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Weekly Train Wreck.
Monday or Thursday. Night. I'm losing my mind. Spiraling into a state of uncontrollable nonsense. The meds are kicking in, but the sleep isn't. Must get another Fanta. If I can drink booze like a car drinks diesel, I can consume a fruit-flavored seltzer. I hope to catch the night before it unfolds into helpless darkness and mouths spreading, words spewing, eyes flickering, closing, darting, glimpsing, stealing a smile, wetting one's lips with the smoky lungs of a stranger's bad breath. I left the bar and decided to walk a bit. Headed down Etnae, wanted to locate a famous church. Which I did. Knew it was going to be closed, but wanted to find it for future expeditions. As I kept walking it was like I was walking into a shanty somewhere down South, United States. I didn't run into any hooligans, but the scene and setting were all the same. I walked through the unfinished, curved roads on the outskirts of town. I finally decided to take a taxi home. I could have continued to walk, but I had a bit of a sweat on my brow and it wasn't the finest of nights to be walking with out socks. Tuesday or Friday. I feel like a train hit me on the passenger's side. Seven fingers and toes remain. I haven't had a drink in two hours. I can't feel my thumb. I couldn't even grab a drink. It's the thumb that makes us different from the apes. Not the speaking. Nor the credit cards. The thumbs. My head just wants to explode. Kill all the gnats flying around. Hovering. Waiting to pounce. Preying on my brains. Succulent fodder. My arm. Yes, it is my arm, but I can't move it. Magic. Levitation. Move the arm. Bend the spoon. Nothing. Slept on the couch. That's where I found myself at 10:05a. Must have stumbled in holding myself. Haven't disemboweled in three days. No steamers. Maybe I'll feel better if I rub one out and go back to sleep. Weekend. Recovery. Ambitious 'to do' list. Learn the first and last word for each letter in the Italian dictionary. Reduce use of Q-Tips to 2 a day. Shave. See something worth remembering. Avoid the temptation to masturbate. Pen note to mom. Avoid stories of masturbation. Find passion - Lincoln Logs or Matchbox Cars; Prada Shoes or Glenn Gould. Locate bus schedule. Call Alitalia, request they play Sinatra, "Come Fly With Me," each time I board the plane. Realize stores are closed on Sunday. Take some sun. Go for a run. Dish wash and dirty some dishes. Done. It is a Damn Crying Shame
Post 9 - August'05 Back to home...
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