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Saturday, October 04, 2008

If you can understand all of this, then you are my dream.

An incessant buzzing in the drums of my ears. A physical presence lurching through my bloodstream like a foreign chemical. The crushing desire to tear open the car door and throw myself to the carnivorous road. What is this tantalizing urge for self destruction? Why must I continuously resort to detrimental means? I must reach this rolling road where the sun breaks and blossoms. I must feel the violent air pulsing between my fingers as I leap from the edge of infinity. Feel my hands as they claw the Earth open. I am caveman. I am destruction. There are nights when I want nothing to do with peace.
“Have you heard about Jess?”
“What about her?”
“Well I don’t know. I mean, she’s still stripping.”
“No.”
“Yes. And you know what else?”
“What?”
“She was bragging about it a couple days ago to me. She was like, talking about how she can go upside down on the pole and everything.”
“No way. That’s nasty.”
“Yeah I know. I would never strip. But you know she makes like 500 a night?”
“500? Whoa. But still. That’s disgusting.”
“Apparently she could make double that in tips, I mean people have offered double if she touched them.”
“What does that mean? Like blowjob or hand job or what?”
“I guess hand job.”
“Just like, touching them.”
“Yeah, with her hands.”
“And she could make 1,000.”
“Yeah, I mean like overall. 1,000 in one night, not from one person.”
“Well has she ever?”
“No, no. No.”
“Will she?”
“No. I mean I don’t think so. She said she would never but I mean none of us can really ever know.”
“That would be so sad. Like that would be so low of her. Ew.”
“Yeah but I mean, it’s hands.”
“What do you mean ‘it’s hands’?”
“I don’t know, I mean like, we all have hands. They’re just skin and bones. I don’t know; we’re all lucky to have them but we didn’t ask for them, we didn’t earn them. They’re just there.”
“Dude. What. Are you high?”
“No! I mean why is it absurd for someone to put their hands on someone else when it would cause the other person pleasure? What makes that low? You don’t know what I mean.”
“No, no, I do. You want to be a prostitute. It’s okay I get it.”
“Hilarious.”
“No, I kind of understand. Like, why is it absurd to put your hands some places and not other places? Like, what makes it socially degrading? Why should it be?”
“Exactly. I ask myself this all the time, although generally I expand it to a broader range like: Why is anything physically possible considered absurd? Like, if it’s physically possible for me to walk into a bar, throw myself over the counter, sprawling through the air, and stand up and tear every glass bottle off the shelf just to watch it shatter on the ground; in fact, if it’s physically easy for me to produce such a scene, then why would every person sitting in that bar stare at me awe-struck, dumb-struck, silenced and shocked? Why, is it so absurd. I don’t understand.”
“I ask myself that question when I’m doing coke a lot.”
“Me too. Does that mean we’re using it as an excuse to do drugs?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder that, but I don’t think so.”
“It makes me feel like a crazy person. Like I could tear my own throat out. I don’t know. My dad used to say that Socrates and Plato and all of the ancient philosophers were crazy, but I don’t feel like this all the time, and I’m constantly debating existentialism and significance, so that’s not it. That is not the reason.”
“I only ask myself why things are considered absurd when I’m doing coke.”
“Do you ever feel crazy?”
“I don’t know; I used to. I think I mellowed out.”
“Do you think it matters?”
“What? That I mellowed out?”
“No, no, everything.”
“Like life?”
“Like Jess stripping, you doing coke, Spitzer and the prostitutes, Obama running for president, my dog getting fleas, Jamie Lynn Spears getting pregnant, Zeitgeist, marijuana legalization, one of the world’s last uncontacted Amazon Rainforest tribes being discovered and covered by CNN, I don’t know, people dying of AIDS, daytime television, my uncle’s brain tumor, tambourine bands, salsa teachers, everything.”
“Does it matter?”
“Yeah.”
“Does it matter to who?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, does it matter to you?”
“I don’t know. When?”
“Now.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“No, it doesn’t matter? Really? It doesn’t matter to you?”
“No, not right now. Not at all.”
“Well what does matter to you?”
“When? Like, when?”
“Right now. This second. Right now.”
“Your voice. My body. The car. The road. The color of the sky. Oxygen. My hands. Your hands. That’s it.”
“And yesterday what mattered to you?”
“Yesterday was composed of so many moments. I can’t begin to compromise myself enough to think that I could even begin to remember how much mattered yesterday.”
“I don’t even remember what we’re talking about. Like, what started it?”
“Jess stripping.”
“Oh yeah. It’s disgusting.”
I wish I could hold anyone’s hand whenever I felt like it. Or link arms with them or kiss them. There are so many forests I want to explore, rivers I want to canoe down, conversations I want to have, people I want to love; I just don’t know how to start things.
The pen is running out of ink. The sun is a spotlight. Take me out to the middle of nowhere and let’s learn Spanish together. I have a Spanish lesson book. You bring the music. Sing to me. Swim with me. Scream with me. Be silent. I want you with me. ¿Estás pensando aprender español? ¿Buscas además conocer la cultura española? Si, si señor.
Come with, into the blubbering waters of Acapulco’s shoreline. To the bottom of the ocean, where we can gather coral and arrange it into bouquets which we can plant into the soles of disintegrating tap-shoes plucked from the smiling skeleton of a Venetian sailor.
We could set up a small cottage of seaweed and rotting doors, a treasure-chest bed and an anchor for a lawn ornament. We could stay vegetarian and live off of saltwater and never take showers and say whatever we wanted whenever we wanted and tell each other fictional accounts of mermaids that would last for two days; we would never get bored, we would just keep telling each other stories that could last as long as we wanted, and we could swim and hold each other close and dream of land and have everything.
Bubbles bubbles bubbles bubbles bubbles bubbles.
I wish religion was real. It would be so cool if there was really a God in the clouds who forgave you for every mistake and promised you a land of gold and peace and ponies and butterflies and no rape and no arguments and no evil after death.
I wish I could believe in religion again so that I could die with a sigh of relaxation and gentle wave like:
“Well, it’s sure been something! It was hard but I did it! Sometimes it was really beautiful, but heaven’s gonna be better! I can’t wait! See ya on the other side!”