cryingoverspiltmilk asked: I feel like we're writing the same blog on opposite ends of the earth, hombre. We appear to have the same taste in literature and music, the same vague issues with mind-altering substances and the same internal dialogue. I look forward to reading more of your stuff.
Much appreciated, sir.
I’ve also been a fan of your writing since I noticed your follow. I also checked out your music; really really good stuff.
I look forward to seeing what else we may overlap on.
I should have known better. I prepped myself for this long in advance, in fact. Keep your hand concealed, good poker face, don’t let your guard down. Some of us must be born to continually fail. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. I must be insane.
Amber had come back home with me after I hit the bar. There was supposed to be some meteor shower she wanted to watch, but it was too cold and every time I watched her hips sway or her lips smile, I only had ugly and beautiful things on my mind. Amber and I had started our rendezvous a few months ago, with the agreement that it meant diddly shit, considering we were both going opposite directions in the summer. Play it cool. Keep your hand concealed, good poker face, don’t let your guard down. By the time I was in her again, the whole game plan had been crumpled into a little paper ball, tossed in the trash, and set ablaze to warm some bum in a Pittsburg alley. I’ll never learn.
There isn’t quite like having sex, but making love is an entirely different matter, and it’s something you have no say in. When you’ve got a girl who’s not only beautiful in form but in mind and wit, it’s a tough thing not to feel like you’re involved in ritual worship of a goddess. Fuck, everything about her was perfect. She looked good. She felt good. She tasted good. She smelled good. Even her voice and the things she said sounded good. I love pillow talk, but there’s nothing more dangerous to a man’s fortitude than the pillow talk of a goddess.
The funny thing is that she wasn’t even into talk before she got with me. I remember laying on my back, buried deep in her, getting lost in those big blue eyes and that faint fragrance of laundry detergent that seemed to have soaked from her clothes onto her skin. If only all sex smelled that good. I was drunk, and I let the guard down first, whispering nothings. She just smiled, giggled, and continued to rock back and forth, beaming like the sun. Our fingers intertwined, and her breath was heavy on me. We’d been at this game for almost two months now, but for some reason this night was just different. More real. More electric.
I remember telling her that pillow talk was just that. Sweet nothings were just sweet nothings. It was all about the moment. It was about disregarding the future and unlocking the baseness of the soul. Let it flood, and it doesn’t matter if it doesn’t mean a thing after as long as it means a thing during. She eyes spoke more than her lips did. Finally, the silence between heaving breathing and small gasps drove me crazy. “What are you thinking?” I asked.
She blushed redder than she already was. Her breasts heaved magnificently as her already shallow breathing dove as if her lungs were full of lead. “Just say it”, I said.
"What do you think of me?"
"It doesn’t matter what I think of you. What do you think of me?"
There was a pause, the rocking stopped. After a moment, she spoke with hesitation. “I… love you.”
I drown in those eyes. My response had no hesitation. “I love you, too.”
She collapsed on me, hands around my neck, her body now in its most primal rhythm. “Say it again.”
I did. “I love you.”
"I love you too."
There was no hesitation. It stabbed me in the kidney like a hot knife. The castle walls were breached. I began babbling like a mad man. “And it’s not the first time I’ve thought it. I’ve had may talks with many close friends. I just couldn’t say it first. I’m just trying to protect me.”
My confession was slurred and babbled, a fool drunk on cheap beer and infatuation. What the fuck are you thinking? You’re not even monogamous with this dame, you’ve seen her for two months, and you love her? We discussed this! You were going to keep quiet! My mind screamed at me. I ignored it. It all collapsed when she replied, “I’ve thought about it too.”
I always do this. Lost in the woods, chasing rainbows to see if I can fall on the altar of the Virgin one last time. It’s always one last time. It’s never one last time.
She rolled off me, onto her back. “Take it off. I want you inside. Just you.”
