(no subject)
How does your hand feel?
Mine feels like Its been stabbed. Because it has. And that is the more horrifying story of my week. I have more. I don't know how it started. (It started by me eating a booger)...and another one. And I decided that I would try to write down the last week in the best way. Wow. it started...I found I didn't have any work on Tuesday. Someone covered the shift for me. But I forgot. So I went and met my friend.
This is already a horrible story.
And I met my dad and I met my friends and we bought some beer around dusk. Let me add that me and the same friend and my dad kicked it at a backyard party in West Oakland surrounded by tattoos and piercings and smiles and cigarettes of all type of poisons the Sunday before. The same father that did the Timothy Leary thing and tuned in turned on and dropped out because he was THERE man.. He was where all these second generation hippie scumbags wanted to be and where the world changed in one place in one summer. This is the man that taught me the beauty of a black eye, the grace and science of a good fight yet scorns violence as pointless and moronic. This is not the man who taught me enlightenment through self-annihilation. I am that man. But he did show me techniques of self-destruction, and for that I am thankful.
It might be helpful to know that beer was omnipresent. We sat on the porch and inhaled sensimilla and drank beer and it was good and we were full and tottering in place. the sun arced and turned blood red and vanished below the trees and into the ocean like a breeched crimson whale. By the time it was dark the most sober amongst us elected to drive back to Oakland and drop Pops off on the east side of the lake. So the cooler story was that at my brother's house and we got into a fistfight because he pointed his loaded piece at me one too many times. He only plays with guns when he's drunk. Were tore at each other like two medieval dogs over a scrap in the kings court and the room was a swirl of choked laughter and the solid thuds that bark when bony knuckles strike flesh. The curtain rod came down and bottles clinked and shot across the room as we rolled and tumbled in a symphony of pugilism and brotherly appreciation.
So at some point before we started fighting or while we were, he broke a chair by landing in it in a meteorite fashion. This provided a very useful bludgeon for smashing and stabbing me in the head till I bled. I stopped him short of gouging my eye out and there was a moment of clarity when we finally disengaged. The blood bubbled and spat and ran profusely down my cheek not unlike a snaking and rushing river unto his forearm and his room was splattered like a crime scene and I laughed and he laughed with a certain blind abandon that one gets at this point of headinjury. We finished the beer.
There is a certain degree of self-hatred; there are a certain of amount suicidal ambitions. There is a very large gnashing monster in me that revels in violence, in pain, in scars and acrueing self pity. For this, I understand why I can't be in a relationship because I don't take care of myself, nor do I want to. My body is a beautiful vintage car that I’ve subjected to destruction derbies, I am far too much of a coward to do anything serious, anything truely brave and self destructive but I know I am not my khakis. And this isn't the best story.
So in lieu of actually killing one another, he fired two shots into the east Oakland sky out his window, it was a celebration of times spent drunk and among people that I will eventually die with.
I was driven back to Berkeley and I felt, impulsively that I wasn't through with him, so after a brief exchange, I coiled my arm and pistoned my fist into his eye. We laughed and laughed and we all hate each other but it is truely borne of a fear and respect of each other's propensity to inflict damage unto another man. It is a sadistic training ground preparing what would be done to someone that really had ill intentions. And that is where my rationalization lies. But that’s not the best story yet.
So the next couple nights later, Knob hill was the destination. But that’s not where we started. We started in the mission. And I ran into a great friend I hadn't seen in years on 17th ave, with another couple of friends I hadn't scene in just as long. So we went to this bar and Mal and another Chris smoked and commiserated and drank tall boys across the street out the window and it seemed like forever before they came back in, but by the time they did, we had have had hella well whiskeys and laughed till beer bounced around the table and it was a great time in a wooden bar that was quite snazzy and respectable. I am sure everyone in there was probably cooler than most everyone else and I felt that I was treated very respectfully. Finally, we left in a parade of boozed revelry. We found a liquor store close but we also found that they didn't sell any hard liquor. But we also found that everyone had a certain mystical fondness of PBR, so we bought three twelve packs and some squares. Robinsons. We laughed and joked with the cabbie and fumbled the cases out of the coach and paid and ascended the stairs into a long and beautiful apartment. With a foosball table bordering the furthest end in an orderly laundry room.
At some point we began drinking vodka and mixtures of vodka and pbr. Our voices plummeted down the hall and vaulted from mouths to wall and into ears and viscera and the beer tasted good but we were running out. The table soccer game was boarded by insults and decrees of "Don't spin the PLAYERS" and we stepped on one another’s toes in a very subtle and polite way. Not my old friend but my oldest friend decided it might be a good idea to punch me in the jaw. The younger friend was aghast as we laughed about this as I anticpated a fight before we even got off the bart train. At this point it doesn't matter. So I waited for an opportune moment and pivoted my torso and shot my arm striking him with the greatest blow I ever conceived straight into his zyphoid process and he keeled over and died for ten minutes straight, slapped against the wall in the century old house. This is getting to the best part of the story, but its still not the best.
