[you know, those were different times]
title: To Know the Difference
fandom: Still Crazy
things: ray simms. twelve steps, twelve (semi-connected) drabbles, twelve hundred words. pre-film. i own nothing; i was only showing harry my grindylow.
tagline: "My name is Ray, and I am an alcoholic."
Step 1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Astrid says, "This is no longer fun," and you laugh. She says, "No, really, Ray, I am not joking, this needs to stop, it needs to stop now, before it is too late and you are dead," and your head hurts where you bang it against the wall. Your knee aches when you fall. And you laugh, and you snort, and her blouse sparkles and glimmers as she walks away. As she says, "I am going to bed. Alone."
The carpet is scratchy, and your body is three sizes too small. Your bottle is empty when you try to drink.
Step 2. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Brian's the real star: Byronic and tortured and those fucking eyes of his, those graceful fingers dancing up and down the fretboard. Mick Jagger would never put up with this sort of shite, you'd think, only (look at Keith Richards) he really rather does.
So it's Jack Daniels for breakfast and vodka at teatime. You wake up, and you don't know where you are. You drag yourself up-- the wallpaper's a fucking study in hallucinogenic opulence, perfectly designed to make your head spin-- and you lean your cheek against the window. You wait for someone to come and find you.
Step 3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Tony smiles. He's trying to make peace-- an impossible goal, not that he'll hear tell of it-- and suggests that Les demonstrate how (he thinks, the wanker) the song ought to go. You suggest that you're the fucking frontman for a reason, that you at least can sell a song, and Les throws a sodding fit. He stomps away like a little girl.
You hate touring. You love touring. You take a long swallow of Jack and turn to face the empty house. The lights aren't on, but you shield your eyes anyway. You're a fucking rockstar. You're a god.
Step 4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Astrid leaves you somewhere between Munich and Stockholm, but it's not until Paris, not until Beano's slurred, "Oi, where's the foreign tart?" that you notice. "Home," you say, but you're not even sure how she'd define the term. She didn't say goodbye. You don't think she said goodbye. "She decided to go home. She missed her mother."
When you try to call (your house, her flat, the hotel you stayed in that first night), she doesn't answer the phone. You take a couple of pills, and you dream that she's there, naked and luminous, kissing you awake in the morning.
Step 5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Les is saying-- you can hear him from down the hall, the tosser, because the whole band's meeting (why should they include you? You're just the sodding frontman)-- he's shouting, "No. Fuck it, no, I refuse to let that fucking arse butcher my song any longer. That's it, it's over, the end. He can't do it properly, we just don't do it at all."
You growl into the mirror, fierce and predatory and ready to go. The opening band's still out there, getting the crowd ready (for you), warming them up (for you). "Fuck off, Les," you say. You smile.
Step 6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
"I quit," you say. It's three AM in Minneapolis, and your groupie (you've forgotten her name, if you ever knew it at all) passed out an hour ago, but it's-- it's as they say, it's the though that counts, and you and your mind are in complete agreement-- the thought is, simply, that you're through with being a second-class member of this band. "I quit," you say, "I deserve better."
Your reflection nods. You nod back. Your reflection looks tired, dark circles below red-rimmed eyes, but it responds. You brush your teeth, and you walk back to bed.
Step 7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
The lights are brilliant, like a million fucking suns all focused on you, and it's like everything-- you, the crowd, the band-- is on fire. Literally on fire, hot and pulsing and flames all around and shooting through your veins (or is that figuratively, symbolically, like a rose by any either name and all that rot?). But you're there, you are right the fuck there. The key changes and the rhythm circles in on itself, and you are the center of it all. You are the fucking sun. You sing, you strut, you burn. It doesn't even hurt at all.
Step 8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
You write: "Astrid. Tamsin. Tony (Costello), Brian (Lowell), Beano (Baggot), L-- this is confidential, right? Private?-- Les Wickes. Kristen (Carol? Karen?), Hughie, the bloke who used to carry my stash (Robert? Robin? Ronald?), that Scottish bird with the brilliant tits in Anaheim. That backup singer. The crazy French bird, the one with the funny name. Tamsin, again. Astrid, again. That bloke from the gig in Amsterdam, don't know his name, but I broke my hand. My parents. June. She wasn't, after all, but the kid (Anna?) I thought might-- fuck it, is this even right? Me, myself, and sodding I."
