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Registered: 09/09/08
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Last seen: 9 years, 5 months
A writing project
    #14748961 - 07/11/11 02:08 AM (9 years, 10 months ago)

Chapter: The First Ohm

There she is, a silhouette. My heart beats a little faster, I can taste and feel the slick spearmint spittle dry up as the last of it is gulped back. My hand blindly fumbles through my car’s center console. There, in the dark, it finds a pack of cigarettes, the familiar motions of pawing out a smoke start before my memory of her aversion to tobacco comes to the front of my mind. “No, she asked for me to bring her a pack…” the thought occurs to me and I continue to draw out the cigarette.

Cancer stick to lips and lit, I finally break sight of her form walking toward me in the night. I step outside my car, cautious, a knife in my jacket. This was too easy, too welcoming. She doesn’t operate this way.
I raise my phone with its puny LED light to the ground to avoid any inconvenient scene of stumbling. I’m given the “kill it” signal and, confused, turn off the light. Her face begins to form in the cold winter night. What to say? Why hadn’t I thought of something before? Premeditation may be trite, but I of all people should know what her presence does to me; I lose my words. Idiotically I blurt, “Ha, glad this isn’t a trap.” “What?”

A jumble of interactions with strangers I’m none to impressed by, they’re background, ancillary. The only one that matters is her. Dear God, she’s getting in my car. My heart races and I make mention of the items I had so confidently purchased. Little tokens of my affection for this icon of adolescence, impure perfection. Whisky, rum, cigarettes. An unimpressive laundry list of self destruction. Surely this will appeal to this fire incarnate?
A quick acknowledgement, “Cool. Thanks”. I couldn’t be happier.

Re-familiarization, learning of her current plight, my stomach turns with each new detail.

Smoke cascades in the cold breeze from lips I can’t take my eyes off of. The form of porcelain and blood before me has taken up one of my oldest affectations yet it seems so alien seeing it in her, billowing from her.

Stories of homelessness, depravity and theft shock me to my core. Surely, as I’ve thought before this evening, I’m asleep. I must have ingested mushrooms and valluum. This feeling fades with recognition of the clarity of this truth. This reality is shared between this woman before me and myself. Her life has turned from lofty to faulty, whom to pin it on?

A return to warmth, and the seemingly cozy environs of a stranger’s house. Brief and laughable tests of testosterone between new acquaintances and, unless I’m mistaken, perhaps she flirted? No. I’m too hopeful, overzealous. Careful, you’ll hurt yourself.

Departure. Jesus, we’re heading to my house? We’re heading to my house. I’m reading too far into this.

The night’s road peels in front of me, raging asphalt after brief dirt and rock. Rumbling and complaining, the death trap Saab does not disappoint me in it’s speed. Safety aside, nothing could have gone better. Music seems impossible, one thing wrong after another. If only I could share that I want nothing more than to hear her voice. I could give a damn about any other artist than her.

Fluids. God damned fluids of soured grains and sugars. A waste of time and a loss of mind and I overshoot my boundaries. Seeming forgiveness in the morning.

Time pours on, the mundane and predictable work of wrought iron and production of metal manipulators becomes unbearable. Moments away from her seem, once again, eternal and unforgiving.

Increasing instances of exposure, a play date here and there.

A joke, this is surely a joke. Your eyes are lying to you. No, the long lost image of a syringe loaded and ready to kill finds flesh and spits it’s poison deep into her rivers. No execution ever brought about this sadness.

Lost innocence, but how could I recount my knowledge of her as innocent? The image of blood and chaos. Inherit disorder in an orderly fashion. It was always juxtaposed with an air of purpose. Horses, jobs, school. The norm always won in the publics’ eye. It was only for me and the others a little bit in on the truth to know her soul.
Now, what secrets could be kept?

Banality has been replaced with surrealism and days and nights begin to blend. A lost cause of a former lover drifts in and out of my peripheral causing heart pains and frustration. She does not know for whom her lost husband yearns and he, in turn, does not understand that person in full.

The nature of interactions increase in desperation and paychecks start being insufficient to fund the hurricane of insane behaviors. Hotel rooms. Hiding from myself.

