I’ve been sittin’ in bed for half an hour now. The spare change slippin’ outta my pocket. Watchin’ BoJack Horseman. Thinkin’ about rewatchin’ it. All the way through. For a third time. But do I really wanna put myself through that again? Especially now. I mean. The show is one of the most inspirational things to penetrate my retinas. My constantly alternatin’ pinholes and black holes I call my pupils. My eardrums. One of the few things that manages to stay distinct in the ball of throbbin’ mush I call my self-mutilated brain. I just rewatched it a few months ago when I could see the twinkle of glitter and doom in the depths of the oncomin’ and impendin’ rock bottom. And even though it brought back the nostalgic feelin’ of saltwater in my tear ducts. I never followed through with the lessons. All blurrin’ in with the mess of gibberish, slurred thoughts, and to-do lists my ADHD brain can’t distinguish from background clutter. Besides. I never finished rewatcin’ House. But it doesn’t hold up. Like most Fox shows.
But that’s not even what I’m debatin’. I’ve been debatin’ if I light this cig. In bed. Nothin’ bindin’ me in the lease not to have cigs inside again. Plus I think the landlord will be too focused on the hole I punched in the wall three years ago. And the remnants of graffiti on the tree in the front yard. Now. The only thing stoppin’ me is myself. And the second best good mornin’ I could ask for is the smell of second hand smoke in my towel when I shower. But I don’t even do that as often as I should anymore. Livin’ up the greasy image of men that leave the house in their bathrobe. I was told I’m a man that exudes comfort. What can I say… I’ve worn my slippers to bartending shifts before. I often ditch my responsibilities to never leave bed. Why even get up and eat? Why bother sleepin’? Ya can’t wallow in somethin’ you’re not conscious during. Maybe I just wanna be so comfortable cause I’m so fuckin’ uncomfortable on the inside.
I look in the mirror and can’t stand the image in the glass. I’d punch it out. But I spend enough time cleanin’ up broken glass at work. I spend enough time sacrificin’ my free time to work. Besides. I’m tryin’ not to beat myself up too much these days. Sure. I recently started listenin’ to Father John Misty. Again. But I haven’t brought the bottle of jezy in the shower in a while. The water spits down at me to the point I gotta sit down still. But at least I’m not throwin’ up on myself these days. I still feel numb. I still feel dull. I still feel like I’m spinnin’ while slowly bein’ swallowed by the drain.
Maybe that’s why I haven’t been out so much lately. Between sellin’ my body to work and the plasma clinic. It was gettin’ tough to find time to connect with people. But I haven’t had the needle in my arm in a while now either. If I’m gonna be stickin’ metal through my flesh again I’d prefer it to be at least a scar with a more excitin’ story to tell. Some ink to validate my experiences in my own flesh. But I’ve felt so dull recently. What fun would I be besides maybe have a good self-deprecatin’ joke here or there? Somethin’ all these people that seem to have finally gotten their shit together can relate to nostalgically. But maybe that’s just the con we tell ourselves. Maybe nobody ever really has their shit together. Some people just know how to be happy with the process. I was into the Fluxus shit in high school. Maybe as long as you have an idea where you’d like to be goin’, the constant fear of things not workin’ out doesn’t get the better of you.
I’ve always been the opposite. Don’t bother plannin’. Let the future come at you as it will. Too much can happen between now and then. No point thinkin’ about choices that aren’t right in front of you. A year ago I could never see myself leavin’ this place. No matter how haunted this house is with bad decisions and ghosts of people I no longer even know how to talk to. Through the holes in the wall I refuse to fix or at least cover with posters I can see vague glimpses of beauty. The twinkle of glitter and doom. But lately my body seems to be crackin’ like the walls. It’s overheatin’ with the lack of AC. And rattlin’ like the furnace as I grow colder inside than the temperatures outside. Part of me is afraid that if I leave this space, all the memories will fade with everything else I’ve been losin’. What good were the bad times if I don’t even have a moral to remember from them? That was the only thing I learned when I went to a few NA meetings and did blow in the church bathroom. The lucky ones forget is a false narrative.
