Tuesday, February 23, 2010

The Abuse

The Abuser
So I just did Ritalin and I get it now. I’m considering the irony of my new used black wingtip brogues and the fact that their construction and look is closest in style, for the whole 3.50 I spent on them, to the timeless and brawnishly delicate style of my 500$ John Fluevog boots and I’m simultaneously considering the post-modern incarnation of learned gothic stylings which is Christian Death, all while purchasing a couple of Unknown Pleasure pinnable buttons on Ebay. There is one button for me and one for the girlfriend, yes, the GF, shut up. Anyhow, I get it now. I am its relevance. I’m doing all this and I look over at the cat and it seems undeniable, in all his (current) stillness and quietness, he is irreversibly huge. I mean if my cat was a man, he’d live in Bucks county PA and drive a 2008 Chevy Suburban, a car he’d’ve bought only after his 15 year old Steel Blue Ford AeroStar finally died on him. He’d eat breakfast at the Red Lion Diner, three eggs, runny, grits, ten strips of bacon, brown toast. He’d have a mug behind the counter. He’d listen to Johnny Cash almost exclusively. He’d think Bruce Springsteen was silly, and a faggot. He’d have no children. He’d have eleven godchildren. He’d be a taxidermy hobbyist. His drink would be, aside from coffee with 18% cream and 3 sugars a cup, from wake-up to byebye, virgin Caesars with extra Tabasco sauce, licking all the celery salt off the edge, sweating. He’d’ve played full back in College on a free ride, even though he wears the biggest size at the Big and Tall shop and he’d still be called Jesco, although everyone would call him Big Jesco, even though there wouldn’t be another Jesco within a 27 mile radius. He’d love, a good man; a seldom, but earnest and honest, laugher. He’d be loved for being big, and he’d secretly hate this. My cat, Jesco Crazy Thing “The Truth” King of Lions White, is huge, everyone knows it, and I love him to pieces. Thirteen inches of tail and twenty of body. Still growing. Again I understand and you too who now is staring, in the sense your biffing parents meant all those years ago, staring, must understand he is like a cow, a black one, a wily mountain goat baby (what do they call those, I will look it up and fill you in later), a lion and a golden retriever all in one, if the said combo thereof (with perhaps a little Easter rabbit thrown flatteringly into the mix) would be the size of something which could conceivably, though awkwardly, fall asleep in your lap and could be lifted, albeit hardly, by one hand by the scruff and promptly rapped repeatedly with the index finger of the other hand. Beloved chimera. He is big. He is loveable. He is crazy.

Now when I say ‘crazy’ (and also, I now am forced to emphasize, when I say ‘rapped’) I mean he, at some point in the interval between which I left the house and serendipitously pressured a good friend into hooking me up with Ritalin and subsequently returned to the house, chewed through the power cord of my external hard drive. This is not, sadly, an isolated incidence. Almost every cord in the house is covered with Tabasco sauce. Most of those cords have bite marks on them. Every other cord has been chewed through. I am at this very moment rubbing Tabasco sauce on Jesco’s tongue and watching him foam at the mouth like an English bulldog. This is harsh, but, again, he is crazy. And now, as I finalize my purchase of a set of eight Sonic Youth buttons, I am letting the Ritalin bedazzle my mind with the nightmare this animal animates in me. I ask: what if said gigantic feline, Jesco White, my unique companion of many names, were to, in all actuality, go crazy? What if the current verifiable evidence of possible self-destructiveness and definite compulsive wire-chewing were in fact the first symptoms in a long list of foreseeable symptoms, symptoms for which we and, at this lopsided moment in my own personal history, I, especially, are to encounter the multiplication of and the need to deal with more and more on a daily basis? What if one night I am woken by Jesco meowing the intro to Bela Lugosi’s Dead in the dead night din, an event solely illuminated by his all-staring all-knowing kooked-the-fuck-out kitty-thing eyes in the dark? Do not answer. What if he starts trying, with bitter efficiency, to drown his catnip-laced toy in the all-too-capsizable bowl of water he eventually begins to stay away from, for want of keeping murder and survival separate? What if my cat begins to chew on himself? What if he wakes me at night, after having, with considerable and, till this eventual darkly foreshadowed time in time, impossible force of will, opened the bedroom door we lock every night with the help of two and sometimes three well stacked and full hampers of clean clothes (the girlfriend and I have, it seems, a combined and nearly lethal inability to fold and put away our panoply of t-shirts, pants, skirts (hers) and leggings (mine), despite my near disgust with the clothes-and-hamper situation, a situation only aggravated, of course, by the lack of sufficient space for the sheer bulk of clothing we own) and then sits on me, a thing he oddly does very seldom for such an affectionate and truly dog-like, follow-you-to-the-bathroom-to-nuzzle-your-leg-while-you-defecate-or-shave type of cat, and then whispers to me that the main message behind Lou Reed’s The Gun is the insinuation of the deep-seeded desire for a display of power through rape (huh?)? This from a fixed animal? With sense memory?