The night comes I have feared. A proposition of intercourse. Failure, inadequacy rears it’s monstrous maw and swallows me whole as I fall flaccid in the face of opportunity. All other lovers have known my firm conviction and penetrating pride. I have known this would happen with her. I have built up this moment in my mind to be some Herculean feat. Odysseus strapped to the mast of his ship, sirens call leading to unknown danger. HIV? IV drugs and a self proclaimed nymphomaniac, but does the problem lie in this? No, I’m afraid of failing her…the one I have waited through so much to be with. Cruel irony that this should cause such a failing.

Several snaps and a final break after more marvelous and miraculous jaunts into mania and motels. I have to check my brain into a hospital. The news is not unexpected but unbearable none the less. A kraken has awoken in my cortex. Nightmares made real in the light of X rays. The mental Macedonia has fallen pray to unstoppable invaders and Alexander has fallen to illness.

MY hand will slay me, no other’s. Not God’s, not Satan’s. Let them have their way when I fall. But my hand is stayed by a uniformed ghoul, unkind betrayer of free will that is the law man.

Institutionalization, a known evil. Nights are impossibly long and days full of pithy remarks about self awareness and behavioral protocols and pitfalls of the lonely mind. They blame my depression on drugs and drinking. What fools could look past such an obvious reason? I am dying and if I cannot control myself and my mortality then I can take away such controls from others. However, the calmness sets in and the beige walls win. Their laxadaisical wellness seeps in through my pores as I ingest medication.

Rare calls to my phoenix leave me feeling somewhat reborn and I ready myself for release. Given back articles of independence (keys, phone, wallet) I drag my once again clad-in-shoes feet to my car and depress the break and then gas to right my changed life. Unemployed and homeless in such a short time I find a hovel of a hotel and turn my attentions towards seeing her once again.

A storm outside my windows matches my internal ache with each chill and flake of frost. This is surely another, if not the last, great ignorant step I take toward what ever will be my end. Still, to see her, to hear her, it makes worthy and just any risk.

So many times the road betrays me and my hands slick with sweat turn the wheel to counter drifts of snow and drifting tires. Sickerettes burn to their filters in my mouth, unmoved for fear of a too-soon tragedy. The night is lit a strange pink and orange from lights of buildings cast through thick snow. I must see her, it will be okay when I do.

Divine intervention allows my safe passage to her home and we ride off. Not to, what I crazily think might be, a new start. No, we head, first, to slake the apes thirst. It’s perch on her shoulders allows direct control of her and my actions, despite what reason may dictate.

The collision is predicted, avoidable, and unremarkable. In a moment dragged out eternal, yet another dagger plunges into my ankle. I cannot keep plodding on with all of these losses. No matter how great, this Greek has lost his livelihood and now his shambles of a chariot. So, as before, he turns to drink.

Chapter: A New Paradigm

Life in a hotel. What can be said for life in a hotel? The day in day out menial existence that is four walls and a toilet brings to my mind a prison existence. Scantily clad in the trappings of social normality (lamp, desk, broken television) this hotel room is not unlike other hotel rooms except for one extremely important difference: she is by my side.
My feelings of uncertainty and unrelenting sense of loss have yielded to the reality unfolding before me. A possible future with her. A definite present with her. I could not have imagined and still cannot fathom that this is happening. Inherit in this doubt of a confusing marvel is the questioning of her intentions. Am I simply a means to an end? Are promises of potential sobriety and self-repair just cards played in a game of sustaining an addiction? Damn the hidden truth, if truth is hidden. I am in love and…assuredly loved in return.

Nights of jovial drink turn always to unreasonable argument and my least favorite time of year arrives. Christmas has passed, unremarkably, and arrived at my door is the day of my birth. The fear of this day feels unrelenting with only brief moments of excitement to season my moods. The winters breathe on my skin saturated skull
makes marking my birthday a seemingly trivial endeavor. Friendship, love,
and an unabated attention to alcohol stays my voice when the thought uttering a final
“fuck it” crosses my mind, nearing dangerously to my vocal cords. This day, Baby New Year will shake his rattle and rumble the Earth.

Chapter: A Shift In Gravity

The tidal waves of time wash away the best built sand castles, little dead crabs and all. His watch is off, not nearly synched up as the rest of his semi mechanical life. A hurried mess of microscopic plans for the smallest facets of a simple goal; to reach the spirits trapped in bottle whose libation would undoubtedly lead to spills, thrills, and likely heartaches or headaches.

