she walks away, the sun goes down

I saw the Amy documentary in group today.  I broke slightly, sawing her body be stretchered underneath the burgundy sheet.  First the date on the screen, before the footage, before anything else—the day, the month, the year like your head being jarred.  A jolt, you know?  But psychological—more the nervousness or neurosis, when comes out the four with the flop and you have pocket fours.  Poker.  I knew what was coming, the final frame.  It felt good to cry, real.  I broke slightly.  It felt good to cry.  Sawing?  Idiot.  Feels good to laugh, to shake my head and laugh.  I put on my hoodie and wiped my tears, and they kept continuing, peaceful and soft—sweet, poignant, and determined.  It was listening to "Stronger than Me" that my mind wandered.  My insides began boiling.  I calmed myself down saying Amy was honest...not like that stuck up darwinist.  The elitist.  I don't judge Amy.  I don't have time.  The frame changes and it all comes back to me.

I could smell her when I came off the plane.  What a line, what a line.  Look at that line.  Ah, what a line!  Deserves something special to follow.  Here, get up.  Look at it from this angle.

I could smell her when I came off the plane. 

Now come around from the rear.  View it from the front.  Not a scratch, not a scratch.  What's that—what is that?  Ah, it's just a leaf.  It's winter, the wind, pesky crevices.  Come inside from the rain.

I could smell her when I came off the plane.  I know where I'll go.  Artbridge.  They thought I could meet a nice girl.  Sent me over to dry out, experience a new kind of crowd, he said.  I drank the entire time.  He was supposed to send for me at the VIP.  My clothes were the most important thing.  He was late picking me up.  His coughing was a revving engine in park.  He was driving.  He was subtle, cool, and blunt in his tone—a sharp, jaded eloquence that went with a man with his name.  He danced around with the citing officer, subtle, subtle enough anyway to remind him.  He said don't wait for me at the flight of stairs.  He was magnetic to me when he would speak, eliciting a childlike response from me.  He was magnetic to me except for his breathing—the only decrepit building on the strip his foil wanted for the price of water.  It was a sensitive, principled matter.  Once, Zidane had visited.  He had the photo somewheres; now it was Persians on their New Years.

Artbridge was a haven for her, frequented by artists, intellectuals, sons of politicians.  We had sat opposite one another at our table, pissy, I wondered about the male waiter.  I would get angry when she would look back at a license plate.  My cousins rejoiced and said they found out she had been seen with a Persian, after I told them I had dropped her.  What I dropped was some brown mustard on my white Hugo Boss sweater—the stain and my heartbeat like a jolt to the brain—that made me flip about walking in.  She didn't notice.  She was sitting with some people, probably smoking, the bitch.  Intellectual banter—I would probably have to punch a guy.  I had been there taking shots, frequenting the place in the afternoons, telling their bar to put on Amy.  The morning she walked in, I was staring down at my shot glass, leaning my head on my hand, then over to my glass of orange juice.  Mariam had been sitting at the table next to me, with good posture and a book held up to her face.  I remember noting this bitch looks pretentious.  Mariam doesn't even know who the fuck I am.  She was waiting for her friend.

I had a couple favorite bars—the one with elephant peanut shells carpeting the floor, and the lesbian one, the entrance to which were some stairs that led down to a cellar.  Groups would come in for beers and a bucket of crawfish at the western themed place.  I always said I was going to eat, but never got to it.  The barkeep lady knew my preference for Radiohead, and patrons who couldn't read the jukebox would have me find them some Pink Floyd picks.  In the afternoons, the owner would sit near me with the barkeep.  He was young and classy with a beard, and liked Moby.  I would get up and play "Natural Blues."  I said bye to them the last day and told them thanks, this is my favorite place and they poured me a drink.  Sometimes I'd pass out over night at hourly motels waiting for my lady of the night to arrive.  I was always bitter she got to love.  At the lesbian joint, I tried to win them over.  The one next to me was mean but cracked a smile and said where's your drink?  It was a small, dark place and I would drink and be the only one dancing.  There was another drunk; we would drink and misunderstand each other, go outside, then come back in together with an understanding and a sprained ankle.  

Then I looked up, and my head jarred like it was on a spring.  She walked in, smiling at Mariam, the bitch who had the book opened to her face like a cunt. She stopped short, frozen, and wheezed out a hello that turned into a whimper.  I lit my cigarette and gave her the cold glare.  My body was shaking slightly, uncontrollably; she was looking down, with tears in her beautiful eyes, standing before Mariam's table with her hands at her side.  We didn't say anything.  Mariam asked for the check, closed her cunt and ushered her out.  The waitress sensed something was off.  I told her with the most spite I could muster, Get me another shot.  I tipped her big and left to go eat khash.  

