Thursday, February 8, 2007

Tabula Rasa: Version 790

I had a party. It was a good party, it had a theme, it had a warehouse, it had hundreds of not only beautiful, but also quite wonderful people. The sort of people who if you say, "hey, this year my birthday party theme is Robots vs. Scientists vs. Monsters" come dressed as such. What a sight! A room filled with leggy girls in short lab coats, boys with gigantic horse heads and Dracula capes, and my bestest buddy painted gold from head to toe. It was her birthday, for real as well as belatedly mine, and at midnight I was the first to wish her joy as her 30th rolled round. My old friend who I had not seen in years, came as some sort of gigantic cocked superhero mish mash, and I loved him for it. Another of my friends, came as...well, he wore slacks. Which meant a lot to me.

When the sun came up and I rose from my hidden location fast asleep on my friends bed, I strode to the decks and held the iPod aloft, so that the remains of the night could dance to !!! and Foreigner. And the songs woke up the house and the stragglers who were hiding in various rooms and we all laughed and drank it in and someone handed me a beer, and I drank it thirstily...sometimes, just sometimes, and you may laugh...sometimes debauchery can be a beautiful thing.

The acid which was lurking within the beer however...


In the beer garden of the pub which I have for a long time now renounced, it's hot, real hot and I'm in jeans, black fucking jeans, and there's people everywhere talking and I can't get my legs right and I can hear the thoughts of everyone and feel eyes upon me and every sentence has so much weight within it, because when it's like this, it's not the words I hear, it's the thoughts and more importantly, the thoughts behind the thoughts, fuck I want this to end, it's hot, I can't find a person who will ride through this with me, ain't that deep man? There are people I know, sure enough, and beside me a French speaking bare chested scientist boy in bright orange shorts wolfs down a steak and greedily licks the gravy from the chips from his fingers but instead of laughing all I get is the terrible judgement of a hundred minds and two hundred eyes, woah fucko the trees are leaning close and I'm hiding on a stage in a garden under the shade because I tried to do something so mundane as smile at some friends but the smile was wrong and the gap just got bigger and bigger and bigger. And that, my anonymous friends, is real fucking deep. Don't you see, all of this, it's all a reflection, and it's horrifically, desperately sad. I'm lost. In a place that I once called home.

I stand up, don't say goodbye, and make my way home for real.


In my backyard there is grass, and I play Curtis Mayfield and watch hexagon diamonds dance across the most perfect of blues. I feel so comfortable in my home I can barely express it, even now, five days after. My room, my window, my records, my housemates, my kitchen...but it doesn't let up, the brain never lets up, and all I can hear now is not a giggle or a trip but an eternal tsk tsk tsk, over and over, and I still can't find peace, in that most urgent of places. Inside.

My now stripped of gold paint compatriot, side by side with me, and the bare chested scientist and I, lay on the grass and do a crossword, and eat rubber cheese toasted sandwiches. After this, we watch Monty Python, and the cricket, and drink whiskey and UDLs and laugh and laugh and laugh and the voices inside me begin to grow faint.


On acid, right in the center of it, there are many false insights and dubious answers.

For a day, I lie on my couch and try to make sense of them all.

At this point, I was still unaware of the other twenty people who had been given acid-spiked beer.

Fucked up shit holmies.


During the week, I find myself where I knew I always would. I mean, I find MYSELF. I'm walking to work this morning, days after the troubles have subsided and I'm thinking, fuck man, I was really, really fucking depressed last year. I mean, like, REALLY. And all sorts of fucked up shit happened. And to write them all down, from my point of view, with all emotions and thoughts and angles included, would take another freaking year, and I just can't afford to do that, don't WANT to do that. All I know is, standing here on the corner of the street, new shoes and western shirt, short nerdy haircut and a backpack with my lunch in it, all I know is gratitude. And humility. I hang on to it all day and can't wait for the next. And then the phone rings, unlisted number. I don't answer them, you know? But it rings again, and I answer it, and my world opens up once more.

Don't think twice. It's alright.


  1. 'I'm on the dark side of the road.'

    One of my favourite songs.

  2. You didn't share who you went dressed as Matty.

    And you looked so dapper.