One of these mornings
you're gonna rise, rise up singing,
you're gonna spread your wings,
child, and take, take to the sky,
lord, the sky.
Was kicked out of the Falcon Trace home, stayed with a girl who doesn't dig the way I dig for a bit in Deerfield or wherever the party ended some nights until she could no longer stand to be near me. Renting a tiny, grimy room now for nothing. I am told that I am only the second person in five years to clean the bathroom and believe it. Dreams of getting things done, making money. Smoking too many goddamn cigarettes, not biking enough.
Five bottles of wine between four people, drove a Jeep into a tree, shattered a wine bottle out of nowhere, tried to kiss a girl with a mouthful of glass, pushed a Civic not too far, made a lot of noise, asked too many questions. One body found himself lost on the compound in boxers in which he urinated and entered some home which he cannot recall which was perhaps one which does not belong any family member of mine; Another body slept without any person on which to hold but had a good time regardless.
Set my hand on fire and obtained a second degree burn or two, tore open burn wounds building an epic fire, hopped over a chair wrong maybe and fell hard definitely, flipped off a bicycle racing into a trashcan while making a sharp turn in Thorton Park, fell somehow again off of a bicycle traveling at some odd turtle-like pace. Bruised everything, disabled my right hand, I will be homeless by Tuesday. Wow, whatever.
I am capable of creating a model of the world yet still hardly capable of dealing with it effectively according to my objectives, plans, ends and desires. It suits me well. I am no doer; I am simply an observer. My head is off, I am wrong, such thoughts are profane. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Too much time agonising my 5-HT2A, not enough time spent with a needle in my arm. Is that the problem? Something about my childhood. Something about my mother: "No, I am not leaving the house so that you might experience something new, boy!" Attachment to comfort. Fear of fear. Lack of desire, desire for nothing, desire everything at once without desire. Do I run from the bear because I feel fear or do I feel fear because I run from the bear? I feel both secure and free but I am a river flowing into a sea and I am building a dam. Hormones conflicting with rationality and the competition between my brains. The thought must occur to me that it is not necessary that I stay stuck in this room.
Où est l'Algérie? Comment puis-je y arriver? Pourquoi suis-je ici? Pourquoi est-ce que je tiens à être là? Ou au Mexique ou en Californie ou vivants ou morts?
Now is now and also will be tomorrow. Where will I be?
Mañana, man, mañana.
Woke up this morning with a catheter inserted into my penis, tried pulling it out but was stopped my some large woman, went back to sleep. Woke up, catheter is gone, got out of bed, observed several police officers struggling with a man, shouted "He thinks your mom is a whore" and was given a dirty look by one police officer and was escorted back to bed by a nurse and was told to lie down. After a lapse of time I am discharged pending my successful answering of questions asked to assess my stability - what year is it? who is our president? where are you at currently? (I did not know answer to the last question). I stumbled through Saint Cloud, purchased a pouch of tobacco with what funds I had remaning, stole a sandwich, a book, a sweater and a spoon, bummed change for bus fare and all-the-while slowly became aware of the collection of cuts and scrapes on my body for which I have no explanation.
But I don't wish that I was dead.
The back of an ambulance on 24 mg 2C-B.
Keeping bees now, nine to five still, tired of walking - this town is ill suited for it, I miss junk, my mattress is too small, my room is such a mess, I cannot remember the last time I was in a large group of people and happy, I have no girl on my arm, no boys by my side, no hair in my face - only a small patch of hair on my face, no food in my stomach, no bees in my brain, not a damn thing to do on my days off. Fuck skateboards, fuck cigarettes, fuck probation, fuck employment - i.e., fuck everything thing I have. This is not what I had intended.
Pas de drogues, pas d'alcool, pas de soucis.
The freedom of human powered transportation, which I have not until now been able to experience, is so much to deal with at the age of twenty. To my place of employment, to the home of another person, to wherever I must go to do the things I must do in order that I might survive at liberty to the extent allowable considering my age, the country in which I live, how much money I have and the fact that I am on probation. Whatever.
