Have you ever had an obsession? If you have you know how it feels, if you haven’t, well, consider yourself lucky. It’s like being trapped in a continuous loop and no matter what you try to do to escape it you simply can’t, not until you’ve done what ever it is you brain is demanding you do. My obsession arises when I need to write, but I can’t think of what I want to write. Actually it’s the need to express an idea, and I can’t seem to write it down. I call it writing in my head. This constant swirl of thought and idea, where the thought becomes a story and the idea becomes something I cooked. It’s like a Ground Hog’s Day-Twilight Zone Mash-up. I keep repeating the same general thought in my head, “You need to write.” But each verse is sicker, more cracked than the last, and the hook is all crunk music. Sometimes it’s loud and I’m feeling it, more often it’s like that Ipod on the bus when you are trying to read, pulsing, always a touch too fucking loud.
If I’m going to write, I want to be a great writer. I want to wax eloquent, be wise, witty, and drone on in a honey sweet baritone when I read my work aloud, like that syrupy Anthony Bourdain. I want to have a column, or a blog that everybody reads; not because it’s a popular topic in a fashionable and digestible package, but because I actually have something worth reading. I often find myself digging down into my most private places, trying to find the courage to say what I really think. I find it, but I wonder why I had to dig for it. I have one follower on my blog, and she sleeps with me. She reads it when I write it and she gives me feed back I can use. I have to give my obsession an expression I can use. And I have in a number of ways. But there is always a lingering doubt when so long goes by and not a dime for your efforts, rarely an offer but more often a rejection. I delete rejection emails. HOW DARE you reject me? You pompous ass! But I never forget, I never neglect what is said about why I lost. It’s making me a better writer, but I don’t want to open the junk drawer and look at a bunch of fucking yellow slips. Down that road lays alcoholism my friends.
Let’s examine for a moment. I have all the prerequisite skills of a great writer:
· I can write.[1]
· I love beer.[2]
· I’ve been a womanizer.
· My temper sometimes gets the better of me.
· I can be cloistered and gregarious, and pompous.
I want to be clear; I am speaking of GREAT writers. I am talking about people who have written the works that have withstood the test of time, the temper of ignorance and the church. Not because I believe that every thing people write is worth saving, but because I want people saying my name a thousand years from now. Some Stephen King level exposure and money would be great in the interim, so I write on, spilling my inky seed onto bright white sheets. For future remembrance of me, I spread the word amongst you; I write because I’m good at it and getting better all the time, but I also write so that you may hear and believe, there is more than one valid way to live, to love to fuck.
Writing isn’t my obsession it’s a tool for my obsession; and it’s the one I use best. So, never think that you’ve heard the last of me, for my obsession drives me, and though my tires squeal and blow out, I will always rejoin the race.
[1] I know what some of you are thinking, “Hell, I can write.” But it is NOT the same.
[2] I mean come on…when you can’t get pot…?
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
On a Drug Induced Spiritwalk...
I've been having trouble sleeping lately. It's been diffficult falling to sleep, and when I do get to sleep I don't sleep very long at all. Many times, no matter how early in the morning I finally pass out, I am awake at 9:30 am. It's been rough. I can't think straight, my reflexes are off and my paitence is shorter than usual. So, after many days of deliberation, I decided to take an Ambien. You must understand that the hardest drug I intake is nicotine. I drink, I smoke pot, but I don't take pain medication, I don't do OTC, or anything. I took this pill and walked straight out of my skin.
Fighting a Loosing Battle
In the dark of the night, on a street corner in a rundown neighborhood, I found myself standing opposite a bad looking bunch of dudes. They were gangsters I knew, for I'd seen their type before. I'd been their type before. Young and hostile they closed in on me, old and confused I stood my ground. The fight came for me quickly, but suprisingly one on one. I rushed him trying to get the upper hand, and I moved as if under water. Though I dodged and parried, barely surviving the onslaught, knowing in my mind I could have slipped that blow that caught my chin, if only I were a step faster. Feeling my fancy footwork fail me slipping, going down in a heap. Rolling to avoid the inevitable kick to the gut or head, catching a glancing blow, barely surviving, now looking for an escape. Slipping, running, falling into my bed. I looked up, the asphault burns tingling on my arms and shoulders, my jaw aching still, to find that it was 9:30 am.
