The Journal, A Memoir, Pt 1 contd.

This is when I drilled a hole in my head, got drunk, and shaved a Mohawk.

PLEASE NOTE: Parts and scenes in this story contain graphic, not necessarily violent, but sexual imagery, suggestion, and vulgar use of the English language. Any readers sensitive to this subject matter please stop reading.

Your Friend,
Chet Livingston

Explicit Content: NC17
Content not suitable for young or sensitive audiences.

 May 6th

I forget in the light of ashes. Its stale quiet residue left in the air. How many times do I have to turn off these switches and dim the light bulbs? Before I can’t bear it a moment longer, at the brink where the meniscus overflows, that casual yet important moment, when a wild animal submits to captive life, I hear his voice.

“You need to get the hell out of here kid,” he said.

“You are so right."

“I’m always right kid. Listen to me. The Doc knows.”

I polished my boots to a glossy black and collect everything I owned. In the end, it should sort itself out. Once everything settles and what ever it is I’m doing, or not doing for that matter. I’m hoping somewhere down the path, it might ‘click,’ and feel satisfying. It might feel complete.

I head for the door and it dawns on me, I have a three-week hangover. It might be healthy to consider sobering up. I feel defeated. I feel aged. I feel worthless. And the Doc, he pats me on the back saying, “Cheer up kiddo. Tomorrow will be a sunnier day.”

“Thanks Doc,” I say, “glad to have you on my side. It’s good to know someone cares,” and I get myself a glass of milk pouring the white liquid down my dry throat. It sits well inside my belly, heavy and soothing. Outside the window, blue light forces me to squint. I stand there looking, flowers along the windowsill, vines and a sink full of dirty dishes. God, I wish there was a dishwasher in this house. A big black ant crawls along the white rim of a dirty plate followed by another. Paired scavengers searching new lands of adventure.

When an individual resides in the same place too long, it’s easy to fall victim to comfort and routine. Banality seeps its wormy head into the repetitive details, rotating each morning, never changing. Maybe there is happiness in that. Maybe there isn’t, but one thing I know for sure is the quality of our time is the real commodity and richness in life. What a person spends their time doing is the ultimate equalizer. We’re all born with the same things. From that point on our decisions manipulate our time, how it is spent, used, abused, and forgotten. From birth our lives occupy space recycling, decomposing and dying to inevitability.

It is easy to give time away. To give precious time to someone else, something else, a loved one, narcissism, a job, a career, drugs, sex, money, perhaps there is a price on it, maybe it’s spent in an office, or in front of the T.V. Who are we to judge? As long as it’s spent pleasing what it is you want to do…. as long as it’s not just a one week vacation a year.

Nothing, now that is a great thing to do. Life doesn’t get much simpler than that. Like a Great Golden Buddha, living the simple life, the easy way, the free entity, the holy life, filling the mind with a whole lot of nothingness.

I start my car, light a smoke, and drive away.

 May 7th

I am dressed in a shallow low hiding for a surprise. The flower is the embodiment of true beauty. The rose, love, and passion, they are beautiful petals, colorful and full of life. The sexual symbol, the draw of attraction, a piston draping pollen over her opening, merge. Once the heightened bloom of her flower is plucked, her exquisite splendor begins to wither and die. Severed roses begin to decay the moment they are cut. The lust of love dies as it reaches bloom. Everything has a lifespan. Nothing flourishes forever. Even love has an expiration date.

In a town east of the Mississippi, I pluck purple lilacs along the sidewalk. A woman on a porch across the street yells at me, “you realize they die! You kill them when you rip off their branches!”

I reply, “There are hundreds of blossoms. I don’t think a couple missing will hurt anything.”

But she won’t give up. “They die when you pluck them!”

I stop and face her, “Everything dies!” I shout and continue towards the sunset sticking the two decaying lilac stems in my back pocket.

 May 8th

The very act of thinking is a disease.
What leaves mind void of thought?

