stampz0red

[zen_paradise]

this one just seems like a clever pun on people who take pictures of themselves in the mirror... not that it matters, though.



BLACKOUT 2003

What? Where the-

There is a tingling on my tongue. A mint. Spearmint? No, it’s too angry tasting. Peppermint. Wait- more importantly, there’s something attached to my face. A girl, I assume. Feel, feel, feel, check, check, check. Yup. Girl. We’re French kissing. I think my tongue must have done something cruel to her tongue, because hers is shooting at me like a harpoon to a whale. Jesus. That’s not sexy. Who does that? She also seems to have this little tuft of hair on her lip- not visible, really, but when you’re this close, you can’t help but notice…

Wait- why am I sitting here figuring this out? I shove the girl away. She coughs and says “What the fuck, Brad?” Brad? That’s not my name. Where the fuck am I? Who is this? What? In the Madhyamagama Sutra, the Buddha used the parable of a man wounded by an arrow to explain why we should practice the Dharma now. In the story, an arrow pierced a man, and a doctor was immediately summoned to have the arrow pulled and the wound treated. However, the wounded man insisted to find out who shot the arrow before he would let the doctor treat him. Was it a man or a woman? Was the attacker young or old? Which direction did it come from? What was the arrowhead made of? How big was the bow that shot the arrow? What kind of feathers was used? The wounded man would definitely die of poisoning before his desire for knowing all the information was satisfied.

Okay, walk out. I do. The woman calls out, “wait- where are you goi-” I slam the door shut.

Let’s see. Last thing I remember. Home? Did I Leave? The last thing I remember was sitting in my small apartment, in my bedroom, on my double-sized bed with blue plaid sheets and a big red comforter. My girlfriend was there. Sierra Alexander. Candles were burning and the room smelled like ripe strawberries with a hint of patchouli (my fault, I don’t mix scents well. Come to think of it, patchouli ALONE doesn’t really smell too great). Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t romantic. It was supposed to be. I had just ended an, eh, alternate relationship. I know, I know. What a pig. The guilt of it all has already sufficiently kicked my metaphorical ass. The thing is, Sierra, she found out, through an anonymous source, and did not wholly agree with my self-retribution. (“Karma doesn’t work that way, ass!”).

Okay, let’s see. C’monnn Inner GPS! Where am I? Kind of grimy, it’s dark. I’m in an alley. LA?

“FINE! FUCK YOU, TOO!” shouted the woman with big brown hair and wearing only underwear, whom only minutes earlier had been checking me for canker sores.

She was pretty enough, this random woman whom hated my tongue, and, evidently, the rest of me as well. She actually looked a lot like Shelly, the girl whom I had a side relationship with. They were, for a lack of better words, hot. Big nicely done hair, well done make up, great bodies. Seriously, these two looked like they could be sisters.

Wait- could…? Nah. Shelly was an only child. Explains her jerk-essence. The problem is- Shelly, well, let’s just say ships can’t sail in shallow waters.

Okay definitely LA. Now, lets get our bearings straight… The Bering Straight! Hey, I just got that! Okay, I’ll get a cab. Simple. Reach for back pocket ANNND no wallet. Pocket check. A Canadian quarter. Shit, I must have left my wallet back in Old Kamikaze-Tongue’s room. My license and everything- all in there. She can’t have that! No choice, I run back to what I assume is her apartment.

Knock, knock.
“Who’s There!?”
Orange. “Brad.”
“Fuck you!”
Orange you glad I came back? “Hey c’mon, I’m sorry. I’ll take you to a nice resturaunt, and we’ll talk.”
“What? About what?” she opens the door. My wallet! The table right next to the door, how convenient. Snatch, power walk, “FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Can she do anything nice with that tongue?

Okay, I had twenty-seven dollars. I guess this stuff happens when you black out. Wait- what caused that, anyhow? I assume I drank too much? I usually don’t drink. Check the change pocket- Ah! Enough for a few phone calls, nearly two dollars in change. That will help. I had a crappy gas station job out here not too long ago, there’s a payphone there. I begin my walk.

Sierra, unlike these other two girls, she was beautiful. You know the term poetry in motion? I think everyone sees someone or something as just that, and mine is Sierra. Her name fit, as her hair was like the surface of a sand dune, not the kind with shells and rough sand, but the fine, soft kind that you could sink into, and curls as if a gentle breeze kissed the sand lightly, just a peck. Her eyes slowly shifted from green to blue, blurring in between, like one of those Popsicles that you lick and different colors are under the surface. She was small, but not tiny. When I held her close to me, she fit perfectly, as if every little bump and depression in my skin was a match to hers. She wears hemp necklaces and silver rings with dolphins and fairies in them on hands that I, having big hands, could swallow whole with mine.

