothis soundtrack. How silly/messed up is that?
The CD came to me in the mail with a bunch of other random/scratched CDs my dad found in the country whilst on a bike ride. Random, no?
So the wind and the smell of autumn calls to mind keggers from the past, and the music is the background of a few nights-gone-dancing that I used to participate in. That's right, I used to dance; but, that characteristic took a slow death around 1993. And no, C.P., I'll not elaborate (ha ha ha).
Nothing to do but head-bob and sip.
Give a call if you're up and up to the babbling that may (or may not) erupt from my mouth.
9 shots rang out and echoed among the buildings. Somewhere in "The Jungle.' Probably over by Doodlehead's apartment.
And I don't even care.
I am too involved in the battle in my head. Smoke and amber bullets swirling pinging around the borders of my mind.
Sick of Religion, and the conquests and pain it causes. Sick of all this talk of marriage, and babies, and love, and girlfriends, and boyfriends, and dating. Sick of worrying about work, and finding another job. Sick of The Ghetto Clinic. Sick of barely making rent.
The Screaming Trees calm me tonight. His whiskey voice echoes my own, "shine your lonely light on me/I'll be there to hold the..."
Last week I went around with a bottle of White Out in the store and touched up the cracks and scratches on the fixtures at work. I think I met the lowest point of my career. I felt like such a tool. What have I become? I'm the fucking Gimp, the Vegetative Shell of a Man who bags your groceries.
The meds make me numb. Better, I suppose, than wanting to finish a bottle in a bloody bath.
I want out. I want in. I don't know what I want. I want to remember "what is the point?"
I nod. I smile. I say "Thank you" and "Please." I make jokes. I flirt with married or women with boyfriends. I change the subject. I am paranoid. I hold so much in contempt. I am disgusted with myself. I want to sleep with her. I want to sleep with no one. I curse my self. I ask you to come inside, and then throw you out. Can you erase someone nicely? I never learned how to live. I write Nothing. I plod along the keyboard, bored with the walk. Ghosts look at me with disappointed eyes.
I dreamed last night the store closed down. Laid-off again. It felt inevitable; meant to be.
Tonight, I nearly went to The Ho alone. Restless, I needed an "experience." The need to drink among the fellow downtrodden; tickle the underbelly and see its reaction. I needed a test for myself. You always wonder how you'd react in certain situations. But I stayed home, and I dreamed with my eyes open, leaning against the sink.
Halfway to Nowhere.
My voicemail is full of messages, but only two are for me. I can't even listen to them tonight.
The Holidays are coming again this year. Sadness and anxiety. I hate receiving and giving. I usually boycott Halloween parties. I loathe dressing up. "You can be someone else for a night." But I don't want to be someone else; yet, I don't want to be Me. What the Hell kind of conundrum is that? People behind masks scare me. I need to see/know to whom I'm talking to.
I need to see your Eyes and Mouth.
And retail just killed Christmas and Marriage for me. It just brings the Evil out in people. Jesus, who? Love, what? Peace, never heard of it.
On Monday Night Football. On Network TV. I can actually watch a game. Whooo-haaaa! This may not strike you filled-to-the-gills-with-money types, but for those of us without cable, this is a big fricking deal. I've had to live through this blog's eyes.
RobertSmith is screaming at me, for me. The Wailing Guitar is my voice. No one hears me scream because I end in a nervous laugh. Faith and Pornography. Is that really all there is?
I walk through the air and make no breeze. I am Invisible. No one sees me because I don't see Myself. I hide from myself, sickened and black, the wet leftovers of a campfire in the rain. No use for it anymore. Soon to sick into the earth, forgotten.
Cheeks wet with tears that never come. Bloodshot eyes in the morning, I am allergic to the awakened world. Self-exiled, quarantined from others. I cannot connect.
