Tuesday, May 16, 2006

That was now, this is then

I open my eyes and take stock. I am on my back in my bedroom. From the noise outside on the street I calculate seven maybe eight o'clock AM. My curtains are broken condoms, letting copious amounts of light through to impregnate my room. My room is spartan. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. I have three pictures on the once white yellow walls. I have a wooden chest, the only piece that remains of my mother. I never open it, it holds old clothes and photos and I'm pretty sure another undeveloped roll of film from who knows when. I have a computer which is good for naught but iTunes and Age of Empires 2: Expansion Pack. It sits on an impossibly shitty old table which I have decorated with a red sarong from Fiji and a cactus in the shape of a penis which my friend Christine gave me for my birthday, shit, two years ago now. I've also been decorating it with McDonald's wrappers, dirty tea cups and empty cigarette packets. Next to the "desk" is an Ikea shelving unit. The top shelf is slightly organised. It has design magazines and a pile of books I chose in order to impress any girls who might have bothered to look. Why did I do that? Was that to be the clincher? Well I'm finally here in your bedroom OH MY GOD PETER CAREY'S BLISS FILL MY THROAT WITH CUM. The bottom shelves are covered in dirty clothes and I know underneath them all is another dirty tea cup which I once stashed there upon hearing my landlord was visiting that morning. I didn't wash it. I hid it underneath clothes. This is a good representation of my current mental state. I have a t-shirt next to the bed which I used to blow my nose on during the night. In my head I hear someone say, you've got a cumrag next to your bed, gross! And the more I try to explain that it's just snot and that I didn't have any tissues and I really needed to blow my nose and I never wear it anyway...well, the more guilty I sound. Better to just own it. Yeah baby. Cumrag. I'm hot. My mouth is next to open and it says, hairygoatfeetwoolstinksmoker. I vow to never smoke again. It is now that I realise that like every night before, I have left no water beside my bed. I vow to leave water beside my bed from here on in. I reach for my ventolin and one, two, three, steroids. I vow to never smoke again. I reach for my phone and see who is up before me. Or to be honest, to see if anyone out there in the real world wants to be in touch with me. Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Sometimes I jerk off. Sometimes I don't. Sometimes, my honesty surprises even me. But I remember the books I like, and keep going.

I walk downstairs and it's cold and the house is tall and long and dark red cold wood and cornices in the sky and peeling paint and occupied by ghosts that live in a different world than I. I see traces of their passing. Sometimes I sit in a chair that is still warm from their presence. It's a bittersweet Marie Celeste sort of comfort. I walk down the stairs and out the back and nine times out of ten the first living thing I see is the one-eyed cat and without fail, he's always happy to see me and it's really nice to feel loved first thing in the morning. But I ignore his pleas for food and step into the bathroom and strip. I peel last night off me and it hits the floor with an anticlimactic.....fffffff. I know what I will see but I look anyway because there are some days when it's better than others. I place one hand on either side of the sink and stare at me staring at me. Sometimes I open my mouth and make strange faces, trying to pull the skin tight over my face, as tight as I can, using only the muscles of my face. Until I catch myself and feel stupid and give myself some sort of wry smile and try to joke it off. It always ends with a knowing look. This early anyway.

I read a story today and it said, "when he stepped into the shower the water was cold at first but slowly warmed up". I feel this story may be as thrilling as that. But not this shower, this shower starts hot. Stays hot. Then runs instantly cold. I'm reminded of the cup hidden beneath the dirty clothes, and wonder what this shower says about my current mental state. But it's only a shower. I laugh, I smile, I hold my head in my hands, but mostly I just stand still. Eyes open. Thinking more and less than I can take. I think, I can't take these thoughts. I think, vegemite muffin. I think [BLINDING FLASH] I think. Nothing. I think nothing.