Sometimes I would take cabbies to bars with me, before we would go off to find the hookers.  I was running out of money and drank all my relatives' alcohol.  I gave my cousin counterfeit gifts; he wore the jacket with pride.  I couldn't leave because of all flights over Europe being grounded on account of the black clouds.  I was tired.  On my last ride, I had the cabbie take me around the city looking for women and brothels, but there weren't any options that early in the morning.  We scouted various hot spots and districts he suggested—we passed by the lake.  I thoroughly enjoyed shooting the breeze with him and we were friends, until about three hours later when he told me his price and we started fighting.  He pulled over and called his brother, who arrived later holding his five year old son by the hand.  He mediated a compromise that wouldn't leave me belligerent.  They left me in a village I didn't have a clue where it lay.  I had had it with crooked cabbies, broken streets and black outs.  I walked into a little mom and pop shack and had them lay me out a proper table.  They had a daughter who was not good looking.  I told them to bring out the Russian vodka, none of that domestic shit.

the here and now

Dear Friends,

I wanted to stop by and say hello.  The holidays are fast approaching and I'm writing to you in a letter, with pen and paper, on a page from my notebook, next to thinking patterns and consequential behaviors, and a writing assignment on lack of self-respect I've yet to tackle.  I know what you're thinking: who do I think is going to win it all this year?  Well, it looks like the Cowboys are primed to run through the NFC, but the Giants have got their number.  We're currently sitting first in our division, but we gotta make sure we beat the Ravens in the upcoming weeks.  I have a special place in my heart for Russell Wilson, the quarterback for the Seattle Seahawks, because he looks like Michael from The Wire.  My counselor gave me a book called Out of the Shadows—I've yet to read it.  It's nice to have two sports now, and dispel old bullshit anger.  I'm sorry I'm not more eloquent; although I'm finally feeling some hints of creativity.  

This place has helped me slow down my head.  They say my thoughts move so rapidly that it jumbles me up.  That made me feel really excited because they say that's the mark of a genius.  When I talk to women, I make sure to speak superfast, but sometimes I'll trip over my words.  Sometimes I'll find myself pacing about outside a group of people, and I know that makes me look really attractive.

I checked my stats recently.  There were no homeland pageviews.  I'm frustated that I can't help leave room for the fantasy.  I try to double-bag, but my hands hurt—opps, I sound like Brooks in my head.  What I like about my Steelers, other than the emblem, the unsavory aftertaste of saying Rothslickburger, reminds me of our familiarity with another country, and that's a nice transition to help me hop back onto that pogo stick of life.  Again, I apologize for my syntax—I wrote that phrase in a more cohesive fashion in some notebook, some months back, but it doesn't really matter.

I have been feeling antagonistic as of late.  In groups, I felt a nagging compulsion to tell people that I'm better than them.  It's a defense mechanism my mind uses when I think people ignore me or dismiss my input in a crowd, but it ends up leaving me disconnected from everybody; and the things I thought I felt, they were never even there.   I guess therein lies the problematic thinking.  I told my therapist about Rachel, although I don't think either of us understands it.  When I look at a picture of her, I feel like my mom does looking at that photo of Oreo.

Something strange happened that fought off the irritability which usually starts the relapse cycle.  I shared at a meeting that I had been living in a bubble, wherein I was this humble hero in my own narrative, but I don't even like you.  People came up to me and told me they felt the same.  In group, we meditated and Sarah asked us to write what the meditation meant to us.  I wrote that meditation is stupid and yoga people are snobs and they only use yoga to be flexible while they fornicate, and it was received so warmly by everyone in the group.  They laughed and said what a good writer I am and I didn't know what to do with myself, as I only read it out of spite to tell them that I'm better than them and that they can go fornicate.  A girl towards whom I felt instinctually embittered when she shared she used sex as a drug, approached me and revealed it helped her to hear my share.  I felt like such a shit.  I complimented her on her hair; it was purple.  She's probably in love with me now and I paced around her talking a mile a second.  I had her head spinning.  I can't afford to live in shame.  Self-pity for me breeds or excuses lack of self-respect, which leads to freedom, then everything is permitted.  I'm sorry Kristen Marie.

The next day, I listened and stayed on guard against judging anyone or straying from the moment.  At the next meeting that evening—we went because Kelly is such a beautiful speaker and a beautiful person—I sat in thought trying to compile a great share while she spoke.  That's my thing now, the here and now; when people smile at me, I know they like my blog.

My daydreams from years ago are coming back, and I'm so curious and intrigued by it, that I indulge them like when I was a kid.  I wrote that day in group, that when I was young, I would often daydream like Jonathan Brandis in Sidekicks.  In one series, I was a superhero crimefighter with my cousins, and we lived in a fortress under the forest and rode jeeps with an arsenal of weapons attached—mainly machine guns—and we each had a girlfriend.  I remember my girlfriend was sick, and I went to her house with hot soup in the rain, and we started having sex.  That was a wonderful night.  In another, I was a pro-wrestler.  I would design my trunks in my head.  I had a good build, but I was never buff.  The match in Tokyo against New Japan Pro-Wrestling really took its toll on my career.  That was one I lost.  But it was one of my classics.  We were both on the mat long after the bell.  

The stories would continue and develop as I went about my days.  And I noted that I've started doing that in group; only I can see the brain damage, as I get stuck in the same sequence over again and draw a blank.  I wrote that when we meditate, I see a coffee-table, and I know that someone needs to be body-slammed through it.  I know that when someone is sitting with his legs crossed like a four, what he's really asking for is a figure four leg-lock on the floor.  On the way back, I put on Xzibit's "Choke Me, Spank Me, Pull My Hair," because the guys here like rap—and that's the song Matt would blast in his V-tech outside of the dorms and he was so serious and now he's married.  I put the song on as sort of a joke—he's a good rapper—but I couldn't listen to it for too long when I started realizing the realities of a life that doesn't want me, and that's my sickness, and it all has to do with me.

I have frequent using dreams, and some babe dreams, sad and depressing.  I have nightmares about doomsday scenarios that make me appreciate the day that follows.  I like it here.  I think I'll follow the television curfew.  It forced me to open up my notebook; now I need to start reading again so that I can make picturesque allusions and get the intellectual nod at dinner parties. 

P.S.  What does gnarly mean?  I can't tell if it's good or bad.