Near Death Experience and the Wasp
Drifting away again, afraid of finding myself back in the fight, I instead stand on a balcony, high above a city street. Below me a man grips the railing, knuckle white in his attempt to save himself from a fall that would mean certian death. I rush to him, throwing myself forward, leaning too far over the rail in an attempt to grabim by the wrist, or coat. My weight causes the balcony to rock and shake him loose. As he falls, screaming, the balcony breaks and I can feel myself, for a fleeting moment, falling with him, above now, but certian to be on his level soon enough. With a sudden jerk, one that should have broken my kneck, My plummet ceaces and I dangle there in mid air by my kneck. My tie, snagged in a broken peice of railing, just above the tag, or in this case below, is all that keeps me from falling to my death. But Death himself, wile cat he be, would not give me up with such ease. My tie, while at the same time saving me from death, was killing me. Forced to reach with one hand, and secure a grip on the uncertian stability of the balcony remains, and with the other attempt to relieve the pressure on my kneck by winnowing a finger or two between my flesh and that hated tie, I struggled for my life. Best bet, by far, pull myself up to safety. But, the struggle was a task, for, I don't spend as much as much time in the gym as I should and my body is weak; The tie, hated, hated strip of ugly cloth crushed from me my breath, everytime I drew one, the next was by degrees more difficult to draw. I was dying, I am certian now of that, I would die, hanging there, so many stories up, above a man who had recently plummeted to his own demise, because of me. The one driving thought I had, as the edges of my vision was: "The moment I black out my body will do the Hanged Man's Dance and I will know then wether or not Hell is real." The thought galvanized me to greater strength and I pulled myself up with one great heave. My head sliding between two bars I knew, if my head could fit, my shoulders surely would. Safe, alive I in my heightened state noticed with exquisite detail a small paper wasp nest, with one very large wasp working away on it. As I drew deep into my lungs the first breath of the rest of my life, I saw him turn to me and alight. As fresh blood rushed into my head, the drone of his buzz was like a nervous hive of angry bees, so loud, so terror inspireing. Not now, a battle with a bug though I thought I could win. I scuttled, crablike on my hands and feet, backwards away from him. Thinking of both avoiding the sting and also retreating from that precarious ledge. Inside the apartment finally I turned and fled that drone of angry wings, searching for something to swat it to death with. I fled as if it were the devil chasing me, into the bedroom, not getting the door closed in time, I stumbled and fell, crawled for the bookcase but he was there, cutting me off. I rounded then, my only escape back towards the kitchen, where I knew there was flying inscect spray. And I awoke to the harsh blare of my phone, telling me facebook was calling, to tell me good morning. Thank you Facebook.
Free Pussy
I drifted away and found myself standing in a long hall, an overnight bag in my hand, and a grin on my face. The hall was lined with red doors, each tacked with a small silver number one to twelve, evens on my left odds to my right. In each one of these doorways stood a beautiful woman and I only had to share the dozen with two friends of mine. Men I've known for the majority of my life. Oh, happy day in my mind I knew we had 24 hours free in this place. A gift, from whom I did not care. For why, meant not a thing to me. Let the party begin, is all I thought, a dream come true for many a man, I am sure. A dream I've not had before, but was happy to be living now. But, not right to the fucking, oh no, let us first party and portion them out, the favorites, amongst us, oh yes. And party we did with gusto and verve, much wine was poured and much food was served all for our pleasure of course. And, somewhere in my Dyonissian revelry I lost myself and only found me again, later asleep on a soft bed. The only sounds were the ticking of a grandfather in the hall and the soft moans of a woman in her pleasure, one room over. I smiled at the thought, hung over and randy. I left my comfortable surroundings in search of a sweet treat to soothe my raging passion. But I found not a single woman about as I wandered the halls, and the red doors were closed, each mocking me with a remembered rule: "If the door is closed, do not disturb." I was sorely distraught, shit, what a way for this to go. Here I am, with a full free day in a brothel and there are no women about to service my needs. I sat amidst the party remains, sipping a beer and nibbling grapes, cheese, and crackers, marveling at my terrible luck. I felt again like that high school freshman invited to the party but taken no more seriously than the cat. The hours ticked by and I watched them tick, a sour face becoming bitter as the grandfather mocked me each hour with one more bong than the last. Deciding at last to be free of this torture, even if I did have hours left to spill my seed, I rose from my brooding place and returned to the hall. And there coming toward me was a beauty I'd not noticed before. Shift change maybe? I did not care for she came directly to me, hips and breasts swaying as she walked. She whispered in my ear and I could smell lavender in her long brown curls. My pulse quickened and I led her to the room where I'd awoken hours before. Though the door was closed, and I knew the rule, I thrust it open, pulling her to me as I did, only to find one of my friends there with two women in my bed.