 May 9th

Two women enter a bar through the main street doors. They sit down, light cigarettes and begin chatting. We pass the time in idle conversation, waiting to be interrupted. I should go over there and say, ‘excuse me’ followed by suave words that would make them both giggle.

I’ll stay in my seat looking at myself in the mirror and drink beer after beer, wishing I had something seductive to say. Nothing will come, as I seek inspiration at the bottom of each beer.

A yellow-stained mirror decorates the back of the bar behind the bartender. It reflects dozens of glowing booze bottles. I see myself sitting there amongst them. Do I look this funny to everyone else? I try to smile. I should be laughing.

I see a family outside, one mother, one father, and two children. They frolic in a park amongst other families, laughing and playing. High noon sun shines down on them like heaven. I sit watching from within the walls of this bar, damp, cool, dingy, dirty, and shaded. I decide to leave. I pass by a café. A little boy and girl, around the age of seven, bounce on a bench next to their mother. The boy has a blue ice cream mustache. “Bye, bye, bye guy,” the two little kids shout to me as I stumble by with a wave.

I see couples holding hands walking through parks. I see loud cars driving with American flags rippling in the wind. I see homeless people, men starving, pissing in phone booths, and airplanes roaring overhead. I see men flaunting and ruffling their feathers. I see a full shot of liquor. I see a long-haired fellow flirting with a teacher. I see old ladies with their canes and hunched spines drooping like sad willows. I see kids on bikes racing in the middle of the road. I see an old man sweep the dead leaves off his driveway. I see a crippled man in a wheel chair trying to cross the street. I see an empty beer glass with foam at the bottom. I see students wearing backpacks. I see no escape. I see no way home. I see no help. I see me drinking this shot and pouring another. I see me drinking that one and pouring another.

My phone rings. “Want to come over love?” her sweet, fragile voice saves me. “I got a bottle of Belvedere I need help drinking.”

“I’m out of town baby. Don’t think I can make it.” I hang up.

I see this town eating me alive. It’s been five days. I see the sun and moon fade by. I see tomorrow being the same as today. I see workers work. I see bees buzz and I see everyone being entertained. The skinny fellow at the bus stop shouts while giving me the ‘thumbs up.’ What the hell did he say? I see flowers bloom and my past vanish. I see the sunset and stars fill the sky. I see places where everyone knows everyone. I see myself driving away. I see no love. I seek no happiness. I see a way of life and it is angry. I see children grow up to be their parent’s angst. I see ugly futures. I see silence echo. I see empty rooms. I see hell. I see men wanting to live accomplished, recognized life. I see women wishing to be cherished and told they are beautiful. I see happiness and broken hearts. I see myself dying. I see sunlight dance on kitchen walls. I see people drinking coffee. I see no place to begin. I see people moving in an unseen future, like fish leaping out of polluted waters.

 May 11th

My ex lives in this town. I used to live with her a few years back. She is letting me sleep on her couch, use her bathroom, drink her booze, and eat her food. She is a delightful host and expresses kindness towards me.

There is a knock at the door. Am I asleep? This is how I formally meet Doc. His energy bounces in before I have a chance to open the door. Red tie, gray pin-striped pants, white shirt, small round glasses, white hair, and madness in his eyes.

“Like the ashes of a hobo! How have you been?” he asks.

“Fine,” I mumble rubbing my eyes. “I can’t quite figure out where I am.”

“Where you are? But kid, you’re right here.” He waves his hands in large circles while spinning on his heels.

“I’ve never seen this room before.” I said. A black ant crunches under my bare foot on the golden hardwood floor. The doc shines a grin.

“Come on kiddo!” he throws a large warm palm on my shoulder. “I want you to meet Anne.” She walks in behind him, pale and skinny with short black hair. She is solid and real. “She is a Ghost,” says Doc and he hands me a small cup steaming with coffee.

“Thank you,” I say and he leads me over to a pillow. I sit cross-legged and face him. Doc has a large gray beard and an aged face wrinkled with a smile that never fades.