I digress. The point is I am trying to coincide my most inner-self with the punk aesthetic, the anarchistocracy I feel has pioneered the perfection which is the band-themed jacket armor, pins and studs and back patches (note to self: contact AJ regarding silk-screening opportunities and the future wet-dream come true of a back-sized Darondo patch; I bleed with desire). They make one a gleaming and dark protagon in a solipsistic panopticon of style and substance, and as I attempt intentional convergence with this my $3.50 cap-toe brogues are pinning down the fiend Jesco’s thick neck as I scream NO JESCO NO JESCO NONONONONO JESCO, all whilst using the brand new, freshly discovered weapon which is the clap, the hand-on-hand, manly ringing clapi.e. pet ownership / insanity is interfering with everything at this moment. This animal is bonkers, and, same as a florar print Doc Marten on a panthers neck, my shoe cannot contain him eternally, i.e. what am I to do, i.e. my keyboard now seems further and farther away from my eyes due to my recent ingestion of methylphenidate, my hands now dismembered in that way best described by Michel Gondry’s Science of Sleep in the scene recounting the protagonist’s childhood woes with waking up covered in vomit and believing his hands are about 10 times their real size. Again, what do you do with a tiny black lion who may psychotically devolve into having the ability to wield with horrible dexterity a rock glass like a bar-fight knife. A hepcatastrophy. My hands are big and faraway at once and I can’t help but feel they may work better and I may be a sounder-minded fellow if I just locked Jesco in the bathroom and returned to the backlit keyboard with closed eyes to better see them, my hands, and pronounce myself on this and that, like a prayer with rosaries made out of multi-colored sour candies. This, This, is going very well. Jesco is crazy and I am flexing my ankle, removing and applying pressure in a way he cannot learn to cope with presently, presently reminding myself of something that makes this whole interlocution with my Macbook meaningful. This is the problem with solutions you take with glasses of water, listen:

I am reminded of being on the metro with this stuff kicking in and having had the writing kick in and wanting it to come out, going home to be near the cat and pet him and make this happen and having my shoes up on the seat in front of me. I remember contemplating the flawlessness of my manly albeit everyday, elegant and, I reveal, old school mid-thirties and also male rockabillyish new-to-me footwear and feeling self-satisfied with the purchase of them on the past Monday at the Value Village, though of course in this province the Village is in fact des Valeurs, a place which a friend from Qualicum, a town on Vancouver Island, BC, which I have no idea how to spell the name of, told me acquaintances of bad taste back home like to call it Valeux Village, as if with a French accent they’ve decided is theirs to use, which is funny and stupid we both agreed laughingly hahaha (Jesco is now biting through my Salt and Pepper American Apparel hoody’s draw string and looking smaller by the minute; I wonder if I could find any Minnie Ripperton buttons on Ebay (?)), shoes that were 50% off and as I look at them on the metro and think about the giant and beloved fluff that is my cat I notice a man in a trench coat with a slight comb-over and an all around unhappy demeanor staring at me. I start thinking he either a) notices my self-satisfaction and decides he is in a moral and intellectual place that allows him to disapprove of it or b) he sees me chewing on my spit and maw. (Jesco knocks a glass over, again, I clap, spit like lime rind and a drip.) He thinks I’m high and/or stupid and he is not staring away. And I remember wanting to chew his face off, I am not angry, I want to blind him with a shotgun shot full of rock salt to the face. I want to destroy the color of his eyes and write a sestina about it, the color, and it, the absence of his eyes after said shot, when I get home to my aforementioned insane and cuddly zoomorphically complicated pet. This is a nice feeling and merely stepping away made me feel A-OK and me not wanting to bury these thoughts and thinking they are, altogether, the type of thought I wish to entertain like sail boats on the surface of my soul's blue sea makes me wonder if taking Ritalin recreationally and constructively is perhaps everything it should be and reminds me of why writers and, I guess, artists in general, are a little overly prone to turning into The Abuser. Consider: The stuff we do makes us happy=the stuff we do to do the stuff that makes us happy makes us happy=give me the stuff=give me the problem=the problem is myself. This is a thought to consider.