It wasn’t until recently I’ve found myself longin’ for the boonies. I drive through ‘em from time to time to walk through the woods. See some turtles or frogs or some shit. And every lawn with copaganda signs I pass sends the nightmare of Easy Rider through my skull. But it would be nice to live out there. Neil Young style. More barn in the mix of the soundtrack to my life while I play with cow shit. Away from all the brain fog and car exhaust cloudin’ my thoughts. That Watchmen meme loops like a scratched up record. I’m tired of this Earth. Caught in the tangles of life. America is jerkin’ me off with one hand. While stranglin’ me with the other hand. Bitin’ my earlobe while talkin’ dirty to me. “Tell me you hope grandma will die with an inheritance for you so you can afford a home…” Even the affordable care act is too expensive to be able to afford a decent therapist. Let alone take the time off work to be able to have the energy for somethin’ like that. You look around here and the grass can barely grow. How the fuck is a human bein’ supposed to grow in a place like this? I wish I were more like Mother Nature. Against all odds she manages to grow. I was always a fan of any movie with the underdog story. The triumphant “I used to be a piece of shit…” speech. Cue up “Poor, Poor Pitiful Me” by Warren Zevon.
We’ve spent so much time tryin’ to find ways to validate the things we feel. This surreal cocktail of perception and reality we call life. Take a shot of it. Everyday it seems more and more like every type of media is harmful. The news opiates your ass. Violent video games desensitize us to the point half our generation is watchin’ snuff films off Reddit. But didn’t most of us turn to these things to escape? Tryin’ to find somethin’ to tell us they understand our teen angst like Cracker. Our underdeveloped minds not even able to understand itself. I mean. Each time I reread Catcher in the Rye I find Holden Caulfield a bigger and bigger asshole. But don’t even try to tell me when ya read that shit in high school you didn’t think that guy was the shit. Whether it be the cliche coming of age stories, scene music, or dadaism. Every kid has that point where they overstimulate their underdeveloped minds to find somethin’ that validates their feelings. Stuntin’ their mental growth. Maybe we read more philosophy now than the angsty teens we once were. But we still don’t see how nihilism can be freeing and optimistic.
Just this mornin’ I was too numb to bring an old friend a bag of weed. So I went to the record store. Hopin’ to find a new piece of wax to send soundwaves of solace through space and time when I drop the needle on it. But you think the Jesus and Mary Chain had anything more figured out than I do at my age? You think Simon & Garfunkel will help you more than the people whose lives you watch from Instagram stories while tryin’ to get stoned enough to feel human enough to face the public? Fuck no! But we think maybe in those grooves. Maybe in the magnetic tape. Maybe in the ink on the page or the pixels on the screen they have somethin’ permanent to offer us than the people that we may one day never see again. Somebody obviously believed in what those cats made enough to turn their thoughts into somethin’ physical.
We’ve spent too much time idolizing artists we’ll never meet. People whose folklore you can only find on underground forums. Romanticizing pop culture to the point we live our lives so there’s a story that plays out. Imagin’ ourselves as main characters to a movie we don’t even wanna watch. But hopin’ we at least have a story that makes the cesspool of tie dye and vomit we’re drowin’ in mean somethin’. Cause if all the shit we put ourselves through can at least offer a lesson. Can help the next generation of emotionally stunted youth feel a little less alone. Then not killing ourselves when we first had the chance is worth it. Our angsty inner child gets the better of us. Makes us forget that this is all inherently void of meaning. Was I the only one payin’ attention when we ate acid and watched the Midnight Gospel? Pain doesn’t have to be a parable. Sometimes shit fuckin’ happens. We can let it go and move on. Why do we have this need to be heard in order for our feelings to be validated? I already know how I feel. Besides. When anybody asks about how we feel we’ll just tell ‘em they don’t understand.
