20 Jun 2006

Hands Off

Red Ferrari Marty, living in L.A.
bumps another line to get through the day
- MC Lars

I’m sitting on a picnic table at Lakeside. Hot day, cool breeze. Shade. Beautiful. Feeling sick. Hungover. Hands shaking. Wondering if writing makes it worse. If writing makes me feel the sickness, or deal with it through feeling.

I’m walking past the beach people, dragging behind me iron chains of debauchee burnout, dead weight of zombified neurons just alive enough to give me lumbering chase through the torus cave in my head, bloody warren memory burrows. I’m recalling everything I gregariously said to people last night on my pubcrawl in the most negative light devisable. I decide that the most healing thing to do is to withdraw. My dendrites have stopped yearning for an expressive human face that looks back at me. My nervous system no longer craves the touch of another.

I got on the drink and hyper happiness. Now I’ve had my fill. No dignity made it past the state boundaries. I’m remembering the joys of being anti-social – and yet out in society. Being there, but gone. Unavailable to the crowds. Standoffish. Taking in the rhythms of the beach people like a stealth bird, humming melodies to myself. The beach people, the park people. My anti-social impulse still competes with my dick that makes me a shifty eyed creep, stealing a peripheral glance at achingly beautiful others walking past me, the gorgeous girl I’m ostensibly cut off from at every level.

Sometimes it’s better to fantasize than etch a ridiculous agenda into reality and watch erosion wear it down. There’s the rub.

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