"What the fuck?" He said to me.
"No!" That was my reply. "I've waited all day for this and this is MY Room!"
My fury was red as I moved towards them intent on throwing them, or at least just him, from my claimed territory. And I fell into my bed and awoke, looking at my familiar wall, anger still seething in me, trying to find my way to reality again.
Gang Fight and Home Cooked Chinese Food.
I stood in a kitchen in someone's home, holding a Chinese menu. Across a small bar from me stood a smiling little man holding a large knife. I looked down at the menu before me and was puzzled at its size. It seemed to hold every dish in the history of Chinese food, broken down into what I recognized to be Chinese provinces. Though the menu was written with Roman Characters I was confused and I looked around, hoping to see Anthony Bourdain, or Andrew Zimmern there to guide me. The Chinese man smiled, I puzzled and a television in another room seemed to be playing Japanese game shows. While I pretended to decide what to eat I studied my surroundings. The kitchen I sat in was huge for a residential home, bigger than I'd ever seen. It boasted only three bar stools, one of which I was seated in, and six tables with four chairs each. Everything was old and in need of a coat of paint if not outright repair. The most amazing feature of this place though was the stove top the little man cooked over. It was a gas stove, shorter than most by half a foot at least. The cook top itself was a single piece of cast iron, set above eight hotly burning eyes, four in each row. I wanted that stove. Turning my attention back to the menu I swiftly scanned it looking for something that may be sweet and sour chicken when the front door squeeked open.
"It seems your friends are here." The little man said in perfect English. "Will you be eating?" He asked me.
"Sweet and sour chicken," I said to him, "but later."
"It'll be ready, right on time."
"Thank you, Charlie," I said as I rose from the bar.
Standing in the front room as I entered were three identically dressed people. They each wore a leather motorcycle jacket, white t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. One was a woman, all had a fuzz of black stubble covering their heads. They all looked dirty and worn from the road but happy to see me.
"Ya'll know what to do." It wasn't a question and no one answered me as I walked past them into the street.
They were waiting for me when I walked into the sunlight and I wasted no time shooting them. I think it was the brightness of the day in contrast to the shadows of that kitchen, but I ran dry of bullets before the last of them was dead. He was a fat ginny-looking fucker and he leveled a revolver at me as I stalked him. The doors of the car parked behind him opened and three more guys stepped out, all armed. HE smiled, but I did not. I continued to walk right at him thinking, "Even if I get close enough to tussle for that shooter, he's gonna win that fight." Just then my biker friends unloaded on his buddies and I walked right into the barrel of his revolver. He pulled the trigger and got only a click.
"What was it you told me you guinney fuck?" I asked him as my friends leveled their guns at him. "Should've brought a backup."
When he was dead I turned to my pals and embraced each in turn.
"Thank you, my leather-clad friend."
He handed me a pistol and I turned towards some woman in a dress.
"I have a bone to pick with you, bitch." I said as I shot her in the chest. She slumped as I rose from sleep.
Ambien is Not my Friend
I wandered back into my flesh about twenty minutes before my alarm was set to go off. On the way I kept thinking:
"The Light is fading, fading away."
"The museum is broken because no one gives a fuck about the past anymore. The Light is fading and it is only we who walk in its shadow that will remember it ever existed in the first place."
"This new light is a lie, an artificial caster of shadow that leaves no true night."
"The museum is broken and The Light is fading. Fuck!"
Fighting a Loosing Battle
In the dark of the night, on a street corner in a rundown neighborhood, I found myself standing opposite a bad looking bunch of dudes. They were gangsters I knew, for I'd seen their type before. I'd been their type before. Young and hostile they closed in on me, old and confused I stood my ground. The fight came for me quickly, but suprisingly one on one. I rushed him trying to get the upper hand, and I moved as if under water. Though I dodged and parried, barely surviving the onslaught, knowing in my mind I could have slipped that blow that caught my chin, if only I were a step faster. Feeling my fancy footwork fail me slipping, going down in a heap. Rolling to avoid the inevitable kick to the gut or head, catching a glancing blow, barely surviving, now looking for an escape. Slipping, running, falling into my bed. I looked up, the asphault burns tingling on my arms and shoulders, my jaw aching still, to find that it was 9:30 am.