Ten minutes later, I arrive at the gas station; I buy a 99-cent Sprite. I always find sprite to be best after doing some physical activity. I’m probably just brainwashed. Damn basketball players. Two coins and seven clicks later, I’m calling Sierra.

“Ugh, hello?”
“Hey…”
“OH CHRIST! Jeremy where have you been!? You disappeared at the bar! I was goddamned wor-”
“What? When did we go to a bar?”
“You don’t remember? Christ, J, just the scent of alcohol and you’re done for days.”
“Yeah I…” FLASH. Oh God, I remember the bar. After our fight, Sierra suggested we go to the bar and after that not see each other for a little while. I went to go get us some drinks, after we both were already drunk. Enter, Lita. The woman whom dropped something in my drink (“For an extra buzz”) and invited me to her apartment, I said no, I’m done with that, and like a smart drunk person, I forgot about the pill, which fucked me up pretty bad, I went to get more drinks, she asks how I’m doing, I tell her I feel GREAT and I end up in her apartment. “…know. OH fuck, I just remembered what happened.” I told her. She began to cry, and so did I. I didn’t want to hurt her again, I really didn’t.
“Listen, meet me at Beach Tree.”
“When?” she squeaked
“Forty-five minutes.”
“Okay…”
“Bye”
(Click) Bad sign.

It was about a forty minute walk. If a ran a little, I could get there in time to go for a quick swim, as I smell a little, uh, manly.

So back in the summer, there was a giant blackout in Northeast America. The news called it “Blackout 2003,” and until now I always thought it was a ridiculous and stupid title. Maybe I should make a T-Shirt. I SURVIVED PILL-REALTED HOOKERS AND BLACKING OUT AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY T-SHIRT. It’ll be a hot item. I’ll sell it on e-bay. Buy a nice great house with the hedges that, when seen from above (which I will, of course, see from my helicopter) will say “I BECAME A T-SHIRT TYCOON AND ALL I GOT WAS THIS LOUSY MANSION” That will become my thing. Wait- will people see me and say, “Hey, it’s the Lousy Guy!”?

I get to Beach Tree, a place Sierra and I would always visit. Our place. We call it Beach Tree… because is a tree…. On a beach… we’re so clever. In the tree, facing the ocean, is a cove-like hole. It’s a big tree. We would go there at night and talk and watch the stars. I’m here so often, I just buried a bathing suit here, inside our cove. I dig it out, shake free the sand, and wash it in the ocean, which is very warm and still, still to the point where I thought if I ran fast enough I would never leave the surface of the water. I’d pass icebergs and shipwrecks (“Haha, suckers! It’s all about timing!”) All the way to, what’s opposite this shore, Japan? Maybe, if not, I’d use my bathing suit I hadn’t put on, I mean, after all, I wouldn’t be IN the ocean, as a make shift parachute, which would make me think when I get to Japan, I need to go on a diet, and fly over any islands that get between me and Japan!

I put on the suit and jump in for about five minutes, then head back to the cover, where I dry myself with my shirt, throw it on a branch facing the city to hang to dry, put on my boxers and blue jeans. I look up. There’s a jet passing ahead, and it’s a wonderfully clear night, so unusual for this area, and the jet’s residue is forming a perfectly straight line, and I’m reminded of the computer game JezzBall, and for a second there I thought that either the jet would hit a star and the jet and it’s line would star over at the other end, or it would reach it’s target and half the sprinkled-with-stars night sky would disappear.

Someone kicks sand in my hair.

“Welcome back.” She says
“Blackout 2003.” She giggles, and I smirk in that “careful not to cut yourself on my razor sharp wit” sort of way, still looking up.
“There’s so many stars, and I don’t think I ever really believed all the scientists until tonight. So many. So big, each one. And what’s more insane is there is even more nothing out there than something. The universe, it’s huge. Aren’t you a little intimidated?” Sierra sits next to me and runs her hands through my sand-caked hair.

She puts her arm around my chest, her chin to mine, and this is physical perfection. I pray to the jet above me that it will see and send someone to make a sculpture.
“Yeah… but the way I see it is that I can handle being tiny, if I’m tiny with you.”