Monday, May 7, 2012
untitled by brett walker
three straight days off the magic beans. no caffeine , no meds. all that happens is i sleep. i eat. i want women. naked and soft and smelling nice and me wrapped around them.
but i find myself able to think about my life , with a certain terrified disenchantment that comes with being undrugged. i can write without the melodrama. and with the danger of any moment falling into a stream of emotions that i don't have any safety from. i could be totalled by day-break. curled into a ball and panic-attacked to annihilation. the safety belts are off. it's just me.
it's 'Mad Men Monday' , that's what it's called when i watch the new episode on mondays. after much thought, it's abundantly clear - it's the loneliness of it that i most relate to. each person stuck in their little box , unable to escape the confines of their personality, their weaknesses. hoping, waiting for someone else to drag them out into... something/one else. and of course no one can. it's not possible.
she must have known where tonight would lead. her shirt half unbuttoned she gets out of bed and walks to the kitchen. comes back with a black bottle of cheap brandy. drinks straight from the bottle. guess she needs something to help her cross the line. she takes another swig , on the side of the bed on her knees, looking down at me reclining. i put my hand out for the bottle. she hands it over. you don't drink she says. i reply i know. and take a sip. but you are she says.
- pour qua?
- to remember.
- who i'm not.
- who aren't you?
- whoever you're seeing.
(half an hour later, naked and breathless she says how would you like me? to which i smile, she having missed the nuances of her expression.
every way mon cherie. everyway. )
(she puts the beanie on my way with more tenderness than i'm used to from her. it's perhaps an apology for throwing me out at 3am to the european winter. you can't sleep here, i don't do sleep overs she says. in a sense i'm relieved. maybe i just tell myself that on the bike-ride home to protect the smallest part of my masculinity. i'm sure there's a part of me that went through the whole procedure hoping for a dreamless, warm sleep at the end of it.
every person stuck in their little box. it's impossible out of. this loneliness i'm thinking of. i have roomates, i have friends, i have people i work with, i have facebook, i have texts on my phone, it's still there. i'm still trapped in myself. unable to be outside of myself. except, perhaps, those few friends whom you love spiritually. in that spiritual sense where the real You who lives sometimes in and often around your body merges with theirs. those friends whose souls hold your hand.
so that's it?
i think i'm dead.
don't be melodramatic.
our souls are friends.
they've always been. they always will be.
i'm writing that down.
in my notebook. i'm writing that down, i must never forget that line."
it's actually in my notebook. 3:24pm. then the date. then that line: our souls are friends.
i'd like to see you again one day. even though each time i see you a year of mine goes somehow missing, and i wake up 12 months later with rings around my eyes, an awful headache and having forgotten what my name was - despite that i'd like to see you again one day and test it. see whether we're still friends some part of us (inspite of us) whether some part has made it through. it would make me feel less lonely for the rest of my life if it were true.
i'm sure it's true. you said it, but i apply it to other people. other people make your sentence true even if it's not true between us. )
when i don't take my pills. eat, sleep, sex. she used to tell me about it, ex-GF: you're hilarious. you wake up, and mumble something about food. i get you half a bowl of cereal which you eat three spoons of before you try and get your head into my shirt. i kiss you and we... ya know, and you're asleep in a minute. but you don't want to sleep alone so you keep holding me mumbling about not leaving. so i watch tv in bed with you. you wake up, mumble something about food, i give you the bowl which you have two spoonfuls of before you start kissing my knees and ankles trying to get my pants off.
my mom asks me if i'm getting used to be being back. no. it's not easy i say. she wants to know what i miss the most about europe. well, not being weird. making friends so much more easily. and being more... whatever it is, women like me better in europe. and i like women better in europe. i miss my lovelife. she nods. what an adult conversation we're having.
i've been trying to write a 'life-plan'. something to help me 'fix' the predicament i find myself in, or at least improve it to where i find my days worthwhile. i keep putting it off, that's why i say 'trying'. i can't seem to want to put pen to paper with it, i'm happy enough just adding to it in thoughts. thinking about it in on the treadmill.
'gym is good. musn't let that drop off. keep that where it's at. you need to eat better. must plan your meals and actually go to the grocery store regular. need to have sex. organize that, make friends, if you make friends the other stuff follows. yes but where will i get friends from? call XYZ. you keep saying you will, just do. and lie out in the sun more. i did. i layed out on saturday. you did. yes. it was very good. do that more. agreed, definitely a good play. you need to have more fun. exactly! how can we do that? i don't know really. what's fun? i can't even remember. what did we used to enjoy? walking around. right. need to do more exploring. adventuring.' [and so it goes]
my dad wants to know how things are going. good days and bad days dad. he nods on the other end of the line. he says i'm glad you're taking a few days off your pills, that's the best thing you can do. give your body a break. i nod in response. in my head i think: how nice it would be to give my soul a few day's break from my body. just to fly out and remember what air felt like.
all i want is a dolce & gabana three piece suit. it has polka dots on the back of the vest. this is how mundane my desires have gotten. not the elbows and navels and eyelids of beautiful women against my lips. not my fingers bleeding from building tree-houses. not doing handstands on the beach. i just want a new suit.
i'm worried q.
you used to be bigger than this.