I think Flaming Lips buttons are next, a slight and underrated acquisition from my stoner days, and, soon thereafter, the purchase of a button-making machine to manufacture my own creative and quirky buttons seems the logical step. I want a Howlin’ Wolf pin. I think every drinker does. I will make things to make pins for in reminiscence. I am a collector, but I am also an idiosyncrat. That is not a word. That should be a word. Carry on. Fear not. Jesco finds heaven in my lap and my hands more than he finds his maker. All is well. The familiar cold tingle of psychostimulation is upon us. Like mdma. Like cocaine. Now methylphenidate. The heart wants what the heart wants. A Baby Mountain Goat is a Kid. Hello. Moving on.

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Sickness.

Chuck here says reading is kind of a neutral reactive way to spend an evening. I’m reading it right here off the page. It’s 1:33 in my last proper night away from home and I disagree with Chuck. I’m awake and smiling. I’m basking immobile in the Cotard’s syndrome Chuck describes and I imagine I am enjoy it. Cotard’s syndrome, Chuck tells me, is when one revels (sometimes unintentionally, somewhat) in the belief that one is dead. I am trying to do this while feeding my soul a soul’s satiation of perfectly imagined violence. I am feeding it alabaster ash like an evening desert, burning. I am sitting right up against my room’s white tiled coal stove. Neutral and reactive are useless. My feet are warmly up on the iron door, I am reading Chuck and making, making, like a psychopath. I am method radiating like radon-laced floors. I am the dubstep pulsing through the floor from the bar below, a fever. I am killing the plants on the desk with a thought. I am dreaming like the dead and I am cooking up a world where I use a woman in a way she wishes to be used, in the Korova bathroom, which is a tricky bathroom to ‘use’ in. In this world I return to a booth and a gorgeous girlfriend, and I tell her we should go back home and make love. This world agrees with me and we go home, and in this world we have mice, little grey mice, and we stare at a mouse in a bucket trap when we get in and my girlfriend gives me a look that says she knows something. She smiles. She puts on my Van Morrison It’s Too Late to Stop Now, Disc 2, Side 1, Track 4. Listen to the Lion. She then straightens the blade of my brand new Bertoldi hatchet and tapes it to her hand with blue duct tape.  She kills the mouse. She then yells “Let’s fuck.” The hatchet is dripping. And I ask her if everything is as per usual, if things are kosher and my girlfriend let’s me know I am acting unusual. So we have very full and energy-depleting sex, and in this world I remember nothing after that. Except for the review I get post-humously. I don’t know what that means, but it’s there and I made it. I don’t care if that’s a good thing. Reading is dreaming for writers. Reading is insomnia. These are my habits.

The phone rings. I am not in Europe anymore. I am back in town. I am reading Chuck’s words again, after leaving a friend’s copy of his book in Europe. I got a new copy a few hours ago. Now things are back to normal. Chuck is still wrong about reading. I’ve been reading since I got this copy. Now the phone is ringing. And now I’m answering, and as a result of a recent book I’ve been reading, not Chuck’s, I say,
“Mmmyellow?” into the receiver.
It’s her. She says,
“Where the hell are you?”
I’m reading and holding our cat hostage in the air by the scruff of his neck. I say,
“I am reading and petting the cat.” There’s a silence. She then says,
“Well, aren’t you coming down?” I say,
“I kind of lost track of time. I don’t know that I can catch the last 124 now. Plus I don’t want to see her” I’m still reading. The cat is meowing at me. The cat is meowing and letting me know that whatever I am attempting right now is at his direct disadvantage. You win, the cat says sadly. I can hear her breathing on the other end. She says,
“Her? Her who?”
“You know, her, ‘that cunt’. That loose whore of a child.”
“She’s twenty.”
“And a horrible lovemeloveme girl. I want her dead.”
“Why do you say these things?”
“I’m not leaving the house.”
“Well, fine, whatever.”
“Don’t whatever me.”
“Fine, whatever.”
I drop the cat.
“Tata my love.”
She hangs up abruptly. I keep on reading.

Ten minutes later I get a text saying “I’m sorry.”
I don’t answer.
Ten pages later I leave the house.