Step 9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
Tony winds a bit of hair around his finger. "Fine," he says. "Moving-"
"No," you say, and Les actually agrees, his "I think not!" echoing in the small room.
Tony and Beano look at one another. Brian and his bird, the brunette who does the washing, are in the corner, arms and legs and torsos tangling and intertwined. Your skin itches. Your bones ache. They don't want you here; you're not stupid, you're neither deaf nor blind, and you hold your ground because that's all you really can do.
"I'm," you start to say. "I know what I'm doing." (Liar)
Step 10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
These trousers chafe. They're leather, and tight, and you worry that you'll never be able to get them off. Never mind that they make your arse look brilliant, never mind that Astrid says they make you look like a god. They're sticking to your thighs, and you're all out of talcum powder (would cocaine do? You don't want to risk wasting any). Outside your dressing room, Les and Brian are laughing. Someone is playing guitar, and some groupies are talking about John Lennon and dropping acid. They sound blonde, and you peel off your shirt. You'll worry about it later.
Step 11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
"Ray," Astrid says, "You must stop that. This is serious."
You're laughing. You can't help it, can't stop, and your stomach aches. Astrid's glaring at you (sexy and dangerous in her skimpiest workout clothes), but she can't curb your hysteria. You pinch your thigh, bite your tongue, and you finally stop laughing.
"Good, now that you are concentrating, we shall start again. Close your eyes." (You do) "You are on stage. The lights are hot and bright. The crowd is cheering." (You can see it) "Now, how do you feel?"
"I," you say. "I can." You laugh. You can't breathe.
Step 12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
The phone rings, and you jump. It must be Tony, calling about a new album; or maybe it's Les, ready to beg you (on hands and knees, crying like a girl) to come back. The vodka bottle is ice against your fingers, and you almost drop it. Your throat is raw from too many fags. The days are too long, too slow, and the nights are even longer. Astrid's left again, just this morning, and she won't be back ("unless you go get help," she'd said, and you've never seen that look in her eyes before). The phone stops ringing.
fandom: Still Crazy
things: ray simms. twelve steps, twelve (semi-connected) drabbles, twelve hundred words. pre-film. i own nothing; i was only showing harry my grindylow.
tagline: "My name is Ray, and I am an alcoholic."
Step 1. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol - that our lives had become unmanageable.
Astrid says, "This is no longer fun," and you laugh. She says, "No, really, Ray, I am not joking, this needs to stop, it needs to stop now, before it is too late and you are dead," and your head hurts where you bang it against the wall. Your knee aches when you fall. And you laugh, and you snort, and her blouse sparkles and glimmers as she walks away. As she says, "I am going to bed. Alone."
The carpet is scratchy, and your body is three sizes too small. Your bottle is empty when you try to drink.
Step 2. Came to believe that a power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
Brian's the real star: Byronic and tortured and those fucking eyes of his, those graceful fingers dancing up and down the fretboard. Mick Jagger would never put up with this sort of shite, you'd think, only (look at Keith Richards) he really rather does.
So it's Jack Daniels for breakfast and vodka at teatime. You wake up, and you don't know where you are. You drag yourself up-- the wallpaper's a fucking study in hallucinogenic opulence, perfectly designed to make your head spin-- and you lean your cheek against the window. You wait for someone to come and find you.
Step 3. Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
Tony smiles. He's trying to make peace-- an impossible goal, not that he'll hear tell of it-- and suggests that Les demonstrate how (he thinks, the wanker) the song ought to go. You suggest that you're the fucking frontman for a reason, that you at least can sell a song, and Les throws a sodding fit. He stomps away like a little girl.
You hate touring. You love touring. You take a long swallow of Jack and turn to face the empty house. The lights aren't on, but you shield your eyes anyway. You're a fucking rockstar. You're a god.
Step 4. Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.
Astrid leaves you somewhere between Munich and Stockholm, but it's not until Paris, not until Beano's slurred, "Oi, where's the foreign tart?" that you notice. "Home," you say, but you're not even sure how she'd define the term. She didn't say goodbye. You don't think she said goodbye. "She decided to go home. She missed her mother."
When you try to call (your house, her flat, the hotel you stayed in that first night), she doesn't answer the phone. You take a couple of pills, and you dream that she's there, naked and luminous, kissing you awake in the morning.
