These days are over exposed
Not as in the light is working extra hard
More that the shadows are especially lazy
letting the contrast act as suggestion of form
instead of acting as a method for staging daily dramaturge
The way of our people is to compound and complex our internals until they fester into externals.
a year after this occurs for the first time we become season 20 of the Simpsons forever.
a year after that occurs we become the second reckoning of an internet IP ie:
Normal boots entertainment reloaded or
Anthony Padilla returning to smosh or
College Humor becoming a short form content generator.
My hands are peanut butter gamer’s,
my liver is comprised of tobuscus tweets,
and my veins are pumped with the memory of flash animations being better than they actually were
I think it’s all about the walk home and if we do it right we are already there as soon as we make the first step.
Together as jukebox minds with a pocket full of jangling quarters hogging each other's machines.
When you are a teenager the convenience store is a church, the walk home from the convenience store is something you hold a telescope up to. I can reverse Corinthians 13 and say that When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood in front of me, a lens for deciphering.
Like:
I know you would groan at my attraction to Daniel tosh but you have to understand he is like a hotter version of the guy who bullied me elementary through high school.
Or
The story of an overly fragile young woman who can’t enjoy her company unless they are the types to be a little bit mean to her, at the same time resenting them for it.
One chooses one’s path to fill in the spaces that One previously saw as empty
(What I think is) You and me:
-Music (done correctly) provides community and we both lacked a sense of belonging.
-Music (done correctly) provides a path for modern language to be present tense, and we both lacked grounding.
One becomes an artist broadly because their life lacks
Beauty
Identity
Understanding
Respect
The tragedy is that the search for these things will give you a heap of their opposite in your other hand. In an ugly train car you will realize that was the whole point. In an ugly strip mall parking lot you will have the best hour of your life. Only recently do I think I have finally had more sex in a bed versus sex in a car.
Wanting to live your life is learning that it takes practice. Seeing evenings as optional, using benadryl to make this reality. This is difficult . You are behind everyone else who has been doing real living for years. You will make the mistake that you need to stay up late and also wake up early for this to be successful. The unspoken rule we contend with is that It’s more about choosing one and committing to their intrinsic qualities.
Okay. So let’s go moment by moment and maybe that will make it easier.
The bus driver is training someone. These two men are similar ages and being attentive to each other in a way I can assume means that they are generally kind, all the while being bathed in the late winter streaky sunset (the lover incarnate) I am trying to let it touch me. I logically know that kindness between two people can be transformative. No electrons, no sperm, no nothing hits my inner world. Only time will tell if this will lead to a moral failing.
While watching these two be gentle with each other, I am considering the pros and cons of doing 5 MEO DMT tonight. My only real desire to do it is because some friends I want to be closer to asked me. At the very least I’m gonna be there to watch. I don’t think I am going to do the DMT, I am no good at hallucinogens.
I am doing the 5 MEO DMT with the two women on my living room’s green pull out couch, soft muted lights. I am holding her hand and she is holding my hand calming me down to prepare me, keep me calm, guide me through. I take a million bajillion hits that have no effect until I hold one in. The room vibrates and I am pulled into death, I watch my friends faces go from excitement to fear as they realize I am not going to be having a positive trip experience similar to them. The room’s warm lighting unsaturates, I am crying and moaning in pain, I am pulled into darkness and essentially death. I feel my forehead invert and press into my skull and the only great truth I learn is the lack of great truths. I am dragging myself back to consciousness kicking and screaming, everything is far away I can barely feel anything I am sobbing uncontrollably, my whole body is shaking, my teeth are shaking, she is spooning me softly, I refer to one of my friends as “Momma” and I start speaking gibberish and confess how much I enjoy their company and how I am sorta in love with both of them.
Through the sobs I start talking about Neutral Milk Hotel before running to my bathroom to run my hand under the hot faucet. Something, something embryonic fluid. Something, something, my roommate is confused why I am taking so long and walking out of the bathroom in dripping wet clothes. For someone who wants to die, I sure can’t let go of my ego
A week later when relaying my experience that night to my roommate , we discussed our shared feeling that every scary weed experience was formative in a way that we are starting to miss. Later he buys himself some of that high THC weed from a dispensary, Then proceeds to makes me smell it in the way only a roommate who is asking you to smell their new weed can ,and finally smokes a bunch of it before working sound at Market Hotel for a Lady Gaga themed rave.
It is the morning of that day. I tell my (cunty) therapist that I think it’s grotesque that the human experience seems to be defined by getting hurt by people you love and hurting people that love you. We don’t have an answer, but we do get me to admit that it isn’t only that. Our decree is for me to continue my Wellbutrin. And the night before, every compliment you or anyone else gives me I respond with “Thanks, I needed that” like I'm some kind of fucking crazy person. And the morning before I was recording a song about having sex with three girls at the same time with a good friend who I had to disappoint. And a year ago I was in Roxbury in that house that is either getting demolished or remodeled by now.
