For Now: Rough Day So Far

I don’t even feel like a writer anymore. This is forfeit. I have to get out of here. I have to quit drinking.

You know, honestly, I’m just tired of being hung over all the time. So I’m not going to do it anymore. No drinking will mean no cocaine, no hangovers, and no sexual mistakes. Not drinking means that I won’t be late to work, and I’ll feel good every day. Not drinking means that all this painful self-doubt and misery will pass. For now, I quit. Really, I quit.

Enough is enough.

Everything is so out of control. I don't know what happened yesterday. A little over a year ago, I wrote about a drunken mistake I made with a friend's mother - I kissed her - as if I had really crossed a line. And I had. I don't know if it's the lack of consequences for my actions that has led me to this point, but I am out of control.

I slept with a hooker last night in a parking lot, I think, and lost another one of my precious notebooks. Since I've basically renounced every art I've ever done in my life, besides writing, of late, this is distressing to say the least. This also means that, after nearly a decade of writing in notebooks, I've lost three in the last eight months. Again, no consequences.

I don't know what's wrong with me. I mean, I get that I am a drunk. But how and when did I become this way? Not that long ago, I changed my life because I kissed someone! I was so good, even when bad. This, this new thing, is horrific. I have to change. In fact, I've probably picked up some sort of disease and now I'm dying.

For most of this year, I have blamed this behavior on Arabella. She left me, and I went a little crazy. But this is too far, it's too far gone, for me to keep claiming that heartbreak has led me to drink. Before her, I was a good man. I hadn't slept with anyone in years. Despite desire, I did not allow myself to stoop to the same level as my peers. But I opened myself to her, and it changed me. It altered me irrevocably. On the road to New Orleans, I made the first mistake in this line - it's clear that this pattern began there. I got wildly drunk and messed around with an old girlfriend of my band's. I felt terrible. But I kept my chin up, decided that wasn't the worst thing that could happen. Then in New Orleans, things got really crazy. I couldn't keep myself in good graces once I started drinking, at all. Then I quit drinking for a spell, spent an uncomfortable holiday in Texas with family, and decided to fly home to California. I got my job back and my house.

But I was still out of control. I immediately started drinking too much, and after being hung over for three of the seven days I had been back, Arabella broke up with me at a bar. I was absolutely crushed. Halved. Shattered. Couldn't see for the splinters. So I went on a rampage.

I drank like never before, and it affected me like never before. The hangovers were worse, and longer. The detrimental effects more poignant. I was more aware of how keenly the damage touched me. Its remnants were obvious. I maintained a terrible attitude at the job that I loved, and after eight months, managed to get them to fire me. Again, I saw this as someone else's problem.

I have had more sex in the last eight months than I've had in my whole life, and almost none of it has been good. I wasn't missing out. I was only allowing myself to flower for the ones that I loved. It seems so innocent now, but that was hardly very long ago. Every time I get drunk now, I try to sleep with whomever's nearest, and it's usually not a very good decision. Then I wake up, feeling horrid, and cool it - for a day. The instant I feel back to normal, it's back to drinking, and the same thing happens. It's a terrible, terrible cycle, and the worst part is that I know that Arabella would never approve of the man I've become. She was right to leave me, and this knowledge depresses me beyond measure.

I don't know what's happened to me, or if it's reversible. I'm trying not to entertain notions of suicide, but I honestly am at a complete loss as to how to fix all of this. Times have never been worse for me, the future never so bleak, the present never so dire. I don't know if what I need is help or escape.

Holy Tuesday in the Wild Gay West

The man gets on the train wearing a plaid trilby hat. He has hooped pirate-style earrings, a white button-down, and perfectly manicured sideburns and goatee, his keys hanging from his beltloop on a black leather fob. He's also got plaid slip-on shoes, and plaid shorts. But why do his legs look so strange? Oh, right. He's wearing panty hose. No matter, I think. Must just be one of those "bear" types. But then he pulls out a tattered pocket-sized copy of the Holy Bible, opens it to a marked page, and begins to read right there on the train, standing among the rocking throngs. After a while he smiles to himself and looks up from the page, out the window and then to the ceiling, and closes his eyes to begin what I can only assume is a prayer. And he's sweating, and he's squeezing his eyes tight, and he's praying the living shit out of that prayer. And then suddenly his eyes are open again and he grins, content, as if he's receiving his guaranteed salvation right here on the train and we are all witnesses to his redemption this holy Tuesday in the wild gay West.

That Puddle of Blood and Brains

I picked up that puddle of blood and brains you left on the floor, and shaped it into the man you see before you. Oh my, look at these skeleton hands on a body of life. Look at your body, your face. Wonder for me what’s happened to us, to us all really, and be sure to let me know once you’ve given our sickness a name. Maybe it has one already. Maybe I already knew it. Maybe I didn’t know it until I met you. You probably gave it to me, like everything else that you took away. My life used to be my own, you know. But like a bird in the rain, I’m only trying to find my way with sopping wings. I’m flying for the winter. I’m flying anywhere. I’d like to take you with me, but I just can’t anymore. There are only so many places lovers can travel, and this abyss surely ain’t one of them. I’d kiss once, this last time, but your face is rot in the earth, fodder for the worms, a scene from my nightmare under the cold sea of sleep. Don’t ask me why anymore, I’m not sure I can keep avoiding the answer. There is no answer, lover. There are none. And, you know, there never were. There is no wisdom here, only the truth. It’s the only promise I can make anymore. Like a bullet, like a love letter, let these words ride. And do me a favor, don’t read too much into them. That will only hurt worse. So I’ll ride it like a free man, the wave this story propels us upon, on into the deep, the well of your once loving soul and the dark of the truth so awful you’d disown me if only you had the chance.