So we continued to drink my old friend and I, and we listened to the talking heads and talked about how lame that was and my oldest friend came in and seized my hand, laid it splayed across the table like a flattened spider and stabbed a pair of scissors through it. Well, not through it because it hit bone. The blood sprayed and spattered across the coffee table reminiscent of a gore erupting volcano and Jeff screamed and I was thrilled and shocked and drunk and the cutting device stood erect like some odd antennae transmitting fear and plasma across a mountain range of magazines and beer can citadels. Mal stared sleepy eyed and unfazed in his dark and silent austere, dreadlocks curtaining his handsome and long face. There shone no remorse, no acknowledgement of the violence, and we thought it was good and funny and wild and the night had become morning and we poured in and out of a adrenaline wonder.
We still hand vodka on hand and we laughed and laughed and poured vodka on the rent and swollen metacarpus in the tub with wrist clenched in another's palm and ill opportunity to reckon or understand the ideas led behind.
Eventually dawn came and so did a little bit of sobering and we smoked a cigarette atop a dreamy and foggy hill while we waited for a cab to come a drop us off at the nearest Bart station, my brother and I. He asked me how my hand was and I laughed and said better than ever and there was no bandage to seep the sanguine fluid but that was alright and we got strange looks, both covered in a certain amount of cruor as we trapezed through the city and he bought some donuts before getting on the train heading east. We bought beers at the corner store, so close to home and talked about our opposing views on religion and sexuality in my dim and smelly apartment and there was no mention of the hours previous because it had already decayed into a burgeoning day. Creation through destruction. Love through violence, scabs through skin rent. These are things that most people don't want to understand, or deny, and maybe they're right. But this is the life I have chosen for myself. These are my friends, and I would do anything for them, as they would for me. Normal people when they hear these stories tell me I need new friends. But these people obviously don't understand me nor will they ever. Nor do I want them to. My hands feel alive and vicious and my body is thankful for the poison it consumes. I will die, we will die, this is the truest truism that moves and walks. Eventually, societies are bound to a certain plummet but that is how we rebuild and proliferate. The sun rose and stared down at us like a knowing parent from the peak of its meridian and we embraced and he disappeared south down the streets and It was time, finally time, to rest and mend.
Mine feels like Its been stabbed. Because it has. And that is the more horrifying story of my week. I have more. I don't know how it started. (It started by me eating a booger)...and another one. And I decided that I would try to write down the last week in the best way. Wow. it started...I found I didn't have any work on Tuesday. Someone covered the shift for me. But I forgot. So I went and met my friend.
This is already a horrible story.
And I met my dad and I met my friends and we bought some beer around dusk. Let me add that me and the same friend and my dad kicked it at a backyard party in West Oakland surrounded by tattoos and piercings and smiles and cigarettes of all type of poisons the Sunday before. The same father that did the Timothy Leary thing and tuned in turned on and dropped out because he was THERE man.. He was where all these second generation hippie scumbags wanted to be and where the world changed in one place in one summer. This is the man that taught me the beauty of a black eye, the grace and science of a good fight yet scorns violence as pointless and moronic. This is not the man who taught me enlightenment through self-annihilation. I am that man. But he did show me techniques of self-destruction, and for that I am thankful.
It might be helpful to know that beer was omnipresent. We sat on the porch and inhaled sensimilla and drank beer and it was good and we were full and tottering in place. the sun arced and turned blood red and vanished below the trees and into the ocean like a breeched crimson whale. By the time it was dark the most sober amongst us elected to drive back to Oakland and drop Pops off on the east side of the lake. So the cooler story was that at my brother's house and we got into a fistfight because he pointed his loaded piece at me one too many times. He only plays with guns when he's drunk. Were tore at each other like two medieval dogs over a scrap in the kings court and the room was a swirl of choked laughter and the solid thuds that bark when bony knuckles strike flesh. The curtain rod came down and bottles clinked and shot across the room as we rolled and tumbled in a symphony of pugilism and brotherly appreciation.
So at some point before we started fighting or while we were, he broke a chair by landing in it in a meteorite fashion. This provided a very useful bludgeon for smashing and stabbing me in the head till I bled. I stopped him short of gouging my eye out and there was a moment of clarity when we finally disengaged. The blood bubbled and spat and ran profusely down my cheek not unlike a snaking and rushing river unto his forearm and his room was splattered like a crime scene and I laughed and he laughed with a certain blind abandon that one gets at this point of headinjury. We finished the beer.
