well then, well then
touche and huzzah and all that falderal.
Friday night was a grand and blazing haze of MDMA, alkymol and I believe some Alprazolam. Such a burlesque show I took in! A far cry from those olden days of stomped-out, unrehearsed, piecemeal wanderings that we [shudder] found ourselves wedged between. Choreography, theme, costume, wantonness, sincerity, playfulness, music, music, music. Enraptured, entranced, proud, happy, excited, entertained.
Then on to the frothy hipsterdom of Lipgloss; where it seemed like I danced more than I did, and bartenders bought me Sid Pink Cocktails and creepy music made no difference to the fact that I fell in love a dozen times in as many minutes. A pre-emptive strike against the long-awaited bingo plan scarcely put a dent in my mojo. A terrific mulatta urban princess; very NYC with her downtown heels and collegiate 'watch-out' wear - a tremendous fuzzy afro and there she is, mocha and grinding up against me -- a fleeting instant of dreamlike suspension... I can't name the song or the hour or how long I was there. Evaporated as all perfectly-suited "acid programming" on late-night TV - where you can never be certain if what you've seen is real or not. Kind of like discovering an LP of KISS' "Destroyer" while deeply steeped in a lysergic wash.
But reality kicks back and Saturday found me ever-depressed and unable to arise from bed. Hung over? Perhaps a touch - but moreso seemingly vanquished by the oppressiveness of life. {and now I grudgingly take the title given me by the Rehabbers: August Strindberg [strindbergandhelium.com, I think]}. Nightfall was nearly upon me before I was rousted from lingering in apathy by Bag Man and Shivs, with their hopeful and exciting good news. Then on to the Magic Hyland's stunning pad to view the paintings, drink a touch of vodka - and end up envying his benevolent, peaceful, artistic family life as he boiled some very special tea for his big night as a Love Ref. Lobito came and met up; we played a few hands of seven-card gin and I learned about ten rules I had never heard of before. From there, I ventured to and starved in waiting at The Ethiopian Restaurant with Lobito, where my morose state perhaps found him in some regret that we didn't speak more, or about more serious topics. Mucked my way to Cope's party and was surprised to see The Admiral there, sipping Sambuca like a poet on shore leave. Cope was dashing in his pinstripe charcoal suit and there was Anna, who I'd not seen in years. We spoke of her children and I wished that I had been in better contact with her and Clint [even though he seems to dislike me] because here were the kids of friends and I'd never met their youngest - now nearly three years old.
On the way back, Toxic Avenger phoned to pitch the obscene and, frankly, mind-blowing notion of us "getting back together". I couldn't really find a nice way to say the things that needed to be said so I didn't. So she cried and then erupted into abuse; which really wasn't as effective a means to keep the dialogue open as perhaps she imagined. To me, this was exactly the reason [um, along with all the other reasons] that this whole pathological experiment came to an end. But she is ever the optimist, assuring me that -- well, not really assuring me of anything other than the fact that she must be bored and somehow having an abortion has rattled her temporarily and the need to turn to someone other than her miserable cohorts is at hand. This too shall pass.
Today was more sleeping in and more dreading the big move and more realizing how tediously vacuous and insincere and fearful my existence really is. I tried to buy this DKNY blazer I was so fond of at holiday-time only to find out that the store is gone. I guess I just saved $350.
I slinked into "Sideways" for a good laugh and found only a nonchalant chuckle here and there. Much of it resonated a bit too closely and much of it seemed conveniently "indie" - and in a way, a letdown. Eventually I slouched over to Shoxie's to check out what was on offer. We traded travel stories, bathed in the aroma of his Nepalese roommate's cooking; and there was no decision on my part.
I so very much have to start selling/giving away/tossing mounds of crap. I must start packing this week if there is any hope of surviving. Where will I end up? No way to know just now. THe expense will be tremendous and my loss will be grave. If I don't live with SZ I'm fairly certain that the last flicker of my creative impulse will be snubbed. I am not a genius. I am not an artist. Things don't have to come out of me or I will die. I will just die sooner with a few things unexpressed. I need a muse or I am without hope.
As far as the aching emptiness and desolate isolation? Hmmmm. Can't see those things getting better anytime soon.
More drugs. More dancing. More unnecessary wardrobe purchases. There. Isn't that better?