I go to the bar down the street. I meet people I’m supposed to meet there. We talk. A girl I don’t know is sitting with the people I meet. She looks like Parker Posey, if Parker Posey never smiled. She is chewing gum like it’s the sickness, the spider, the addiction. I look at her and she looks back and I put my hand out like a woman, palm down and I say,
She barely shakes my hand with two of her fingers. I say,
“Who are you?” She says,
“Carly.” Pretty girls often have names like white trash. I say,
“OK.” I order four whiskey shots. I down two, give her one, order a root beer, ask for more ice, and, after the ice comes, I drink exactly an ounce and a quarter of root beer and I pour the last shot into the rootbeer. She stares at me. She thinks this is unusual. I am a dubstep concert. I squirm in my seat. My phone tells me I have a text message. I read it. It’s very sweet. I don’t answer. Then Carly says,
“Who are you?” and I say,
“It’s nice to meet you Grace!”
She orders us more shots. We do them. Then she says,
“What’s your name?”
And I say something trenchant and confusing about something relating to reading. She smiles. I tell her I read this in a dream. I arm wrestle a friend and loose. I say to her,
“Do you like to dance?”
“Yeah, I like to dance, you?”
“Oh, I dance.”
“Do you want to dance?” I gyrate uncontrollably in my seat with a stone cold look. I am a clever sample of Mario Bros. fireballs. She is amused. I say,
“Oh, I want to dance.”
We ask the guys and everyone wants to dance. We hop on the last 124 and head to Copacabana. When we arrive we have two drinks and a shot and go upstairs to Korova. When we get there we dance. I dance well. She dances surprisingly well. We kiss on the dance floor. We hump like teenagers. The teenagers around us laugh, but we’re not laughing. We’re humping like teenagers.

She pulls me towards the bar. We do a shot. I imagine the base being louder. The music sucks. I dance around her minimally like I should be sampled. I say something oblique about the obliteration of words in the dub era. I have no idea what I’m talking about. She pulls me into the bathroom.

She tells me she wants to be used. She says “used” like it preceeds “needle.” I think I’ve had too much to drink. I can’t get hard. So I tell her maybe I shouldn’t use her. She says,
“You fucking suck man.” I say,
“That’s not getting me any harder.” She says,
“Sorry.” She smiles. She spits in her hand.

I use her the way she wants me to.

She exits first. I wash up. A friend of a friend comes into the bathroom. He’s older. They’re all older. He looks unhappy. He says,
“She’s got a boyfriend you know.” He’s wearing a piano key belt buckle. I say,
“I don’t.” He says,
“Why do you do these things?” I don’t answer. I assume the question’s rhetorical. He says,
“What’s wrong with you?” I punch him in the belt buckle. His face is fat. He leaves the bathroom. I finish cleaning up.

I exit and see my girlfriend sitting at the bar. She looks drunk. She’s not smiling. My drunk girlfriend Claire is at the bar. I walk over to her and ask her when she got here. She says,
“Oh, just now.” I say,
“Harry cabbed us out here.” She says,
“Uh hun.” I kiss her cheek and stick two cans of beer in my coat pockets. I put my lips on her warm neck. I say,
“Let’s go home and fuck.” She says,
“Sure.” She says it the way she says,
“Sure” sometimes. Says like she says
“Whatever” sometimes.
We leave.
I never see Carly again.

We get home and there’s a mouse in the bucket trap. The cat’s in the bucket trap with it. The mouse is dead. The cat looks confused like this was done to it. Like a live hooker and a dead hooker in a trunk. Like magic. Claire takes him into the bathroom to clean him, but I say I’ll do it. I grab the cat. She says,
“Sure.” I do it.

When I come out again she’s naked and straightening the big knife. She swivels her head slowly and looks at me. She says,
“DO YOU WANT A SAND WITCH?” I smile. She smiles back like she’s asking me to never smile again. I smile anyway. She stabs a can of pineapples. I stop smiling.
She walks past me like a beautiful woman on the street hating you for even looking and goes over to the record player. She puts on, with some difficulty, ‘Somewhere Along the Line’ off of Side 2 of Billy Joel’s Piano Man. She comes over and unbuckles my pants, crouches down and stares me in the crotch. She screams, “LET’S FUCK”, looks up, spits in her hand and smacks my crotch. She does this to hurt me. She looks back down and straight ahead. I can hear her breathing. I can hear her nostrils flare. This is someone I hurt. She then asks my crotch if I want a sandwich with an Ontarian accent. I wait. Then I say,
She gets back up without looking at me and walks into the bedroom. She shuts the door behind her.
I get the blow dryer out of the bathroom. I blow dry the cat.
Then I read some more and I write a story.
I sleep a dreamless sleep.