Thursday, October 20, 2005

Conclusion : “No more Tunnel vision”

Maybe I lost my edge, reclaimed an old one, or just grew a different horn. Like a broke man holding on to the last sliver of bar soap. Everyone’s talking of viscosity, as in my blood, quicksilver. Todd, I think I can still hang on the porch, but still we will feel a difference, maybe not with just you and me.
Girl, don’t even start, don’t make me go there
Had a dream that I went back to high school, reunion form, and some people ask me to join them, offstage, for a joint. “No, thank you”. “Oh man, we thought you’d come around and be cool by now”. But one of the alcohol / weed lessons was “So what? If you’re not cool to me, then I don’t care what you think” and this was transferable from depressed misery to self-positiveness, but let’s not jump on the inanely unknowing positiveness. This is not a celebration of sobriety, because the shakes I’ve come to love has put me on edge. Those who never sought the other side don’t know what’s over (t)here, nor could respect the arduous and risky travel.
Really, it’s a science of madness, of mental self indulgence, rampant research that we picked up, a terrible love to throw ourselves as deep as we can into our work. To gladly spend 37 hour days without a lunch, and never to pull out beat it pulp to the ground and go through it. The 96 Republican Convention.
A recovering alcoholic boy and his reclaimed girlfriend went to dinner, and there was a stumbling old man obnoxious crying drunk. The waitstaff was unsuccessfully trying to steer him outside; the more they prodded, the more he resisted and became violently vocal, cursing of their mothers, and their food is shit, etc. The young man came to the inebriate, calmly and slowly putting his arm on his shoulder, “Come on friend, it’s time to go”, but instead received a few belts to the stomach. An alcoholic’s twist to the self-righteous sober’s ‘I can take all your shit’ martyr symptom mixed with the wild Irishman drunk fight for fun., the youth elbowed the elderly in the ribs. They stared into each other’s eyes, a wave of peace, of shared knowledge and pains, got to be strong, “Come on old man”, and they walked out the door. “you know it hurts, it really fucking hurts, I miss … I miss … Well I forgot what I miss, but it hurts real bad”. “Yeah, I know”.
Outside, the Chinese waitstaff hurled shoes and old fruit at the old man, shouting never to return and lay off the juice. And what of your drug of choice? Lay off the pretty flower, boys.
On the way home, they told jokes and old stories of around the way, dancing on that fine line between laughing and crying. They stopped along the way so the old man could by a fifth of Kessler for home. When they reached to the old man’s front doorstep, the old man dug in his pocket and gave the new man a $100 bill
Kid put it in his car glove box while driving back to the restaurant to catch back up with his chick. When inside, the waitstaff was hesitant to acknowledge or deal with him, not that he was asking, but there were so many whispers back in the kitchen. Yeah, that’s right, your eastern world inner peace was bullshit too. So he sat down with his girl and she told him stories of her day over green tea. Tried to listen attentively, but found himself concentrating more on the melody of her voice and how the colour of her eyes reflected on her gold hair.
Moments later, the door burst open with hooded thugs armed with pistols. “Everyone pull out your wallets and we’ll make this quick and painless”. They circled around the restaurant, picking up their loot at each table. The manager’s hand trembled when handing over the contents of the cash register. When they got to our hero’s table they were upset. With a gun in his face, “Give me your wallet”. Though he had only a dollar in it and a $100 in the car, for spite he said “No” and chuckled at them, ain’t no one ever gonna make him run except himself.
They shot him in the stomach while barreling out the restaurant. He slumped onto the floor and laughed.
Now I may not be able to keep it real again, and I may be a poser in the future, but we can’t be old men in our youth nor be infantile men.
I really need to set a new crowd for myself and the NA folk are annoyingly really friendly, but
recovering addicts are a fucking drag when they keep whining over their recovery, because life goes on

2 Comments:

Blogger daphne said...

This comment has been removed by the author.

7:34 PM  
Blogger s. daisy said...

but sometimes it is hard...

10:03 AM  

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