Near Death Experience and the Wasp
Drifting away again, afraid of finding myself back in the fight, I instead stand on a balcony, high above a city street. Below me a man grips the railing, knuckle white in his attempt to save himself from a fall that would mean certian death. I rush to him, throwing myself forward, leaning too far over the rail in an attempt to grabim by the wrist, or coat. My weight causes the balcony to rock and shake him loose. As he falls, screaming, the balcony breaks and I can feel myself, for a fleeting moment, falling with him, above now, but certian to be on his level soon enough. With a sudden jerk, one that should have broken my kneck, My plummet ceaces and I dangle there in mid air by my kneck. My tie, snagged in a broken peice of railing, just above the tag, or in this case below, is all that keeps me from falling to my death. But Death himself, wile cat he be, would not give me up with such ease. My tie, while at the same time saving me from death, was killing me. Forced to reach with one hand, and secure a grip on the uncertian stability of the balcony remains, and with the other attempt to relieve the pressure on my kneck by winnowing a finger or two between my flesh and that hated tie, I struggled for my life. Best bet, by far, pull myself up to safety. But, the struggle was a task, for, I don't spend as much as much time in the gym as I should and my body is weak; The tie, hated, hated strip of ugly cloth crushed from me my breath, everytime I drew one, the next was by degrees more difficult to draw. I was dying, I am certian now of that, I would die, hanging there, so many stories up, above a man who had recently plummeted to his own demise, because of me. The one driving thought I had, as the edges of my vision was: "The moment I black out my body will do the Hanged Man's Dance and I will know then wether or not Hell is real." The thought galvanized me to greater strength and I pulled myself up with one great heave. My head sliding between two bars I knew, if my head could fit, my shoulders surely would. Safe, alive I in my heightened state noticed with exquisite detail a small paper wasp nest, with one very large wasp working away on it. As I drew deep into my lungs the first breath of the rest of my life, I saw him turn to me and alight. As fresh blood rushed into my head, the drone of his buzz was like a nervous hive of angry bees, so loud, so terror inspireing. Not now, a battle with a bug though I thought I could win. I scuttled, crablike on my hands and feet, backwards away from him. Thinking of both avoiding the sting and also retreating from that precarious ledge. Inside the apartment finally I turned and fled that drone of angry wings, searching for something to swat it to death with. I fled as if it were the devil chasing me, into the bedroom, not getting the door closed in time, I stumbled and fell, crawled for the bookcase but he was there, cutting me off. I rounded then, my only escape back towards the kitchen, where I knew there was flying inscect spray. And I awoke to the harsh blare of my phone, telling me facebook was calling, to tell me good morning. Thank you Facebook.
Free Pussy
I drifted away and found myself standing in a long hall, an overnight bag in my hand, and a grin on my face. The hall was lined with red doors, each tacked with a small silver number one to twelve, evens on my left odds to my right. In each one of these doorways stood a beautiful woman and I only had to share the dozen with two friends of mine. Men I've known for the majority of my life. Oh, happy day in my mind I knew we had 24 hours free in this place. A gift, from whom I did not care. For why, meant not a thing to me. Let the party begin, is all I thought, a dream come true for many a man, I am sure. A dream I've not had before, but was happy to be living now. But, not right to the fucking, oh no, let us first party and portion them out, the favorites, amongst us, oh yes. And party we did with gusto and verve, much wine was poured and much food was served all for our pleasure of course. And, somewhere in my Dyonissian revelry I lost myself and only found me again, later asleep on a soft bed. The only sounds were the ticking of a grandfather in the hall and the soft moans of a woman in her pleasure, one room over. I smiled at the thought, hung over and randy. I left my comfortable surroundings in search of a sweet treat to soothe my raging passion. But I found not a single woman about as I wandered the halls, and the red doors were closed, each mocking me with a remembered rule: "If the door is closed, do not disturb." I was sorely distraught, shit, what a way for this to go. Here I am, with a full free day in a brothel and there are no women about to service my needs. I sat amidst the party remains, sipping a beer and nibbling grapes, cheese, and crackers, marveling at my terrible luck. I felt again like that high school freshman invited to the party but taken no more seriously than the cat. The hours ticked by and I watched them tick, a sour face becoming bitter as the grandfather mocked me each hour with one more bong than the last. Deciding at last to be free of this torture, even if I did have hours left to spill my seed, I rose from my brooding place and returned to the hall. And there coming toward me was a beauty I'd not noticed before. Shift change maybe? I did not care for she came directly to me, hips and breasts swaying as she walked. She whispered in my ear and I could smell lavender in her long brown curls. My pulse quickened and I led her to the room where I'd awoken hours before. Though the door was closed, and I knew the rule, I thrust it open, pulling her to me as I did, only to find one of my friends there with two women in my bed.