I have made a great deal of compromise in moving to where I now live. The neighborhood is too rich for my blood, my room mates are as American as can be imagined, no matter the diversity among them with regards to their country of origin. Home owner's association, neighbors complaining about my car leaking oil, not being washed and never moving, you smell like music, I can hear your cigarette smoke downstairs, why are you cooking in your own home at two in the morning, awkward hellos to persons I do not know, motivational talk-to-people-to-whom-you-cannot-relate speeches, try positive body language, every one keeps their distance, the women are afraid, I am not at home. But they are polite enough and I am doing it man. The gain exceeds the loss.
Before I leave no matter to where: Cigarettes, lighter, cellphone, wallet, keys, Sharpie. I hope that each day some one new will see and will wonder "Can America survive?" or will consider why any one would preach "Don't talk to police." Perhaps some one might even find themselves motivated to learn the definition of hegemony. And if not, no harm done, I enjoy the rush of it and the hope that it will be seen is enough to keep a sharpie in my pocket.
I am maintaining a healthy weight somehow still despite living on rice and pasta and eggs and tuna and walking and sweating. I might have an ass maybe even and my calves are swole and my core looks good in the right shadows. A lot of my free time is spent stretching muscles and moving my body about in concentrated, repetitive motions.
Theft from work - "grocery shopping" - is becoming more commonplace, theft from stores as if I were dosing alprazolam all day, every day. Ten quid for the lot, we pay fuck all. I am working a bit of overtime and am looking to pick up a second job. One has been promised but I am hesitant to put myself anywhere in the food industry anymore. No hope, no respect, no gain - can't buy one off of what I make in an hour. Money in the bank, a bit in my shoe, some change in my wallet but it doesn't mean a thing until I have enough to do something other than survive with it. Everything I do is too damn free. I could use some social interaction. Fuck hegemony fuck monogamy + fuck monotony.
It is odd that for periods of time I find it difficult to determine whether anything happening one day is different from anything happening the next. The more obvious constants: my mechanistic, impersonal handling of Johnny Rockets, the shallow hatred I feel for myself upon entering Stella, the lack of junk, the lack of love, where I lay my head to sleep. Today the minutiae and the inconstant are unbearably obvious.
Things do change, from my relationships with other human beings to the atoms of which my body consists. The negative changes I experience as a social being are most incomprehensible and occur always through non-action alone. From the perspective of another person, my not making a phone call or arranging for a play date are conscious decisions on my part to not be a part of the life of that person. From my own perspective: a poor attempt at alcoholism, knees pulled to chest, face buried in pillow, sleep the day away, easy escapes, living vicariously through stories, whatever.
I do my best to appreciate what good is present in my life outside of the fact that I exist and feel and know but the struggle to hold on to or to not hold on to is exhausting. I do not wish to possess as wholly as I do not wish to be possessed. I am probably lying to myself here.
I am not alone but I am not just looking for someone to hold or to fuck or with whom to get drunk. I crave new experiences and meeting new people but I feel the need to be introduced or at the very least to have someone on my arm as I wander about doing such things. It is probably just me but if only they knew what it is like to be me maybe they would understand more why it is I do the things I do or have such difficulty doing the things I do not. My definition of love is narrow and naive but beyond that I do love so many people. With some, I can taste the words "I love you" two-hundred beats per minute but cannot involve the larynx for whatever reason. Fear of hurt, perhaps. Fear of hurting possibly as well.
Some dream or memory I cannot recall involving fear, hurt. But things are changing. I am changing. I will find my way.
On another note, it is as odd as ever to have charmed a person by whom I am myself charmed on whatever level. Always surprising, always difficult to deal with at first, always a constant in my dreams. I have reservations as much as ever as well but you want it, I want it - fuck it, let's do this already.