|THIS IS A READ-ONLY ARCHIVE FROM THE SORABJI.COM MESSAGE BOARDS (1995-2016).|
i am a tension monkey. whatever.
he's looking at me. fucker. we've been here for six hours now. shit, almost seven. i can't imagine what it is about me that has captured his attention. i keep getting these twitches. uncontrollable things, like sudden shivers. except instead of shivers, a wave of rage. warm thick rage. up from my gut a fountain in my head and down my arms. i make fists to keep it from flowing out.
he's still looking at me. i can't remember if he started looking at me and then the rage came, or vice versa. probably the former. people looking at me, staring at me, really fucks with my brain. i want to give a dramatic shrug of the shoulders and ask him (What?). i'm afraid i won't be able to get the cork back on afterwards. fuck it.
"What?" his head snaps. his surprise summons a smile, but i force it down before it ruins the mood.
"Yeah, me too. Bitch." i have no idea what that means. i said it to get a rise out of him. it did. he puts a shank in my gut.
the room is dark. i am not sure how long i've been staring up. into the dark. into nothing.
i think it's been a while now because i can't remember when i started staring. staring into the dark doesn't exactly give you many landmarks to base time on, though. it's like trying to measure the amount of time to your last thought. when did i think my last thought? was there a gap between this one and that one? does time move between thoughts? whatever.
my side is warm and moist. must have shanked me good. i must be doped up good. otherwise i'd be feeling some pain. funny, when you are doped up enough pain is the only thing that separates sobriety from the dope. i hear that even that fades, and nothing hurts ever. you go from the need to escape the pain and the want to get high to simply the want to get high. an empty, pointless but very real want.
like diet coke. no redeeming value but you want one. whatever.
the more i think about it the less sure i am that i am staring up. it seems like there is a wall close to my face. i can't see it or anything, i just feel like there is one there. maybe i'm just near the ceiling.
"hey!" i think they forgot me.
i'm moving. it's light again. everything is blurred, but i am in a hallway. long fluorescent tubes float below white ceiling. doors fly by on either side. there are people surrounding me. a woman keeps putting her head into my world.
"just lie still, you'll be ok."
"ma'am? i don't belong here."
"no, of course not. nobody does, son."
"be still. sleep if you can."
her eyes aren't right. nothing is right. she's wearing a black turtleneck. i thought she was a nurse.
"i'm not so sure about this." we turn a corner. there are thick red lines painted hip high on the wall. i don't want to look at the woman anymore. i don't want to look at the lights. the waves are returning. rage. my wrists are bound. i can't make fists.
i can feel it flowing.. pooling about my hands. soaking my cover. moist against my thigh. they're going to notice.
"shit, i'm thinking out loud. this must be a movie."
"he's delusional." "of course he is."
"you have to stop this. you have to undo my wrists. you have to take me outside."
"we can't do that son. you're ok here. we're almost there
i'm drifting in and out.
i was shooting off my mouth. dumb drunk mom does dumb drunk things. so i was talking shit to the lady. and the old man hauled out and slugged me.
in and out.
we're blowing south on 101. bobmarley stirs it up. we replace the garlic of gilroy with the blue gray haze of green. garlic festival. it must be july.
i'm in the back seat. i just checked out a biker's babe for a little too long. stoner eyes stoner smile stoner shrug. he laughs it off.
i love this drive. the hills surrounding the central valley are tan with dry grass this time of year. remind me of butterscotch brownies. my mom made them and called them "blondies." i guess that's what they were.
the hills are blondies. blondies with copses of dark green oaks. the hills are knuckles on giant half buried fists, the oaks are jammed between the fingers. the sky is painted bright blue with small white clouds, and faded from years in the sun. the sky was painted a billion years ago.
the driver is insane. we must be doing 125. my .38 drags on me with an excessive, hot weight, even though it's in the backpack next to me. shit, why is she driving so fast?
we were in humboldt this morning. picked up ten pounds of kind greens. nine individually wrapped one pound bags in the trunk. plastic and paper and packaging tape. my buddy is passed out up front, the tenth pound slightly light and on the floor between his feet.