Honestly, Not Much Has Changed

Days like this are the reason I decided to leave San Francisco in the first place. It’s not just a hangover. Those are funny. Those mean one good night with way too much wine. This is different. Last night, I had three celebratory shots with a roommate who just started drinking again. Stupid thing to celebrate, yeah, but hey that’s what he wanted. He was headed out as it was Friday night, and I was staying in as I had to be at work at 9AM. Once he left though, I thought “why not go have a drink?” So I went out to our neighborhood bar for a single beer. I had two, I think, before people started to show up. I put a ton of cash in the juke. I lingered on those two drinks though, for a while because I was keeping my head on. Then I smoked with the barkeep and decided to have a shot like he used to do. He poured them for me and my friend, and then “one for the road.” I was supposed to be going home. But then bam. People showed up. These black cats came out of nowhere and I went all New Orleans on them and they loved it. I know they bought me a drink. But after that? Nothing. I don’t even know if I settled up with Francisco (the bartender) before leaving. I’m sure I did. I can’t imagine he would have let me walk out that door without doing so. But then this is where it gets weird. Because honestly, all the sudden, whammo – it’s 6AM, I’m hanging out with a bunch of coked out hipsters in my living room, I’m coked out, too, and I’m trying to play some song for my roommate’s girlfriend. I cannot remember doing a single line of cocaine. I cannot remember coming home. I cannot remember making the decision to even hang out with them. It’s not a blur, it’s not “hazy.” I truly have no memory of what happened last night. Thank Christ I wasn’t in North Beach, because I would have spent a fortune. But the point is that this is not cool. This does not make me cool. Because I just woke up at 3PM, I do remember that I called in to work at 7AM (god-fucking-damn it), my sinuses are all fucked up, and I know that I’m in for one mean metaphysical hangover. What a waste of a day, a day that I was supposed to be at work, functioning, making money, saving for my massive future trip. I can happily say though, that it is not a waste of a life, like it used to be. But damn, I sure wish I had made some other decisions last night. I was supposed to go to Arabella’s coffee shop this morning and surprise her, and have a latte, and maybe have a nice conversation. Instead, I’ve done exactly the thing that our meeting was so happy to discover two good-looking people didn’t want to do anymore, or ever! Goddamn, Arabella, there is no doubt that you would hate me now. Hell, maybe you do. But days like these are why I left this place. I was out of control, I could not help a night like this, and I could not say no to cocaine. I’ve been great about saying no to cocaine for over a year now (excepting one moment in which I really think I’m happy I did it, even just to discover that I truly didn’t need it anymore). I wish I could even remember the moment I did that cocaine last night. It is just completely gone. And now I sigh, knowing that I’ve got a whole long day of self-doubt and self-anger ahead of me. Tomorrow I have to go to work. I should have been off two hours from now. I would love to shout, “Why am I acting this way?” But I know why. I’m sad and I’m angry and I don’t even want to live in this city. I achieved everything I wanted, but I had fallen in love, and I let that become my focus. Why shouldn’t I have?! What better focus could there ever be? She was wonderful, and maybe I’m just a convincing enough liar that I had fooled even myself into thinking that I was a better person. She made me better. She made me feel like it was not just okay to separate myself from the party, but that it was more attractive and that it made life more beautiful. She was my favorite. And goddamn, do I miss her. These are all the reasons I left this city, but now I’m back, and honestly, not much has changed.

Purpose Unfulfilled Though Had Found Her in Time

Unrivered, ungripped, I followed her lips.

So gracious and fine, stood calloused to wine.

Don’t reach away you’re so not my type rape a friend while she watches and touches herself.

So have your mind centered on pastor’s breasts, permit me open this blouse and expose my true death.

I’m prepping it, prepping her for the big boat.

Danofsky, ran up through the fingernails, dead. Girl speak and lipstick.

I could check myself, see if it’s not possible. And doctor. The shoe clunks on autopsy table red and points to Rose as gasp.

And we have him drunk we lie him up. British mob.

I lynch you up the deadwolf, how did he do that, neck snap in wolf jaw lives.

Irish jig of Loo Orleans.

Look at you, Ann, clumsy.

Hello, it’s talking about you, I’m a-happy-fraid.

Clumps are gloves. The clumps! Old shout in silent shadow.

Still dancing to the jig in my head torture. If only you could hear it.

Living dead.

Don’t shout it outside!

Purpose unfulfilled though had found her in time

Purpose unfulfilled though had found her in time

Purpose unfulfilled though had found her in time

Dear Potential Lover,

You won't like me. You won't like me because I won't treat you badly. I won't cheat on you. I won't forget your birthday, or forget to call. And when you're sick, I'll be ready with soup and movies. I won't be afraid to tell you I love you if it's true, and I won't sleep with you the first night I meet you. Chances are you won't like me at all. And even if you think you do, you'll be leaving me soon enough.