"What the fuck?" He said to me.
"No!" That was my reply. "I've waited all day for this and this is MY Room!"
My fury was red as I moved towards them intent on throwing them, or at least just him, from my claimed territory. And I fell into my bed and awoke, looking at my familiar wall, anger still seething in me, trying to find my way to reality again.
Gang Fight and Home Cooked Chinese Food.
I stood in a kitchen in someone's home, holding a Chinese menu. Across a small bar from me stood a smiling little man holding a large knife. I looked down at the menu before me and was puzzled at its size. It seemed to hold every dish in the history of Chinese food, broken down into what I recognized to be Chinese provinces. Though the menu was written with Roman Characters I was confused and I looked around, hoping to see Anthony Bourdain, or Andrew Zimmern there to guide me. The Chinese man smiled, I puzzled and a television in another room seemed to be playing Japanese game shows. While I pretended to decide what to eat I studied my surroundings. The kitchen I sat in was huge for a residential home, bigger than I'd ever seen. It boasted only three bar stools, one of which I was seated in, and six tables with four chairs each. Everything was old and in need of a coat of paint if not outright repair. The most amazing feature of this place though was the stove top the little man cooked over. It was a gas stove, shorter than most by half a foot at least. The cook top itself was a single piece of cast iron, set above eight hotly burning eyes, four in each row. I wanted that stove. Turning my attention back to the menu I swiftly scanned it looking for something that may be sweet and sour chicken when the front door squeeked open.
"It seems your friends are here." The little man said in perfect English. "Will you be eating?" He asked me.
"Sweet and sour chicken," I said to him, "but later."
"It'll be ready, right on time."
"Thank you, Charlie," I said as I rose from the bar.
Standing in the front room as I entered were three identically dressed people. They each wore a leather motorcycle jacket, white t-shirt, blue jeans, and boots. One was a woman, all had a fuzz of black stubble covering their heads. They all looked dirty and worn from the road but happy to see me.
"Ya'll know what to do." It wasn't a question and no one answered me as I walked past them into the street.
They were waiting for me when I walked into the sunlight and I wasted no time shooting them. I think it was the brightness of the day in contrast to the shadows of that kitchen, but I ran dry of bullets before the last of them was dead. He was a fat ginny-looking fucker and he leveled a revolver at me as I stalked him. The doors of the car parked behind him opened and three more guys stepped out, all armed. HE smiled, but I did not. I continued to walk right at him thinking, "Even if I get close enough to tussle for that shooter, he's gonna win that fight." Just then my biker friends unloaded on his buddies and I walked right into the barrel of his revolver. He pulled the trigger and got only a click.
"What was it you told me you guinney fuck?" I asked him as my friends leveled their guns at him. "Should've brought a backup."
When he was dead I turned to my pals and embraced each in turn.
"Thank you, my leather-clad friend."
He handed me a pistol and I turned towards some woman in a dress.
"I have a bone to pick with you, bitch." I said as I shot her in the chest. She slumped as I rose from sleep.
Ambien is Not my Friend
I wandered back into my flesh about twenty minutes before my alarm was set to go off. On the way I kept thinking:
"The Light is fading, fading away."
"The museum is broken because no one gives a fuck about the past anymore. The Light is fading and it is only we who walk in its shadow that will remember it ever existed in the first place."
"This new light is a lie, an artificial caster of shadow that leaves no true night."
"The museum is broken and The Light is fading. Fuck!"
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