*shrug*
Friday night was a grand and blazing haze of MDMA, alkymol and I believe some Alprazolam. Such a burlesque show I took in! A far cry from those olden days of stomped-out, unrehearsed, piecemeal wanderings that we [shudder] found ourselves wedged between. Choreography, theme, costume, wantonness, sincerity, playfulness, music, music, music. Enraptured, entranced, proud, happy, excited, entertained.
Then on to the frothy hipsterdom of Lipgloss; where it seemed like I danced more than I did, and bartenders bought me Sid Pink Cocktails and creepy music made no difference to the fact that I fell in love a dozen times in as many minutes. A pre-emptive strike against the long-awaited bingo plan scarcely put a dent in my mojo. A terrific mulatta urban princess; very NYC with her downtown heels and collegiate 'watch-out' wear - a tremendous fuzzy afro and there she is, mocha and grinding up against me -- a fleeting instant of dreamlike suspension... I can't name the song or the hour or how long I was there. Evaporated as all perfectly-suited "acid programming" on late-night TV - where you can never be certain if what you've seen is real or not. Kind of like discovering an LP of KISS' "Destroyer" while deeply steeped in a lysergic wash.
But reality kicks back and Saturday found me ever-depressed and unable to arise from bed. Hung over? Perhaps a touch - but moreso seemingly vanquished by the oppressiveness of life. {and now I grudgingly take the title given me by the Rehabbers: August Strindberg [strindbergandhelium.com, I think]}. Nightfall was nearly upon me before I was rousted from lingering in apathy by Bag Man and Shivs, with their hopeful and exciting good news. Then on to the Magic Hyland's stunning pad to view the paintings, drink a touch of vodka - and end up envying his benevolent, peaceful, artistic family life as he boiled some very special tea for his big night as a Love Ref. Lobito came and met up; we played a few hands of seven-card gin and I learned about ten rules I had never heard of before. From there, I ventured to and starved in waiting at The Ethiopian Restaurant with Lobito, where my morose state perhaps found him in some regret that we didn't speak more, or about more serious topics. Mucked my way to Cope's party and was surprised to see The Admiral there, sipping Sambuca like a poet on shore leave. Cope was dashing in his pinstripe charcoal suit and there was Anna, who I'd not seen in years. We spoke of her children and I wished that I had been in better contact with her and Clint [even though he seems to dislike me] because here were the kids of friends and I'd never met their youngest - now nearly three years old.
On the way back, Toxic Avenger phoned to pitch the obscene and, frankly, mind-blowing notion of us "getting back together". I couldn't really find a nice way to say the things that needed to be said so I didn't. So she cried and then erupted into abuse; which really wasn't as effective a means to keep the dialogue open as perhaps she imagined. To me, this was exactly the reason [um, along with all the other reasons] that this whole pathological experiment came to an end. But she is ever the optimist, assuring me that -- well, not really assuring me of anything other than the fact that she must be bored and somehow having an abortion has rattled her temporarily and the need to turn to someone other than her miserable cohorts is at hand. This too shall pass.
Today was more sleeping in and more dreading the big move and more realizing how tediously vacuous and insincere and fearful my existence really is. I tried to buy this DKNY blazer I was so fond of at holiday-time only to find out that the store is gone. I guess I just saved $350.
I slinked into "Sideways" for a good laugh and found only a nonchalant chuckle here and there. Much of it resonated a bit too closely and much of it seemed conveniently "indie" - and in a way, a letdown. Eventually I slouched over to Shoxie's to check out what was on offer. We traded travel stories, bathed in the aroma of his Nepalese roommate's cooking; and there was no decision on my part.
I so very much have to start selling/giving away/tossing mounds of crap. I must start packing this week if there is any hope of surviving. Where will I end up? No way to know just now. THe expense will be tremendous and my loss will be grave. If I don't live with SZ I'm fairly certain that the last flicker of my creative impulse will be snubbed. I am not a genius. I am not an artist. Things don't have to come out of me or I will die. I will just die sooner with a few things unexpressed. I need a muse or I am without hope.
As far as the aching emptiness and desolate isolation? Hmmmm. Can't see those things getting better anytime soon.
More drugs. More dancing. More unnecessary wardrobe purchases. There. Isn't that better?
*shrug*