“Anne used to live here,” he says, “in this very house.” It’s a giant white Victorian, built in 1905, with two massive pillars reaching from ground to roof. The house has been split into six apartments, a storage attic, and one mystery room where the maid must have lived. Stories say the woman who owned this place during the booming lumber industry was widowed at a young age. Tales tell of her deep agony and depression that drove her to leap from the second floor balcony with a rope around her neck.

Doc looks over at me with one eye open. “Now she is waiting,” he says lifting a gray bushy eyebrow.

“Oh! Hello Anne,” I say reaching out to shake her hand, because this is making complete sense and then Doc says, “Won’t you tell us your explanation of life, creation and the everything?” Off I go, blabbering like I know what I’m talking about. They stare motionless. I lose myself in dialect and it dawns on me. The entire universe is inside my head. I am inside my head. I am in a dream, consciously inside my head. It’s a bright revolution. I’m lucid realizing my own thoughts in a parallel valid reality. It is difficult for me to explain this epiphany. I utter words like, “energy, motion, time,” but my head is building pressure and the Doc stands up laughing. He brushes the wrinkles off his gray striped pants.

“AH!” He shouts. “Funny how you people make explanations for things that can’t be defined and how you create restriction when there isn’t any. Subdivide the divisions! Box it all in. The very act of pinpointing anything makes it distorted and the entirety is missed. Like trying to photograph an electron. People make borders for anything they can think of. This limits the human thought path. This is part of the disease that kills lucidity, the dream mind, the other half of the brain, the healthy brain, the spiritual body.” He turns, and walks out the door quickly. Anne follows.

I sit and drink my coffee while looking around. “I don’t remember this room having orange flower pattern wallpaper, “I say.

 May 12th

Limited space focuses action. People can only do so much in one particular environment before repeating themselves. This is the explanation for planetary rotation and galactic motion. Time must move through space for it to continue its existence. It’s a method of recycling energy, keeping it moving through ‘new’ space. This is the reason I have to leave this house.

I pack my belongings, fitting them neatly in one suitcase and head to the next city.

 May 13th

People are shiny creatures. All it takes is a little how do you do, hello, how is it going to get them friendly. It’s the commonalities that bring people together, all those similarities they can relate. ‘I know you man-you’re like this… and we’re the same cause we dig this type of music, and we’re cool cause we connect. Remember? I like Reeboks too.’

 May 14th

The air outside is chilled. I thought springtime meant warm breezes, green grass, blossoming trees and colorful flowers. This air has a strong freeze in her hair.

Tonight, I hesitate, but walk into the filth, through staircases, up flights of stairs and to the top floor. I wink, I walk, and I do the common gestures. I want to go home, but they all dance and sing along to the same song swaying to the beats of Mr. DJ, as he spins his records.

I am not into this. I can’t stand techno, but I know the host, I met the owner, I’ve conversed with the dancer on stage, and I’ve gotten friendly with the rambunctious gal flirting about. I’m a shadow of a ghost. I drink in peace at the back of the room. Fill my cup please, one more before I go. It gets beautifully lonesome no matter who is around.

We are all different even if we pretend to be similar. You know me? Yeah, that guy. Yeah, remember me? That guy that does that thing and it is so funny how we know each other.

Mud roof sunshine.

If there isn’t any other way to dry it out,
    Let me know
    If you find out,
Because I’d like to know 
        What it’s all about.

Moon-shine mud roof.
    Can’t see the light of day
    Even if the birds begin to chirp and play.
    Just put a cracker in their mouth
        hopefully they’ll have nothing more to say.

 May 15th

I say bury all those mother fucking damn nubber tops. Bring the dirt up over their ugly heads. Sink them in the mud. You can do it. It’s all right! Yeah, just push them down with your thumb. Good. Now say, ‘fuck them nubber toppers because they don’t fit. Fuck em!’

 May 16th

I wake up missing a shoe. Vomit crusted on my shirt. A fat orange cat purring on my stomach. I give her a little pet and sit up on the green couch. The room is empty, dark, shades drawn. How did I get here? Somewhere a constant dripping of water echoes in a bucket. I find my shoe near the front door and leave.