I removed the condom. Now you’re being stupid, my mind screamed. She’s not on the pill, the patch, or the insert. She’s on nothing. And you’re just going in? Are you out of your mind? Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. My better judgement sank beneath the waves of instinctual passion, and we made love that would have made anyone envious. I was reaching climax. Her legs locked around me. “Inside,” she choked. Hell no. Pull it out. This is a crime of passion. Don’t be stupid.
I didn’t listen to my mind again.
When it was over, I felt nothing. The passion wore down, leaving me with a screaming conscious and a woman in the bathroom. I pulled on my clothes. I didn’t want to be naked. I felt like I violated myself in more ways than one. There would be no post-coital glow. No cuddle. No moment. Nothing could match what just happened. The emotional shock. It was like being thrown into a tub of ice. Christ, I needed a smoke.
She came back in, and smiles and eyes like diamonds. She walked over to me and threw her arms around me, squeezing me tighter than I’d ever been squeezed. She still smelled perfect. She still felt perfect. Christ, cut the bull, she was perfect.
We didn’t mention it again, other than when I caved and played her the rough draft of a sleep-deprived ballad I’d begun playing with in her name. I could smell the bridge burning behind me, crossing the point of no-return. No roads home now.
She mentioned getting the emergency pill if she had the time tomorrow. I offered to drive. She told me she’d be starting a new birth control that would work as an abortive if used within five days. She’d tell me if she could get an appointment immediately, otherwise she’d take me up on it.
When she left, we just hugged and kissed. She said she’d see me again soon. No sweet nothings. No pillow talk. None of that fucking word, “love.” Just a hug, a kiss, and a bye. It was real in the moment, and now her cards were back to where they belonged. Did it mean anything now, or had she taken my word that sweet nothings were just that: sweet and nothing.
I felt played. Not by her, but by myself. She played by my rules and bested me. I sat on the porch alone, shirtless in the cold, and smoked a cigarette. I felt like a goddamn fool. But god, it felt good to be alive. God, it felt good that hear that fucking word again.
When I got off work, I headed straight for downtown. It was as cold a day as any, but I decided to put the top down on my car, just to feel the wind on my face and remind myself I’m alive after eight hours of soulless nothing. I drive a piece of shit convertible Mustang, which has horrid gas mileage and more mechanical problems than the price tag was worth; it is a relic of stupid youth years (two years ago), but every time I drive that thing with the top down and the wind in my face, I fall back in love with it and I can’t find the heart to sell it. That will change when I move; there’s no way the poor thing will survive the Midwest winters, especially since the roof leaks.
I drove a cool 15-miles-per-hour over the speed limit, down highway 4, which had only begun to saturate with post-work traffic. On my right was my ashtray, a Zippo, and half a pack of cigarettes. On my left was a copy of “Notes from a Dirty Old Man” by Bukowski, tucked carefully in the side-door to protect it from any wind-whip. These were all I needed to survive the monotony of an 8-4 shift. I didn’t always agree with everything Bukowski said, but he made me think; more than I can say for most authors. That, alone, was worth the $17.03 (?) I paid for the book. The stereo blared Elmore James, and the mind fought over bits of prose which I’m now attempting to recollect. Never mentally write a blog entry beforehand; you’ll never remember it, and it will never seem as satisfying as that initial internal monologue, fresh from the bitterness of an underpaid shift.
But bitterness wasn’t entirely on my mind. I was headed West towards Concord to meet with Amber for dinner. Amber was the most recent dame who has the audacity to emotionally invest in a pretentious, embittered community-college hack like me. I pity the poor girl sometimes; she could find a Business, Math, or an Engineering major who could give her all I do and more with far less drunken stupidity. She thinks I’m more interesting; I can’t say I’m inclined to disagree.
After roaring past shit-for-brains drivers and roaring the blues aloud, with little regards to the fool I looked, I hit the exit and traveled towards downtown, dodging vans piloted by apprehensive soccer moms and shitty hand-me-down sedans from Grandpa piloted by reckless teenagers. Christ, have I gotten so old that I’m cursing the youth? I’m not even 21-and-a-half; calm down. When I finally parked, I had no word from my companion, so I shut the engine but engaged the radio, rolled the window down, reclines, and smoked a few cigarettes as I read.
