Sunday, March 26, 2006

weakly lived; weakly written.

the baby i'm holding, he's mine. i don't remember his name, because i never really chose a boy's name that i liked. it's no big deal. i see his face and it doesn't look like me, or his mother, who's nowhere in sight. i can't even picture her face. or her name. but this little guy here, he's all mine. i bring him in close to me and i'm holding him tight. it occurs to me that it's a baby, and maybe i shouldn't be holding him this close. i open my eyes, and his face is exactly the same as i left it. wide open, and smiling, and picture perfect.

my arms realize before my mind does, before my eyes do, this little boy, "my" little boy, is just a pillow.

with eyes closed, i hear a music box playing, repeating, a subtle techno loop again and again. i have to take my glasses off of my face, and i think i know that they're bent. i shove the box of wheat thins to the floor. matter of fact, i think to myself, i search for the dvd remote, and click the power off. fight club's looped menu has played enough times for my liking. it's eleven o'clock AM, and my light is still on. what's happening here is a result of the night before.
sunrise highway was never like this before. thin, and unassuming with a thirty mile an hour speed limit. i'm looking for grand avenue. someone show me grand avenue. days away is playing in no particular order from the ipod. i'm trying to fight the urge, the habit, to slide the tab on top to HOLD. i think that's the reason that the damn thing keeps freezing. i thought that before i left, all i'd have to do was read the directions once, and figure it out. it's a good thing that i brought the little slice of pad with me out there. 27 to grand to foxhurst to cheshire to anderson to essex to chelsea. 557. or 577. billy gets in and i realize there and at that point in time that me and billy have just about nothing in common. we both like some music sometimes. i think it ends there. i figure i'm adaptable. i figure things will be fine.

we drive the three or four blocks to truhn's house. from the front, it's covered in trees, and other kinds of overgrowth, and i'm thinking of things like messy houses, and clutter. walking into the front door, the kitchen seems fine. something nice here, a little novelty there, a box of poland spring on the table. you know. an everyhouse. but we're headed to the basement. where a bunch of people i've never met, and the singer from a band i sort've like are hanging out. could be high. could be bored. could be hanging out. could be watching a movie. when you try to paint the picture in your head, it's hard to start when you don't even know what colors, or what shapes to use.

slim, narrow stairs take us down to a barebones, paritally musically minded basement.

this continues when JEOPARDY! is over.
the wood walls are covered in old punk rock flyers. posters. advertisements. duct tape graffiti with names of people i'll never know. somewhere near the back of the room where the light from the bulbs don't stray is a collage of photos including faces like daryl palumbo, and chino moreno, both idols and celebrities in specific circles. there's a bed in the corner where you'd think someone might be able to sleep. an empty two liter bottle of sprite, a garbage pail full of tissues, and a pirate eye patch sits on the floor. for some reason, i'm thinking, "so, this is where they fuck."

i haven't thought like this in months.

the people in this room are charicatures. there's the guy with the long hair who knows everything about guitars, but nothing about the world. this guy, the last thing i remember him saying is, "it's the kind of film that leaves you feeling a little fucked up when you come away from it." like i've never heard that before. there's the guy with the goatee and the long hair who's been on the outskirts laughing the whole time. the dude with the hemp everything who's been playing guitar and laughing. then there's the three dudes sitting on folding chairs in the living area of this little habitat. paulie with his pea coat and nondescript initial cap. craig with the black jacket and goofy slackjaw smile. and specs with his nickname adorning his face, wearing a vaguely military jacket and a camo hat. these kids make you feel stupid just by saying nothing. i feel alienated by being someone. someone with an opinion and a bag and an identity. these kids, they blend in with deadheads; they stand out at the mall.

time passes by and the kids are adjusting audio via an electric pedal. for the most part, it's connected to a guitar. for about seven minutes, we're all speaking through headphones, through the pedal, and we're saying the first thing we're thinking as someone fucks with dials, knobs, and buttons. we sound like the voice of the matrix v. 0.5. this is fine.

this carries on for a half hour or forty five minutes. i don't want to leave, but i don't want to be seen. for me, just observing what would happen without any virgin witnesses (aka me) would work. i want them to just be as they are without this new, this weird kid checking out everything they're about. the things they do on a daily basis. i want to see what real recreation is in a setting that i could never dream up is like. but instead, they all leave to play xbox 360. apparently, someone has brought over condemned.