my buddy is the one who drove all night to get us to humboldt. he's also the one who found the hook up. an old man sitting on his son's garden. turns out his son pulled a gun on a cop. turns out a good samaritan logger hick transferred a round from his rifle to the son's head. the DA decides not to charge the hick, and the old man is left with a garden to unload. he gave us ten pounds for twenty grand.
we've got a buyer in LA who'll give us four grand a pound. even that's a good deal.
greenfield. they used to have a broccoli festival here in august. the signs explaining this aren't up anymore. maybe the festival was unpopular.
some of the clouds would camouflage flying saucers well.
the driver is fucking nuts. we just shot by a cop and aren't showing any signs of letting up. the weight of the .38 is pulling me into the seat. i've got it in hand now. i don't remember grabbing it.
the cop caught up quickly. highway patrol in one of those five liter mustangs. i bet he wears jackboots. and a tight military haircut.
my buddy wakes up. it takes him a few second to realize what is happening. he's yelling at the driver. she's pulling over.
the fountain starts in my head. the waves. my fists clench. the .38 is the handshake of a good friend. i am told to cut my losses. i hook my left wrist through the strap of my backpack.
the car slows enough for me to spill onto the shoulder. my sandals skid a little in the gravel. i put two rounds into the driver's side of the windshield as the cop swings open his door. i'm sliding down the embankment, heading for the field and the tree lined creek beyond. i hear my ride take off.
i'm running full bore for the creek. behind me a few cars fly past on the freeway. i glance back. cops, heading for my ride. and the one who pulled us over let his K9 go. fuck. i hate killing dogs.
i drop to the ground facing the dog. waiting for him to get close enough so i don't miss. far enough away so that if i do miss i can squeeze off a second shot.
"ma'am!" i am soaked. the waves are sliding back and forth over my body. my private post-natal womb. sweat drips up from my head. "ma'am!"
"stay calm, son. we're almost there." they're pulling me through twists and turns. i stopped keeping track. when i get out of these straps i'm going to have to find my own way out. little droplets of sweat floating above my head join into bone fide drops, which in turn join into larger balls and then into larger balls yet, until a single globe of perspiration floats inches from my face. its surface is turbulent in rhythm with the ebb and flow of the waves. its surface mirrors the surface of earth.
"it's ok. you're ok."
the fountain is growing in my head. tears float from my eyes and into the globe. my arm goes warm.
in and out.
the fountain is exploding.
it overcomes the me and packages me into a small, clear box. i am placed on a shelf in the back. the body stands up from the field and opens its left fist. the waves flow and course out in all directions. the body quickly ties the dog to the waves, locking it into the air mid stride.
up on the embankment the cop is watching, holding his right shoulder. i must have nicked him. the waves come up and swirl about him. he is alarmed. spots of blood form as his outer layers dissolve. he is moist with blood. he is slick with blood. his muscles quiver visibly and he collapses.
the body turns off my sight.
more sauce, more condiments.
i've read these before. on margrets site.
i didn't know they were on margret's site.
i don't even know where that is.
is it better to be inspired to brilliant creativity through angst, anger, depression, and drug use, or is it better to be content?
can you be happy and brilliantly artistic at the same time? is that possible? the imagine of it in the mind's eye is similar to the (questionable) artistic quality of, say, Wyland paintings.
otherwise you cut off your ear...?
is it in many cases that content = numb?
where does real happiness come into the equation, if at all?
what IS real happiness? Im not sure i know the answer. It's all perception.
there is a certain level of contentment/comfort in depression and even angst.
the gist had to do with my willingness to meet hell if hell be a muse.
at least, that's my current perception. a few steps into hell i might change my mind.
i mentioned something about hunter s. thompson getting stomped in the comission of "hells angels". he's healed now, but still can tell the story.
risk is a recurrent theme in my life right now. i am looking to increase it.
it's sad. makes nico cry sometimes.
fortunately complete lack of money is forcing some sobriety.
but, you know everyone has their own path.
i'm talkikng about being submerged in a lifestyle to write about it, inadvertantly or not.
i would tend to think quality writing coming out of such a lifestyle would be worth more than a long life.