Step 5. Admitted to God, to ourselves and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Les is saying-- you can hear him from down the hall, the tosser, because the whole band's meeting (why should they include you? You're just the sodding frontman)-- he's shouting, "No. Fuck it, no, I refuse to let that fucking arse butcher my song any longer. That's it, it's over, the end. He can't do it properly, we just don't do it at all."
You growl into the mirror, fierce and predatory and ready to go. The opening band's still out there, getting the crowd ready (for you), warming them up (for you). "Fuck off, Les," you say. You smile.
Step 6. Were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.
"I quit," you say. It's three AM in Minneapolis, and your groupie (you've forgotten her name, if you ever knew it at all) passed out an hour ago, but it's-- it's as they say, it's the though that counts, and you and your mind are in complete agreement-- the thought is, simply, that you're through with being a second-class member of this band. "I quit," you say, "I deserve better."
Your reflection nods. You nod back. Your reflection looks tired, dark circles below red-rimmed eyes, but it responds. You brush your teeth, and you walk back to bed.
Step 7. Humbly asked Him to remove our shortcomings.
The lights are brilliant, like a million fucking suns all focused on you, and it's like everything-- you, the crowd, the band-- is on fire. Literally on fire, hot and pulsing and flames all around and shooting through your veins (or is that figuratively, symbolically, like a rose by any either name and all that rot?). But you're there, you are right the fuck there. The key changes and the rhythm circles in on itself, and you are the center of it all. You are the fucking sun. You sing, you strut, you burn. It doesn't even hurt at all.
Step 8. Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all.
You write: "Astrid. Tamsin. Tony (Costello), Brian (Lowell), Beano (Baggot), L-- this is confidential, right? Private?-- Les Wickes. Kristen (Carol? Karen?), Hughie, the bloke who used to carry my stash (Robert? Robin? Ronald?), that Scottish bird with the brilliant tits in Anaheim. That backup singer. The crazy French bird, the one with the funny name. Tamsin, again. Astrid, again. That bloke from the gig in Amsterdam, don't know his name, but I broke my hand. My parents. June. She wasn't, after all, but the kid (Anna?) I thought might-- fuck it, is this even right? Me, myself, and sodding I."
Step 9. Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
Tony winds a bit of hair around his finger. "Fine," he says. "Moving-"
"No," you say, and Les actually agrees, his "I think not!" echoing in the small room.
Tony and Beano look at one another. Brian and his bird, the brunette who does the washing, are in the corner, arms and legs and torsos tangling and intertwined. Your skin itches. Your bones ache. They don't want you here; you're not stupid, you're neither deaf nor blind, and you hold your ground because that's all you really can do.
"I'm," you start to say. "I know what I'm doing." (Liar)
Step 10. Continued to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
These trousers chafe. They're leather, and tight, and you worry that you'll never be able to get them off. Never mind that they make your arse look brilliant, never mind that Astrid says they make you look like a god. They're sticking to your thighs, and you're all out of talcum powder (would cocaine do? You don't want to risk wasting any). Outside your dressing room, Les and Brian are laughing. Someone is playing guitar, and some groupies are talking about John Lennon and dropping acid. They sound blonde, and you peel off your shirt. You'll worry about it later.
Step 11. Sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
"Ray," Astrid says, "You must stop that. This is serious."
You're laughing. You can't help it, can't stop, and your stomach aches. Astrid's glaring at you (sexy and dangerous in her skimpiest workout clothes), but she can't curb your hysteria. You pinch your thigh, bite your tongue, and you finally stop laughing.
"Good, now that you are concentrating, we shall start again. Close your eyes." (You do) "You are on stage. The lights are hot and bright. The crowd is cheering." (You can see it) "Now, how do you feel?"
"I," you say. "I can." You laugh. You can't breathe.
Step 12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we tried to carry this message to alcoholics and to practice these principles in all our affairs.
The phone rings, and you jump. It must be Tony, calling about a new album; or maybe it's Les, ready to beg you (on hands and knees, crying like a girl) to come back. The vodka bottle is ice against your fingers, and you almost drop it. Your throat is raw from too many fags. The days are too long, too slow, and the nights are even longer. Astrid's left again, just this morning, and she won't be back ("unless you go get help," she'd said, and you've never seen that look in her eyes before). The phone stops ringing.