I will always look at you like a little boy would. (Currently) A sexually sedated Nebraskan, fourth wave emo country western noise musician, frat bro anytime I don’t know how to act, demure woman only for boys I meet on dating apps, demure woman for the imaginary man whose phantom limb I grab onto. I look at old photos and I am Donkey Kong who can lift you over my head, sweet barrel. I am quitting identity politics, you are quitting drinking. I tell the girl I am striking out with that I would be interested in participating in her burp fetish. And yes, The winter sunset is stretching your hair across the horizon and your body everywhere else. And no, it is not just because brisk air intrinsically carries the lost lover. And so yes, I do miss when it was exciting to feel like this was an ecstatic return to 60s and ‘70s elegant and rebellious transexualism. For background, let me indulge in a quick aside:
I had a year
Where this group of deer would come right up
To feed from my outstretched palm
And rub up across my sides
Their touch spreading magic coconut dewdrops that always smelled like clean freshly dried laundry
across my gashed open legs
Like filling human potholes
In suburban glades
Treehouse apartments
That Highway median
log cabin
Removing perfect bullets from their pelts
Making special deer meals
And reassembling them
back into little doe and stags everytime they got turned into into roadkill
I’ve settled down now
No more evenings
under summer stars feeling Eros growing wings
right under my (our) breath
That is for the young
I’m older than I have any right to be
I pay my bills on time
And when I tell my side of the story people generally feel compassionate
Which is nice
But it’s no group of deer pressing against your legs
Weard agrees, romanticizing our transience doesn’t actually make it any better. I am some kind of Socratic woman know no nothing, can’t point to a golden age for our people, just a realistic low fidelity is the only language left for us.
Now another 2 weeks later out of that specific memory palace I am going to the opera with one of my DMT companions. She tells me that even though you are no longer with me, you are still literally with me all the time, like literally physically. You slept over last night. We are going on a week and a half roadtrip. I admit, Most of my fears are still essentially just about becoming season 20 of the Simpsons, and although it is true that we became season 9 in only a year, who knows, we might be better writers. A fear of becoming season 20 of the Simpsons is mostly a fear about having no discernible reason not to be cancelled, or reason for anyone to tune in.
Who surpasses who is a question for somebody who is having any amount more fun than me (these days often it’s you but I concede your health is always poor and for that please understand the depth of my compassion for that situation remains endless). Please make a sound collage record with your 100th Jewish girlfriend, you who is something in between Ramona flowers, Candy Darling, and Mozart, versus me something in between Judee sill and Jack black. Or maybe something in between that video of the millennial girl who calls a cake pop “cake globe” and Jeffrey Lewis. It’s not just that I know your order, I know just when to get it for you without even asking. I think the girls I did DMT with would say that it's easy to guess when someone needs food due to it being an obvious daily ritual. I think I know I want ___.
In high school my friends and I participated in a ridiculous homoerotic activity we called “Family Bed” Family bed consists of anywhere from 4 to 8 people laying like sardines on a bed spooning each other in a row, fully clothed. Hundreds of pounds of sexual desire and an exponentially multiplied amount of repression to match, the one unspoken code of conduct was that one was not allowed to even be suspected of being horny. Humor and irony was the ultimate tool during this, less important than being seen as any kind of queer the greater shame was feeling any unrequited attraction at all. We would press our jeaned up crotches into each other's rear ends and as soon as someone saw on my face that I was enjoying it beyond the humor one by one they would all express disgust
Do I need to explain? I will:
Polyamory for me was a family bed in that as soon as I showed attachment and a desire for you to treat me how you said you felt about me the whole house of cards fell apart. Van the Man says: “Satisfied to not read in between the lines”
A future indie movie star is relapsing with the help of a current indie movie star. We just watched a four hour movie about incels and I guess my hand right now is to relate to the characters even if I do somewhat foolishly consider myself to be more conscious of how my pains interact with my worldview.
I am trying and failing to have any fun = The burp fetish girl I’m striking out with is beautiful , exciting me like an old man who hasn’t had the joy of flirting through confession of someone’s beauty in decades, but she’s no group of deer, and I’m no old man. Meaning: the whole time I’m peeking over my shoulder to watch you go from 1 drink to 5, the whole day I’ve watched you get touchy feely with everybody but me, the whole of the moon versus seeing only the crescent, I roll around a fragment of lyric from your new girlfriend’s unreleased album
“you can change, you can change, you can change, you can change, and still choose me”
It’s true you still love me as a musician. Direct quote:
“I love you the most when we are making music together”
the day after I silently wrote something saccharine :
“I love you the most when you smile”
I am still a prophet’s son at the end of the day
And the lord sings to me:
This will be enough even though it isn’t.
Finally:
Can a lover critique the spring birds for being derivative?
Can my heaven be more than a resounding gong or clanging cymbal?
Can oil changes deny the dirge, what does it mean to deny in that case?
Can Ahab not resent the whale for taking more than he gives?
Can the lords doublethink be salvation through denial?
Can we trust in the efficacy of the human project?
Can we trust love to be enough?
4 AM
You go home with people more exciting, I walk home alone to the my isolate train route,
All the kind words and Wellbutrin and collapsed drinking habits, all the weary road trips, Simpsons episodes, Caveh run-ins, sell out punk houses, coveted cheap diners in every city, speaker phone conversations with devils, our favorite boys, that bottle too weak to break, that walk around the block talking to you on the phone where I prayed for us both to have a savior, the unlikely smell of a back, those who we get to fly in and wherever you fly off to,
We remain Jukebox minds, listening to our jangling quarters, I walk home with the street lights, the beloved arms of the city, cradling me until I arrive as a plague, fall over, and can have the privilege of privacy to call out to the darkness, folding my cicada wings, and not bothering you about your new sunrises and sunsets, trying and failing to meet and make my own contrasts.