I delude myself that shaving makes me handsome. I do not think myself ugly, but I have seen handsome, so I shave and think, you're handsome. But the thought is a cold fish, and is rejected by me Mr Way Out West. I get dressed [BLINDING FLASH] I wear the grey pinstripe suit. I wear the white shirt and the paisley tie. I wear the black and white Fluevog bowling shoes. I read the paper and eat vegemite muffins and drink tea and break my cigarette vow.

On the tram I am reminded of the iPod I lost. An affair to remember. I have never had a girlfriend, so I mourn my iPod. Her favourite song was Soul by Songs:Ohia, I reminisce, and my imaginary friends nod their heads and buy me an imaginary whiskey. Around me I see students in love. Heads embraced by white tentacles, oblivious to me and my heartache. I vow to one day find a new iPod. Though my first will always be my deepest. Gold.

I step off the tram and arrive at my place of work. Concrete and glass fourty eight stories.

"Good morning Archie"

Good morning.

"Good morning Archie"

Good morning.

"Good morning Archie"

Good morning.

"Good.."

I close my office door. I slow my breathing and open and close my fists. I sit behind my desk and straighten every pen, every piece of paper. I make right angles of everything. I align EVERYTHING. I swivel on my chair and face another building, an exact replica. I see the reflection of my window in its window, but not the reflection of me. Nonetheless, I wave to both me, and the other me who sits behind his window, staring at the reflection of his building. I like to imagine he is waving at me. I like to imagine we are in this together. I like to imagine him doing as I do. Because,

I open the drawer to my right take hold of the cold grey metal put the barrel in my mouth and pull the trigBANG.

[BLINDING WHITE FLASH]

********

That was my dream.

18 comments:

  1. You're loverly. In all aspects of the word. And I do hope you at least run IN to me. Bruises.

    A toast to hell?


    x

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  2. Cryptic CAPITALS and Hell?

    Sure, I'll fucking drink to that.

    Backatcha.

    x

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  3. Ps: Your namesake is a happy place for me. Giggity.

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  4. Travelling incognito can be sexy. Pack your guns trouble we're heading down the highway, and we'll get tattoos on the way.


    x

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  5. ps: you're so cool, you're so cool, you're so cool.

    x

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  6. Sweet, I want a love heart with "mom" on one arm and some sort of Yok skull and crossbones on the other.

    (I DON'T KNOW HOW TO MAKE LINKS HAPPEN IN COMMENTS. YOK.COM)

    No Celtic fucking runes, or I shoot you where you stand.

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  7. http://img5.allocine.fr/acmedia/medias/nmedia/18/35/56/54/18407061.jpg

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  8. /56/54/18407061.jpg


    well that wasn't so cool.

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  9. I'm gonna go jump in the tub and get all slippery and soapy and then hop in that waterbed and watch X-rated movies 'till you get your ass back in my lovn' arms.

    Now kiss me you fool


    x

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  10. Fucking sweet. THERE HAS BEEN NARY A SPA PARTY ON THIS BLOG FOR A FUCKING LONG TIME.

    Besides, it would be rude of me to turn down an offer like that.

    ReplyDelete
  11. You're too cool. Like ninja cool. If you gave me a million years to ponder, I would've never guessed that true romance and blogging would ever go together. Tee hee.


    Bye lovely one. Keep your pants off.

    x

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  12. I NEVER TOOK MY PANTS OFF. HE KILLS HIMSELF IN THE END. HOW IS THAT COOL AND OR SEXY.

    You guys are weird.

    Hey Hell. x

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  13. Crazy, sexy, cool maybe. He doesn't kill himself...?

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  14. do you dream in black and white?

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  15. Not that I can remember. Does that mean anything special or does it just look more dream noir?

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  16. was thinking spatially of some german expressionist manufactured interior shot. shadowplay.
    but colour paints more lurid, the dreams of Fassbinder: fear eats the soul, merchant of four seasons.

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  17. Songs:Ohia was never featured in a more tragic tale, to my knowledge. That touch of pasley didn't brighten things up as much as he'd hoped.

    Guns don't kill people, life does?

    ReplyDelete