Months go by where I buy the passing of each day. Sunrise to sunset, bills are laid out, purchases are chosen; decisions of diet and moviegoing are vapidly weighed and committed to. Nothing means much, and everything costs much.
Time passes in decades. I feel gravity shoving its stinking ass against my waist as I try to just walk down the street. Nobody has anywhere to go and nobody moves unless it is to impede my trajectory. You practically need an inhaler now to get down the street in New york. Every block must now have at least half of it covered in scaffolding, where the smoking hordes can blow the tar in a direct tunnel up your nasal passage and into your lungs. Massive construction sites break up the other half of every block, plus every other person on the street is a German tourist. Homeless criminals are carrying brooms to violently sweep fecal dust and construction worm eggs in your face. How nice, they are on city clean up duty . I'm always in a hurry, yet I never notice how much time I've lost until I'm deep in my 20s, or I'm finishing my 30s. How many tens of years more can i blow to shit? This is a question belying optimism.
"You can't fight it. The next generation is electric." And they're young. "REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE YOUNG!"
I can't. I get flashes of remembrances, and they seem to be markedly "not me", some other person i know better than anyone else but i have trouble remembering well. And she is nothing if NOT me now, at least that's what i tell myself in stories.
Bring back the story of Electric Youth. I had lobbied hard for Play the Field, but Electric Youth was the only Gibson song my primary coke buddy i'd binge with would allow to be played. I remember the time i smoked crack.
I don't know where i was but it was a party or a small club. I came right back home to my buddy , JoJo, and this song was playing and it was so intense, being high on crack the first time, though i didn't know what i had smoked, i was convinced of the odd opinion it was some evil magic mix of freebase and dust. Yea, i wish.
And i heard the staccato punctuating energetic drama of my beloved Debbie singing her immediate points in Electric Youth right as I forced myself to hurl, in the bathroom, because though I had a phobia against throwing up, I was hyperventilating from the crack. The high was in my throat and my heart rate, the type you count during an aerobic break or they used to have you do on the videodiscs and VHS of the olden days, that was also something inside my throat. This was the type of heart rate that was exploding all over, it could not even be counted! So it had to come up, it was not even a debatable issue. Nevermind my vomit aversion. I was clearly making good decisions. As soon as the throwing up was accomplished (my only time i chose to do that) the high in my throat came right up and out . It was removed, nothing but a small dusting of edgy energy residing.
Lately things lodge, they no longer come up.
My neck always hurts.
I don't finish books anymore, at least not many. I make time to tell myself to read, but like I'm going retard, I stare at ink marks I know are words, and they are in a pattern. So then two hours have passed, and I don't know that I know what it even is to read. I pause to pardon myself, reasoning i must not have enough exercise or meditation time to first clear my head before I can read.
And then, happy with this realization, I do nothing.
I feel startled when once every six months I feel an intense emotion. It isn't because of anything I bought, be it special or basic.
Pocahontas' life changed when Captain Argall and his colonials threw her in the hole. She made the best of it, and she agreed to feign affection for whoever exposed themselves as an avenue to freedom. Freedom would never be a new life, no matter what accompanied it, it would only be a return, back to where she belonged.
'I believe she's tolerably comfortable, albeit she broods. I've commenced to instruct her in her letters, & amp; find her of a ready aptitude. But she craves company --'--But she withdrew into her own torment ...hunching her shoulders..." ARGALL by William T. Vollmann
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