Yes. Our childhood always has a funny way of bitin’ us in our ass doesn’t it? Learnin’ things like drunk drivin’ is a healthy coping mechanism. Or pursuing the arts is better than actually talkin’ about your feelings with real life humans. I read too much Bukowski in my formative years. Leavin’ me temptin’ by the glitter and doom at rock bottom. That you can only look up from down there. But man oh man. Don’t you know that scientists can’t even see the depths of the ocean? And even if ya hit the bottom of that you can drill through the rock and into the center of the Earth. Come clean out the other side. Maybe shoot off into space. As if the void up there is any better than the hole you’re in.
“Ya know… Nick Cave said the best advice he has for writers is not to read Bukowski…” The guy at the bar tells me this. He tells me about his brief time doin’ poetry readings while railin’ blow off a toilet seat. I tell him about my brief time fluckin’ a poetry class at Wayne cause I skipped the final to rail a Dialudid off a Jet’s Pizza toilet seat.
“Did you think when you named your band after a vine you’d end up here?” Baby Audobahn asks as we stand surrounded by Lebowski wannabes. Dudist priests. Nihilists. And men in bathrobes. They say bars have more divinity in ‘em than churches. Which is what attracted me to it when I started workin’ under the table stockin’ beer in high school. Some of the worst moments of my life have been in churches. But the same solace I’ve found trapped in vinyl grooves I’ve found in the atmosphere of most bars I’ve been to. If we weren’t all slightly off we wouldn’t be in a bar really. Which is why it’s a place we can be authentically ourselves. These people are all strangers. Ninety percent of ‘em we’ll probably never see again. They don’t owe it to us to be better or good the way we owe reciprocity in relationships. There’s no need to be anything but honest with these people.
“Ya know… I don’t have an interest in writing again… It was a good release for me when I was unhappy… I’m glad I did it… But I don’t need it anymore…” I fuckin’ knew it. I should’ve been an actor instead. I’m great at pretending I’m doin’ ok. Meanwhile I’m tryin’ out all these different blends of chemical imbalances, sleep deprivation, starvation and my own brain chemistry. Well I can forget ever winning an Oscar for this role. Ya done goofed! It’s too late now. I’ve already invested so much in this facade and homage. Why not see where I can go with it?
I’ve always thought people don’t change. They can try and resist. But there’s always a part of them that never goes away. Maybe I’ve been wrong this whole time. I mean. I have finally started drinkin’ water. It was only so I could sell plasma. But the habit stuck after I stopped. I never wanted to be stuck on pills my whole life just to be able to function. But how is that any different than takin’ pills to cope with the burden of tying my shoes? And I fuckin’ wear slip-ons most days. But smokin’ spliffs every other cig is makin’ too stoned to wanna reach for another pill. They say addicts never quit. Just find new and exciting ways to keep hurtin’ themselves. It gets borin’ chasin’ the same dragon every fuckin’ time. Maybe I’m not necessarily beautiful. But stoned. Or whatever Hendrix said.
Maybe it’s not that people can’t change. But when you try to define who you are, you don’t give yourself the ability to change. Typecastin’ yourself to the same fuckin’ role over and over again won’t give you any type of real character. Maybe I don’t wanna smoke cigs in bed anymore. It just feels on brand for me at this point. Maybe I’d enjoy a good night’s sleep…
It’s only in a cesspool that things stagnate. If you go out to the boonies you can see everything so clear and natural. Because it’s growin’. It’s changin’. Maybe I should get outta this place. Let things go. Maybe then I won’t feel so numb and dull. But doesn’t it sound borin’ out there? Not even a cool bar to hang out and be vulnerable in. I don’t know though. I’ll spark this cig inside. Slip the spare change back in my pocket for later. Use the burnt tobacco like an air freshener. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let the ash fall like specks of dust in the desert. Say. Anyone know what New Mexico is like this time of year? I could use a trip. And I hear the desert is a good place to fuck around with some peyote. I said it once a long time ago. But I could see myself in New Mexico. I don’t dream much these days. But maybe the melatonin I started takin’ will help with that.