There is a certain degree of self-hatred; there are a certain of amount suicidal ambitions. There is a very large gnashing monster in me that revels in violence, in pain, in scars and acrueing self pity. For this, I understand why I can't be in a relationship because I don't take care of myself, nor do I want to. My body is a beautiful vintage car that I’ve subjected to destruction derbies, I am far too much of a coward to do anything serious, anything truely brave and self destructive but I know I am not my khakis. And this isn't the best story.
So in lieu of actually killing one another, he fired two shots into the east Oakland sky out his window, it was a celebration of times spent drunk and among people that I will eventually die with.
I was driven back to Berkeley and I felt, impulsively that I wasn't through with him, so after a brief exchange, I coiled my arm and pistoned my fist into his eye. We laughed and laughed and we all hate each other but it is truely borne of a fear and respect of each other's propensity to inflict damage unto another man. It is a sadistic training ground preparing what would be done to someone that really had ill intentions. And that is where my rationalization lies. But that’s not the best story yet.
So the next couple nights later, Knob hill was the destination. But that’s not where we started. We started in the mission. And I ran into a great friend I hadn't seen in years on 17th ave, with another couple of friends I hadn't scene in just as long. So we went to this bar and Mal and another Chris smoked and commiserated and drank tall boys across the street out the window and it seemed like forever before they came back in, but by the time they did, we had have had hella well whiskeys and laughed till beer bounced around the table and it was a great time in a wooden bar that was quite snazzy and respectable. I am sure everyone in there was probably cooler than most everyone else and I felt that I was treated very respectfully. Finally, we left in a parade of boozed revelry. We found a liquor store close but we also found that they didn't sell any hard liquor. But we also found that everyone had a certain mystical fondness of PBR, so we bought three twelve packs and some squares. Robinsons. We laughed and joked with the cabbie and fumbled the cases out of the coach and paid and ascended the stairs into a long and beautiful apartment. With a foosball table bordering the furthest end in an orderly laundry room.
At some point we began drinking vodka and mixtures of vodka and pbr. Our voices plummeted down the hall and vaulted from mouths to wall and into ears and viscera and the beer tasted good but we were running out. The table soccer game was boarded by insults and decrees of "Don't spin the PLAYERS" and we stepped on one another’s toes in a very subtle and polite way. Not my old friend but my oldest friend decided it might be a good idea to punch me in the jaw. The younger friend was aghast as we laughed about this as I anticpated a fight before we even got off the bart train. At this point it doesn't matter. So I waited for an opportune moment and pivoted my torso and shot my arm striking him with the greatest blow I ever conceived straight into his zyphoid process and he keeled over and died for ten minutes straight, slapped against the wall in the century old house. This is getting to the best part of the story, but its still not the best.
So we continued to drink my old friend and I, and we listened to the talking heads and talked about how lame that was and my oldest friend came in and seized my hand, laid it splayed across the table like a flattened spider and stabbed a pair of scissors through it. Well, not through it because it hit bone. The blood sprayed and spattered across the coffee table reminiscent of a gore erupting volcano and Jeff screamed and I was thrilled and shocked and drunk and the cutting device stood erect like some odd antennae transmitting fear and plasma across a mountain range of magazines and beer can citadels. Mal stared sleepy eyed and unfazed in his dark and silent austere, dreadlocks curtaining his handsome and long face. There shone no remorse, no acknowledgement of the violence, and we thought it was good and funny and wild and the night had become morning and we poured in and out of a adrenaline wonder.
We still hand vodka on hand and we laughed and laughed and poured vodka on the rent and swollen metacarpus in the tub with wrist clenched in another's palm and ill opportunity to reckon or understand the ideas led behind.
Eventually dawn came and so did a little bit of sobering and we smoked a cigarette atop a dreamy and foggy hill while we waited for a cab to come a drop us off at the nearest Bart station, my brother and I. He asked me how my hand was and I laughed and said better than ever and there was no bandage to seep the sanguine fluid but that was alright and we got strange looks, both covered in a certain amount of cruor as we trapezed through the city and he bought some donuts before getting on the train heading east. We bought beers at the corner store, so close to home and talked about our opposing views on religion and sexuality in my dim and smelly apartment and there was no mention of the hours previous because it had already decayed into a burgeoning day. Creation through destruction. Love through violence, scabs through skin rent. These are things that most people don't want to understand, or deny, and maybe they're right. But this is the life I have chosen for myself. These are my friends, and I would do anything for them, as they would for me. Normal people when they hear these stories tell me I need new friends. But these people obviously don't understand me nor will they ever. Nor do I want them to. My hands feel alive and vicious and my body is thankful for the poison it consumes. I will die, we will die, this is the truest truism that moves and walks. Eventually, societies are bound to a certain plummet but that is how we rebuild and proliferate. The sun rose and stared down at us like a knowing parent from the peak of its meridian and we embraced and he disappeared south down the streets and It was time, finally time, to rest and mend.