A thought went through my head: “Optimism is being made to eat shit and insisting you like the taste.” No idea where that came from, but I shot it to a friend in a text. After ten minutes, a cop came over to tell me that no smoking was allowed in downtown Concord, including the parking garage. He instructed me to go a street over: I obliged. After cutting out and around, I found a small wall to perch on and read in peace, trying in vain to ignore the cold. “I should get a beer”, I thought. No, bad Howie. You drink enough as it is. “But all great writers were alcoholics. Hemingway, Thompson, Burroughs, Faulkner, Fitzgerald…” Having a copy of Bukowski did not held my counter-argument. I chose to flee it like a coward.
A woman in a power-chair rode past, down the sidewalk. Making a swerving motion, she stopped, turned. “Is it alive?”
I perked at this point, being the only one could be addressing, but I made no reply. She spoke again. “The bird.”
I looked down. There was a dead bird in the middle of the sidewalk to my right. A little guy, probably a sparrow. I hadn’t even noticed by avian companion. “I don’t know,” I said, “It’s not moving. It doesn’t appear to be breathing.”
She scooted back towards it. “Let me see.”
Closing in the on the bird, she stopped and leaned a single foot off the power-chair, attempting to nudge the bird. The spectacle was too much to bear; I stood up. “No, allow me.”
I braced for the inevitable, moving a foot for the bird. Suddenly, I was struck by a strange sensation; I hoped the bird wasn’t dead. I hoped that maybe I’d nudge the thing and it would flail and hop off, asleep or wounded at the most. Shit, where did this come from? Why did I suddenly empathize with this dead bird? I nudged the bird: it didn’t flail. It didn’t do anything. It was dead. I looked at the woman despondently. “It’s dead.”
She was visibly upset. “That poor thing. Do you think it froze?”
I shrugged. Probably. Again, I was overwhelmed with a strange sensation. Why didn’t I have a shovel? This bird deserved a proper funeral, probably more so than half of the stiffs in the ground. I was tempted to say this aloud but didn’t. A second woman came walking by. The woman in the power chair called to her, “Be careful, there’s a dead bird on the sidewalk.” The woman stopped and gasped, the two of them commiserating on the fate of the feather friend they never knew. Christ, I needed a drink.
The woman in the power chair and her new acquaintance, bounded by mutual sympathy for the bird, turned and moved together down the sidewalk. A third woman came passing by, this one also in a power chair.
She ran right over the damn thing.
Jesus Christ, is there any food in this house?
I’m going to gather my notes from last night and form a more cohesive narrative. LSD is not conducive to write on, as made evident by last night’s post. The American House Party does not bode with the drug world, and kids these days are vicious scum suckers.
The end of a crazed night. Way too much happening(ed) to be coherently thought of at any given point:
-what separates a blogger from the every man?
-Aren’t we all whining?
In the end, while it’s hard to sit down and write even a sentence with the most banal of outside influence
While we may believe we go to LSD for chaos, do we not all find ourselves degenerating over that exact disorder? Doesn’t the cold, static nature of “set” and “setting” suggest the exact control and order required to properly enjoy the experience, than what do we truly go to drugs for? Ultimately, the nature of the psychedelic experience, itself, suggest a direct paradox in the mind of the average drug-goer: a crazed search for release and escape, yet a -need- for work and order. In the end we must ask ourselves, what do we truly want? Chaos or order?
Sex on LSD is like Las Vegas; you get the girl and the hotel all at once.
We have built off a fort in my downstairs, as if preparing ourselves against phantom assailants, cruel government conspirators. Yet what at all? It’s hard to know how exactly to put an LSD experience into words other than giving someone under the influence a typewriter and telling him to go to work. But what then? Incoherence; terrible nonsense. The crazed wailing of madmen who think their every word is brilliant. Jesus, this is self-referential, huh?
-Howard Black (still here)