We arrive at his house; a domicile I have felt so close to home and yet so far from myself. No time is lost in the consumption of social poison and the terrible choices track these movements heel to claw, grabbing at every chance they see. More often then not, and with increasing frequency, they latch on and soon hold all the cards as a blur of movement and motor vehicles deliver us to our next, and nearly last, stop.

The Old Port. Did I have another seizure? Did I see her face emblazoned amidst a hue of red? As fire flees the sick pure light of halogen street lights, it finds it’s home inside her scalp. Did she save me there? Amongst a brother and another? Was my heart pulled tight to its cage as pressures cook my jelly software into a frantic thunderstorm? I feel unsure where madness and the magic meet, but I am certain, as I see her eyes in a fleeting glance, that I am safe here with all the wild things and drowning impulse control.

She is my unlikely and failing guardian. From depths or heights, I cannot tell. Nor, as I think of it more and more, do I care. I don’t give a damn damn whether she flew here or clawed her way up. She is magnificent and as her back arches into another violent spasm of vomitus and her knees rock in a brief loss of motor control, I have never been so certain that I would lay down my life, death, or whatever was asked of me, to provide her safety and joy.

The snow glistens first white, then yellow as we approach the dens of swine. The air feels colder, counter to the vile body heat and late night pizza ovens. Cigarettes of every variety, except the safe kind, litter the ground and catch my eyes only a moment. Who amongst us can sanely revel in the decadent practice of discarding toxic waste with no regard for it’s final resting place. In the gullet of a fish? Why not? I’ll pick it out as I eat it blind to the world from cheap wine served too cold and fast from any given merchant here.

The Old Port. Home to and refuge for too many weekend weirdos. To get strange and be a stranger to so many requires a certain lack of love. It’s a love missing for yourself if you feel the need to attend so many ends.

The crook of her arm hooked with my own, elbows extended in defiance away from the ground. Gravity has a good grip on our knees and our feet slide too often for our own good. Any act of grace (beyond the blessings of some higher power bestowed upon us) belongs not to us, not by any means. Our path is clear but for butts and slush as we plod carelessly into the first bar. A sexual innuendo painted on it’s sign, our working class or less status must reflect directly off our clothing and into the fog of frustration, thoughts of fucking, and mindless skulls about each patrons head.

Could she have stopped for the bouncer and still been admitted? I glance at him to confirm my concern. Of course she couldn’t. Only her red headed rouse of a need for urination and her head strong determination permit her entrance. Her path of chaotic shoves, leans, and looks into strangers eyes seems a forest fire of hurt feelings and an aching toe here and there. I couldn’t be more proud to hold hands with this force of nature. Her curt attitude for background features and people leaves me speechless in ways I can’t put a finger on and am certain would burn me if I could.

We settle in after short exchange of money and malt liquor and begin to eye the unnamed beasts about us. Here a used car dealer, there a sorority girl: mixed company to say the least. None of said company arouses considerable amounts of respect shown in my comrades faces. It occurs to me that my survey of the crowd may be less impaired than hers as it becomes more and more clear to me that she may not be able to see straight, let alone into the depths of the soul as allowed by each doe or shark eyed body in the place. My brothers face is statuesque, showing nothing but a plastered on insincere and hopelessly cautious smile and near watering careful eyes.

Inhibition swallowed up by a sea of spilled drinks and we drift amongst buildings. I feel as though I was just devoured by first the night and then her lips. Her pearly whites gone red as they found flesh soft enough to peel in between my chin and nose. My own vision becomes clouded, a predicted outcome. Passing shadows, police, and doorsteps we crash the holiday everywhere we land.

Glassy eyed onlookers pass in and out of my notice, their opinions lost on my now numbed mind. I turn my eyes to soak up the image of fire that stands next to me and my stomach turns to see her form crumpled and defeated by her own persistence. What life we live as fast we can is wasted in our own hands. In this moment it’s better that we leave our fate to the wisdom of others past our plight, “Turn in, call it a night, hang up your hat, quit while you’re ahead.” Do we follow this advice? No, we charge forward and smash face first into last call.

