It's Tuesday and Tuesday is like any other day except that sometimes it’s not.
Sometimes it’s different in the way that only days full of misadventure and
piteous overthrows write like a bunch of shit because everyone’s on drugs but
it. I want to fuck, want to love even but don’t know if I even know how
anymore. Love is such a bitch sometimes. Why throw everything away to call
someone your girlfriend, just so you can feel jealous and break up and hate one
another?
I’ve
ditched the room. I’ve ditched the people in it. I’ve come back into my space
of Darkhouse, my little space. I’ve come back to la Sanctuaire d’Arco. Everyone
in the living room is drinking stupid fine wine given by the homosexual,
chewing on pretty cheeses fed them by the folks with money and nothing to lose.
Except they’re constantly losing their souls, handing them out for candy and
coke and sex and dirt. I feel such an intense anger right now. This is the time
I want to get away. I want to get away from them. From it all. I just want to
drink and fuck but the girl is on pills with the rest of them and she only
wants to hang out and film them making asses of themselves. I’m so not
interested. I’m so not a part of this. I brought her the drink she loves the
most, bought a bottle of whiskey, for far too much, and came in happy that it
wasn’t total Darkhouse, but found a party of misfits in the full swing of
ridiculousness. When did she become a part of this? Why is she on all of them?
Why am I in my room, depressing myself with these ridiculous words that I know
are ridiculous, that I know will do nothing but soften my penis and make me
upset?
I’ve
just written three-hundred words about nothing, just so I could get out of the
room. Now everyone’s home, and I wish I didn’t have to go back in there. But
there is something, someone in there
that draws me. I’m in love with her, I do love her truly, but I thought we were
outside of all this. I didn’t want someone who would just join in on the drugs
and the stupidity and the fruitlessness of every wasted night. What a waste!
God, it angers me so much. We’re up to four-hundred now. It’s just volume and
stupid laughs in there. It’s just bad television and prescription drugs. I’m
drinking too but it’s different. Or maybe I just tell myself that. Maybe I’m
just only happy when I’m the center of attention, of her attention. Of her
intentions.
All I’ve
thought about all day is that she was sitting at home in her little garage
room, painting and sewing, or one or the other, and that I wanted to be sitting
with her, silently, working on my novel in the beauty of our silent artistic
room. Then there would be love talk, touch, sex, more love talk then morning
and work. Maybe even more sex. She’d have an orgasm. I would too. Instead I’m
listening to her act like them and it is truly bothering me.
Five-hundred
and forty-four words in, nothing changes. Even the repetitive type and clack
and clack and type on keys stuck with cum and food and old coffee says the same
thing over and over again. What am I doing? Why am I writing? What am I writing?
Is this a waste of time? Yes, it is. I’m typing really quite hard just to get
her attention. It’s not working. I have to go back in there to see her. And
that’s exactly where I don’t want to be. That room is why I’m leaving the
state. That room is why I changed my name back. What a waste, what a terrible
waste of time! Both of us. All of us. What is this life? Six-hundred and
sixty-eight.
She
might as well be sleeping with them. Right now I am an afterthought. Half of
me says that she is giving me my space and respecting that I’m writing, giving
me my privacy to do so (even though I’m really not). The other half says that
she’s bored, that she’s Michele, that she wants to be doing what I am always not
doing when being myself. Yeah, so I’m not that much fun to be around. That’s
who I am. That’s what I want. I want to talk about poetry and love and writing
and the Cemetery of Forgotten Books and favorite days and good stories and
times that are past but always with us. I want to be doing something that even
if it could be considered wasting time will somehow eventually better me as a
person, as an artist, as a human, maybe even just as a writer. Certainly not a
lover. Certainly not a rockstar. Certainly not a party animal. Fuck all this
stupid noise. It even makes my English bad, apparently. I’m a series of
one-dollar words right now. Eight-hundred and fifty-six of them.
I’m a
James Dean haircut with a bad attitude and soupy shit in his guts, taking a
piss and thinking of these words, suddenly realizing that I’m surprisingly
depressed for maybe no reason at all. What a night, what a night. This isn’t
what Kerouac was writing about. This isn’t even what I want to write about,
what I do write about. Like I said, it’s just writing for the sake of making
noise with a keyboard and an escape from the room that I thought I had saved
myself from. The room that I thought I’d found a partner in leaving.
Nine-sixty-four. Almost there.
Eleven
oranges sang a song to the tune of something French they heard once but couldn’t
pronounce the name of. They thought about it afterward and decided what they
really wanted was to be zucchini. That’s the first time I’ve ever tried to
write that word and miraculously I spelled it correctly. One-thousand,
one-hundred and nineteen. Why isn’t there a hyphen in the ‘teens?
Everyone’s
on drugs. Everyone but me. I am miserable right now, and my lover is a part of
the cause. What a pain. What a night. I’ve had enough of this. One-thousand,
one-hundred and sixty-two. Now they’re smoking pot. Of course. And I’m walking
back in. For absolutely no reason at all. What a night. One-thousand,
one-hundred and eighty-six wasted words for wasted people.
I’m feeling
vicious for no reason at all. And I can’t stay away from the keyboard. This is
music, somehow. This is real love. This is the second page. I’m being dramatic.
I hate this. I hate this about myself, thought I was past it, thought she was
different. I know where to put the commas, Jack. That’s why I use them. And I
maybe do it just to not sound like you when I write. Would you have loved the
computer and its lack of need for paper exchange?
I almost
went back in but suddenly knew that she was going to ask me why don’t I just
stay in there and write? She wants me in here. I’m no party, and she never cums.
I’ve got tears from and of smoke in my eyes. Well just one really. And I’ve
stopped using my commas. Are commas and comas related? I wish this was a typewriter.
That would really get her attention. Did you master typing with a cigarette in
one hand, Jack? I suck at it. Am I meditating? Am I communicating with the
dead? Are you dead, like Weldon Kees isn’t?
Why hasn’t
she come in here yet? She must have masturbated when I was at work. I want to
swallow this whole bottle at once. It cost too much and I want to prove it.
There it is, now I’m a party. One-thousand, three-hundred and thirty-one
useless words. Useless? Is there such a thing? The –less makes them worth something.
I’m drunk
and I want to light my hands on fire. Is this depression? Is this madness? And I’m
ashing on the floor to see if she notices. She won’t.