after the room clears, kenny billy and i discuss a topic that doesn't matter, and then resolve to smoke a blunt. evan (someone who i don't know; someone who i couldn't even pick out of a crowd) definitely has more shit in his car, and that's the stuff we're going to use. when we get upstairs, i realize craig has been down there the whole time. in the kitchen, someone mentions that we can't find specs who has never been in this house before. in some living room, on some couch or bed, specs is passed out. the only way we deduct this is that's the only thing that makes sense. kenny gets evan and we head out to the car to smoke.

before anything goes down, we head to 7-11 to get a philly and a vitamin water, some starburst, and some other assorted garbage. while we wait in the car, kenny plays for us a cd that was made between 2004-2005 in brooklyn when that's where he called his home. much like the team sleep record, this album contains a lot of music that seems founded in hip hop but never boils down to simply a rap track. beat boxing, scratching, singing, and joking around are all to be found. i can't remember the name of the group, but it seemed too long to really matter. i wanted something else. either way, it was cool to see that it was actually done. but one thing's for sure, i'm sick of seeing white mcs rhyming with jokes and having absolutely nothing to say. it's a damn shame.

we drive back to kenny's house, and while we listen to the rest of the album and discuss the future of phase 9 from an angle i've never heard before (the angle that has always been made to seem like the wrong angle) i think about the last time i got high while i wasn't alone, in the back of nicole's car, with marissa between me and some kid who i can't remember with chris in the front seat trying to tell me about something which stemmed from a discussion about the sound of animals fighting. i remember driving to jones beach completely out of my mind worrying about who was driving, worrying about vomiting, and overanalyzing everytime i had to swallow a bit of saliva. it was nothing like smoking alone, and completely out of my zone. plus the fact that i was nervous. this was that girl. but i remember not really knowing what was going to happen this time, this next time that i was smoking again with people who i didn't know, people i wasn't invested in, people i had absolutely no connection with.

the blunt was so dank that it seemed to be dripping in our hands. i feel like i needed a towel to really control it. that first hit that leaves you coughing for no reason at all, and the mouth begging for that third or fourth hit, it's almost like there is absolutely no method, no logic to the mayhem. i want it to stop just as much as i want it to start. there's that threshold and that limbo between the THC in your lungs, and the time it hits your brain. the synapse between the cause and the effect.

just like the moment i picked up billy, it's exactly the same: i have nothing to say.
so i wait.

once i'm high, it feels like i'm listening to a conversation amongst roaches. clicking and slapping in the english language. i joke around that harrison ford is the subject of the movie con air, and that it stars val kilmer. no one takes this exactly as it was meant, and they laugh. this is my sign, my cue to hold back any and every joke i have from here on in. they throw on an old dirty bastard track that sounds genius, but i have no motivation to ask about. my whole head is wrapped around the idea of "fuck these kids." instead of departing mentally, i'm paying way too much attention to the fact that i'm thinking "fuck these kids." instead of thinking on an inner cycle on the inside, i'm thinking about what thinking on an inner cycle looks like on the outside. i start to get shaky, which is my way. i feel like i've pissed all over myself, all over my pants, all over the carseat, my socks, my shoes, the carfloor, the textbook, and billy, and i'm worrying and checking my pants and my ankles what feels like every thirty seconds, but what could be every five minutes. i want to get out of the car, and find a book to write in. but i don't want them to ask about it, so i sit still. i wait until someone else wants to get out and do something, anything else.

when we're finally out, someone is passing around skittles, and somehow, specs is there, and i'm staring into the middle of a conversation circle that i could care less about. i'm trying to split my concentration into three pieces, one to my left, one to my right, and one to my inside, but instead, the surface area is too large, and i think of absolutely nothing except for the fact that it's freezing, and i've pissed myself, and it feels like my dick has retracted into my body. i'm thinking to myself, goddamnit, i've lost my penis. my cock is gone.

i blink, and we're downstairs and craig is asking me to eat a candy which i think is called RIPS, and they're a combination of angels, and sour patch kids and twizzlers. whatever it is, my mouth is so dry that i can't swallow any piece of it, and i try to force peristalsis, but it feels like my teeth are stripping out of the gums, so i give up. i let the little flecks of rubber cement candy wreak havoc on my gag reflex. almost as submission, i ask kenny if there's a bathroom up in here. through hazy ears, this is his response:

"there's a piss pot right through there. there's no light and it smells like ass [background laughter] but it's there. piss on the floor, piss anywhere, just make sure you get it in the water. i don't care if you get it on the seat, either. just piss in the water."

pissing feels like i'm in That Bar from Trainspotting. what feels like minutes pour out of me onto everything except the water. judging by the fact that i have this much urine, there's no way that i've pissed myself. i didn't believe my senses that i was dry. i just couldn't. it's pitch black in this little hallway of a restroom, and i wish i had a way to just get out. i don't even know if they have a sink in there. or a mirror. i leave and sit back against the same pole that i was leaning against before i stepped away to maybe vomit, relocate my phallus, and to piss. billy is literally dancing while kenny is playing music on the guitar. i feel like this is some terrible knockoff gypsy parade. i've been had.

someone wants white castle, and craig and specs have never had it, so i know we're definitely going. me, ha, i'm thinking, bullshit, there's no way i'm driving. but i know, shit, i know they see my key, and if i don't volunteer to drive, they're getting that key one way or another. so i decide to check my voicemail. i know mark left something there earlier but never had to check it. i dial in and there's that woman (or that woman's voice) that i hear, and i start thinking about this. the voice, the woman, and the fact that she's holding my message. i'm waiting to hear the message, and i'm wondering when this bitch is going to turn into mark. i'm not sure how much time went by, but eventually, i started hearing options that i never knew existed on tmobile's voicemail. i press 1, and i knew that was what i had to do in the first place.

mark's message sounded like he was a forty seven year old british oaf talking directly through a loaf of bread into his phone which was submerged in a fish tank filled with earthworms. i had no idea what he said, or what he was implying, or how on earth he really expected me to help him out. i deleted the message.
here, i just fell asleep. i woke up two hours later, and it was unplugged, and there were over twenty seven error messages on the screen. i'm wondering what the deal is with what happened. what could've made it popup. i was sleeping for chrissakes. i shut it down, plugged it in, moved a miller lite can to a dresser, and went to sleep.
we end up at white castle and i get nothing. i sit down so damn far away from the line, because, to me, i think i'm just setting up the place where we're all going to sit and eat. in truth, to them, as witnesses, it probably seems to them that i am just continuing to be that weird kid with nothing to say, not contributing to their good times, and not rolling with their punches. to them, they see me as this kid who can't handle it. meanwhile i'm writing things in my head at a mile a minute that start with can i get a witness. things like i want to set my eyes on their sides, standing tall like funeral car rides. the brain cells that carry the rest of those are dead.

craig and specs are eating white castle for the first time, and thusly, ordered way too much food for their stomachs. i told them they'd probably be shitting a lot the next day. they said, "why didn't you tell me that before we ate it, man?" i do not know, man. i do not know. billy ordered crab legs. what the fuck.

we drove home listening to glassjaw which, like any other high encounter, made the music seem deeper. i actually understood it. i've yet to throw the album on again, but i'm sure when i do, i will have absolutely no recollection of what it sounded like at that moment.

me and billy went home once we reached kenny's house again. he "was beat" and wanted me to drive him home. i'm almost sure it was because he was embarassed from me not being very much of a presence all night.

honestly, i don't know how i got him home, but one thing's for sure, i got lost three times between a main road and billy's house. days away was playing quietly in the background, and i didn't want to turn it up at all. it'd throw me off way too much. i feel like the roads were silent, and empty for the entire ride home. i have no idea what time it was when i got into my room, but i know i didn't touch my computer, or even try to document any of what just happened.

this retelling is days later, and all of the details are hazy. hazy isn't even the word. everything is just conjecture. everything is sort've how i remember it, but with less life. that's why everything that i wrote tonight is weak, and undescriptive, and really not even average. this is just another story of another person getting high. but it's also a reminder to me that i don't have to go out of my way to be high or to have a good time. i wish i would've stayed in, and played Gun, or took another deep chunk out of Atlas Shrugged. i don't know what i'm doing.

for the entire next day, i was high. it was definitely some strong stuff. but that's that.

it's probably going to be solo from here.

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