The collected brain cells of my brother and his roommate finally spark and realize the desperation of the situation and hopelessly try to corral our madness. She banks left then right and breaks my protective grasp bolting toward a police barricade meant to filter out the violently drunk and potential criminals of the evening. Animal instincts fight for control of my reaction and I manage to shoot an apparently convincing smile to the officers of the law whose clutches she comes harrowingly close to falling into. Three short steps and I have her in my arms again. “Come on, neither of us want you to go to jail.”

The parking lot, one of the most ignorant places for us to be, yet here we are. We stare at the car. I hear but cannot believe her intense pleas for continued drinking. Surely, this isn’t the in-control-of-it-all woman I love?

Minutes and hours lose meaning (if ever they had any) and my mind joins hers in a great abyss of men’s names slapped on bottles. I must have had self control at one point, I must have had more than emotion in my being, but now everything is a tidal wave of love, lust, hatred, mistrust and sadness. I howl at the moon, I scream at God and threaten his throne. I curse my brother for not being their all the times my mother needed him as well as me, when she needed to be remembered. I feign interest in sobering up as my brother beckons me toward sanity.

I put one foot in front of the other, seeing four feet total, troding through out his house. There’s some kind of conversation going on, I may be speaking, I may not. If some words are mine, they’re just as foreign to me as if they weren’t. I think I lost consciousness for a moment there but am certain that I just found her laying splayed like a piece of bloody pork, cut open by some vile butcher and put out for the market and my brother. What unthinking author brought about this turn? I can’t contain myself and turn my rage toward him. I don’t care if he has had a hand in this. I threaten his life, I turn my fists to him, with half hopes of being beaten to death myself. Some slip of his fists or forearm and my neck to crack. An end to the hurricane, calm.

I awake in our hotel room. Joyous resuscitation. I never new a night so horrendous could begin a day so fresh. 23 years old and still alive, I find new pleasure in my very being. I embrace her, certain that a partner so strong cannot be shunned, and should be thanked for seeing you through the storm if only by enduring it with you.

Chapter:  Sickness Transformed

Growing in me, alongside the cancer cells, a dragon has hatched. Perhaps its egg has been there my whole life, dormant, waiting for the warm springs of a heated rig and load. The unadulterated self-swim of drowning in the waters of opiate utopia; a world seen only from the windows of a single-use space ship.

I steady myself for the impact of this foreign object in my arm, her gaze reassuring and determined. If I had the strength to take the plunge and plunger, I don’t know that I’d be doing this. It’s the weakness of character shown in this escapist’s moment that shines through my alcohol rank breath as I say, “Go ahead, do it.” The shock red of the bandana serving as tourniquet pales to, first, her hair and then my own blood made visible in the plastic and steel viper. A moment’s fear and I realize I’m not dying, I’m fading.

The absurdity of a moment, now being lost to a torrent of new experiences, still boggles my mind. The wonder of a, first frightening then beautiful jump, into filth becomes lost as the sleepwalking sessions occur more and more often. Any pretense of this being less than a full time habit is forgotten by the fifth score. New connections are formed with less-than-savory characters and a transformation occurs in my dynamic with old friends. A natural division tears my acquaintances into two main groups; those that would support my self-corruption and those that are opposed. My allegiances are tested and my self-image plummets in some ways and skyrockets in others. I have become a character in someone’s fiction. There is nothing human left. Is there? I question my own intentions in every dealing.

The expected beauty on first evening on which I decide to watch my pupils contract, real-time, shatters with the vision of a soul drifting into silence. My inhibitions and beliefs are suspended in a cradle somewhere a mile behind me; hardly tethered to their windows like a kite flown from an attic aperture. The distance seems to grow with each use and the return to take longer. Contact with my maker is an unpleasant affair full of shaking, sweating, and curt commands to anyone who can hear them. Demands of a connect coming through faster than possible…complaints of cost and availability and wondering if this is going to be the last time I feel this way. Will some super-fix come through and take me away from my own decrepit nervous system?