I can't write. I have nothing to say that hasn't been said before. Typing is the sound of a pebble in the middle of an avalanche. I choke on other's dust, and I fall before the rush. Trapped beneath a boulder, I sit until the sun sets. Pinched in a Trap of my own devising, I am bored with it all and suffer until the last blood drop trickles out my veins.
In the hanging garden, I wish to hang. I shiver and shake, and I shudder and blink. My hand covers my twisting mouth. My tongue swells and shrinks, I cannot speak. My fingers bitten to the quick, blood lines my nails. The Path is hidden from my Blind-folded Eyes, and the Blue-haired Demons laugh and dance around my wasted body.
Can you hear them? They gnash their teeth, emitting hyena howls and lick my ears. "Join us, join us; it takes but a moment..." My cries go unanswered. No one sees my pleading eyes. Part of me doesn't care anymore.
I got home from work feeling coughy and draggy, but determined to go out. I had, like a dork, accidently deleted Homie J.B.'s phone number from my Caller ID, so I waited around for him to call; a little of this, checking emails, chasing Lilly around the apartment, watched a little Image Union, and generally fighting the urge to doze off on the too small couch. I finally gave up the wait, went to bed, and ended up sleeping for FOURTEEN HOURS. WTF? I guess this chest cold is still kicking hard.
Tonight the plan is to meet up for Indian food, and drinks afterward.
* * *
News from within The Complex: About five minutes after I stepped into The Cube after work last night, my door buzzer went off. It took me a few seconds to realize what was happening as visitors are a rare thing. I went to the box thingy: "Hello?" no answer... "Hello???" no answer. And then I realized:
Thankfully, it turned out not to be a psycho killer, but my neighbor Complex Carrieand she held in her hand, not a butcher's knife, but portion of Raspberry Pound cake her husband baked the other day. The thing weighed a ton, but tasted sugary and fruity. My sweet tooth exploded and asked for more. (thanks, guys)
Okay everyone; join me in thinking Thoughts Of Speed for my friends Arsh and Amazing G. They're running the Chicago Marathon (though Amazing G. may not, undecided as of Friday).
So now and again this morning, picture a tall white woman and a shorter brown woman running side by side on the beach with sea gulls floating past them inspirationally. And then a pouty-lipped Brazilian woman in a white thong walks by, turns to you and....
Oops, combined a couple of different thoughts there, sorry.
Good luck to all my friends running wild in the streets of Chicago!
All right, then, I have to go smoke a cigarette and eat some lard or something. All this talk of running exercise has worn me out.
If the temperature rose about ten degrees and the sun came out, I'd be in just the right mood for a group of friends and a trip up Bong Hill. For the view (another) (and another), the relaxation, the intoxication, the feeling of freedom, and the sound of breeze through trees and across grass. If it got cold, or we climbed at night, maybe a small campfire in The Caves. Like that one time, drinking Busch Light, staring at the fire, and laughing; when, during a lull in the conversation, we heard off in the distance: "this is the end, my only friend, the end" drifting in the forest night. We followed the voice of Jim, and found a keg party down the lane. Magikal Bong Hill.
After a few hours, when we had to go, a fast slide tumble slip down the Face to end the day. The many times I've done this in the past may have added to the erosion...sorry.
but (supposedly) you get what you need. I got a roof over my head. Some food in my belly. Some booze for the soul. Some rags on my back.
But something is missing. "You just want to have a crush on someone, "M. said a month ago or so, and maybe he's right. Maybe I just want the Rush of a Crush to get me through this long day called life. That giddy feeling that pushes you out of bed, smiling, even on the coldest of mornings.
I mentioned the unmentionable to my Primary S. at The Ghetto Clinic today.
That summer before my senior year. "I hope I didn't mess you up, " she said. And I laughed, "...of course you didn't, don't worry about it."
For years later, I think maybe the situation did. It might have set up a pattern of self-destruction, to always want what I can't have, forbidden to touch. I thought maybe I needed to go back for better closure: to finish this time, would finish it for good.