Then the day arrives that the doctor gives me news at which I would have balked just a month previous. “You’ll be trying out Percocept 10 milligram until your next appointment, the migraines should subside to a manageable level.” A small, miniscule really, voice in the back of my mind wants to scream that I have no trouble finding better shit than them at any corner in certain dingy parts of the state. Restraint keeps me from fucking up my best score yet; a legal one.

Parallel to this, the same friends that applaud my new found dilettante decline are suffering themselves in much the same way. I watch the frequency of pick-ups and the numbers of pills and little bags increase with every instance. What was a 30 dollar infrequent waste of time becomes a a nightly ritual costing upwards of a crumpled fistful of 20’s and temporary use of a debit card. No one questions our mistakes because we’re making them in stride. Family members noticing the change in their kin ought to be the first red light on our crash course with overdose and hepatitis or worse but our eyes are off the road and looking at the maps forming on our arms. Our various employers complain of inattentive workers and make notes on legal pads about performance to later store in their machines unknowingly documenting our decline. When asked what is wrong with us, excuses of illness, exhaustion, distraction and depression leap to the ends of our sharpening silver tongues, tongues made deadly edged by the grindstone of deceipt we sit in front of on a daily basis.

No one remembers every lie we have told and, on occasion, they intersect with a need for honesty and the trouble of covering up an initial deception becomes a familiar sinking feeling, alongside the nausea of going without our new water. The work of obtaining our material needs is, contrast to our ease of scoring, hugely intolerable to our feeble patience. We snap at our hook-ups, foolishly scorning their ability to procure lethal substances. Half an hour becomes outlandish and we don’t wait where we are, no, we set engines to roaring and bang cylinders and pebbles in a furious dash toward our meeting with a predestined atrocity each time we’re given the address of our goods.

What were once innocent herbal circles become insidious dens with bodies draped carelessly across furniture. Inherit in our usage is a loss of communication, occasionally punctuated with bursts of nonsense or meandering speculation about possible cocktails of  our favorite family. Any consideration of going out into a world not built for us is fleeting and our muscles atrophy and skins pale under artificial light. We need no humanity to live this way.

Sex with her becomes a new animal. Frequency, surprisingly, increases as our opiate elevated libidos beckon us to the bedroom, nearly literally crotches first. She and I share her deepest secret and joy. The predatory fear of failing has long gone and a familiarity has grown inside of the bedroom in which we lay out our wants and desires and meet them accordingly. Bite marks and gashes spread across my body, at a more rapid pace than the needle marks at times. My injuries become indistinguishable from a Muay Thai fighter and my lioness reminds me of our dynamic every time eyes are not on us. From time to time we dephile a new locale…here a friend’s couch, there a moving van. We know a pride in ourselves gleaned from our sense of sexual adventure. Boundaries are tested and learned, mostly respected. Savaging her nethers brings me joy, no doubt, but I begin to wonder if it’s in the shadow of my astral lover. Surely, her corporeal body pleases me more than my morphine mistress? Often, I am able to see clearly that they are one in the same; cut from the same cloth. My demon and my ghost. The fire and the spoon.

She reignites my lust for life in a way that only a hardened user searching for her lost humanity can. Ideas for outings are first ignored, then followed with purpose. We have to save ourselves in at least one way or our memories of ourselves won’t even be left. Nothing will. Our bodies hollow and lithe, we drift back into the land of man.

Timid tests of the water, walks on the beach, being out in the sun. Our pupils contracted, the sun is still too bright through thick black lenses and we turn more toward journeys out at night. Our escapades reach a crescendo with a broken window and a stolen flag. This isn’t the juvenile, good natured and innocent rekindling of our decency we wanted. No, this is just two reckless shackled stacks of flesh and bone ruining good things for normal people.

"I shook hands with a man who honestly thinks he's the grandson of Jesus."

Edited by ShmooLove23 (07/11/11 01:02 PM)

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OfflineMan in the Box
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Registered: 03/15/07
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Re: A writing project [Re: ShmooLove23]
    #14749003 - 07/11/11 02:16 AM (9 years, 10 months ago)

read this later

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Last seen: 9 years, 5 months
Re: A writing project [Re: Man in the Box]
    #14752821 - 07/11/11 08:16 PM (9 years, 10 months ago)

By no means complete...SO...any suggestions, PM me.

"I shook hands with a man who honestly thinks he's the grandson of Jesus."

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