And then I could move on and start really Living Life.
Primary S. said, maybe you both needed that situation at that time. You said you helped each other get through things going on at that moment, so maybe that was all. That's what you're really looking for now: a Soulmate of sorts, discovered at that moment in your life. You started out as friends and moved on, then moved on. It ran its course.
Maybe that's what you need/want. You want more than sex, you want a True close friend, a confidant, a partner, a Real Soulmate. And it doesn't sound like The Mall is where you're going to find her.
Sometimes it takes a total stranger, outsider, to spin the situation into a healthy memory.
While scouring through the inventories of 3 different stores for cheap dining chairs for this weasely guy, and pointing out something for a newbie associate, the phone rings for me. It's a woman from The Big House in H.R. She's called to inform me that even though "you did nothing wrong" I didn't land the photography department data entry job.
I found myself weirdly unfazed at this information. Later, a coworker said I sounded quite professional and cordial on the phone (while juggling inventory computer and soothing whiny weasel guy). And (pardon me if I sound all New Age-y or Align You Chakras Flaky) that lack of bummed-outness leads me to believe (or pretend to believe) I didn't really want the job. Shitty early hours, no benefits, and double the commute time must not have outweighed the (presumably) better pay.
Back to the want ads, intra-office postings, and such.
As I typed this post, I looked up into one of My Cube's corners and saw a little flock of Somethings dancing hopping skipping giving me six to eight fingers in a web. Right above my computer. I quickly covered my monitor of my Gonzo II with a T-shirt (It's all in your mind/ Halloween '91/ Athens Ohio backside: You are what you eat [enter giant mushroom and electric wizard]), and, not having any bug spray, annihilated the little buggers with Lysol.
Last night, a stillness held the air. I felt neither too hot nor too cold, but restless as I smoked cigarettes and drank a cupful after cupful of honey lemon tea. Staring out the kitchen window at the rain washing the street. The neighborhood stood silent; no yelling kids, no basketballs bouncing, no dogs barking, few cars shhhhh-ed by in the street, and the wind barely moved the leaves outside my window. Nothing, save the pellets of water dropping onto the grass.
I considered going out, to find solace in the company of strangers. A smoky room of smoky possibilities, no matter how slim. To sit and sip alone in a room of others drinking to forget or warming up from the cool rain.
But I stayed in, and fought the scratching of something trying to get out of my skin. And stared at the shadows of the leaves moving in the breeze on the sidewalk.
Honey lemon tea. Vanilla scented wax warming on the lamp. Lilly sprawled in the living room. The clink of bone china. A thump of a Restless Heart.
Tonight, M.U. is celebrating her 31st Birthday at Club Foot. Years have passed since I set foot and hoisted beer there. I definitely remember liking this place. Once Mike and I partied there with some chick with a fake name and long black hair from the band Hot Heels (?). Blurry lust tinged with fear as I had just moved to "the big windy city," and everything was tinged with blurry lust and fear. I know the music will rawk--lots of punk, Smiths, industrial, and the like. I know the beer is cheap--holla! And I know there will probably be some Sweet Betties around to eyeball and for which to yearn/burn.
But I am exhausted. My sleep cycle is all out of whack. Nearly each night this past week I'm up until two or 3 in the morning, sleeping through my alarm. I didn't get up until noon today, checked email, read The New Yorker, and promptly fell asleep on the too small couch with Lilly next to me until four. It's now around seven o'clock, and I feel red-eyed and drugged. A Zombie with shaking coffee-filled veins. My back feels bruised on the inside. What the Hell is wrong with me?
Should I stay, or should I go now? This is the thought I clash with (hee hee, get it?). I could stay in and maybe get some frickin' sleep, maybe get to work on time. Or I could just go and see what happens. Worst to worst, I sit alone, drink a couple of cheap beers and be back at home around midnight, right? It has been a while since I've gone out.