Confessions of a Fuck-Up Artist
Mar. 26th, 2013 01:41 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
jack_babalonFile it:
At 7 o'clock the Contact shows up for Operation: Reload. Banana Kush at four Jacksons no questions asked. Drop off and delivery to boot so you can't beat that. The Contact is cool, secret agent professional and gun-fighter of body language. Most artsy types and drug dealers tend to be. Threw myself on the mercy of the Contact before s/he left. I need to get out of the house. I need a few drinks in me on this, the last Monday of my year 40. I'm a bad writer, Contact, but good company I assure you - back up in the alleyways 24-7-365 guaranteed and all gentleman across the ballroom waltz I assure you. The Contact laughed and loaded me into their pick-up truck as we rode down to the Yacht.
Two whiskeys deep at a booth by the kitchen doorway and we ran into my darling Nurse Feisty. She joined us for a conversation of comic books, strange cinema, make-up, special effects, literature and confessions ringing anecdotic. I told them about a dream I had this morning when I woke an hour before the alarm clock rang. Skip this if need be, for as a fellow human being I too know how tedious the dreams of other people. I'll do my best.
I was supposed to meet Neil Gaiman at some house off Dekalb Avenue for a forgotten purpose. What was important to me however was that I was going to get there on my bicycle but be completely naked the whole ride. Which I did, because dreams to be frank can be fucking awesome that way, so yeah naked me rode down Dekalb at night to meet the dude who wrote the Sandman. Fucking A. However a block before I arrived I stopped off on the railroad tracks to get dressed (as I had my clothes suddenly and conveniently attached to a sack on the back of Baby - my beloved 21 speed steed). However I had a wardrobe malfunction - because for some reason my boxers wouldn't untangle for me to slip into. I kept dropping them. When I picked them up they I noticed a turquoise (thank you spell check) earring an ex-girlfriend lost on this date you don't have time to hear about laying between the tracks. I tried picking it up but when I did, I realized I missed (for lack of a better word), and had only gravel or dirt in my hand. That's when I woke up. Despite the tease - no actual Neil Gaiman cameo. (Insert frown emoticon here).
Jesus, any other human would order the strongest drink in the house and then splash it in my face in hopes of setting me on fire before escaping from this hell-hole snapshot of psyche-zero. Instead they both smiled and laughed and spilt wisdom. Jesus, I adore Nurse Feisty and the Contact. My extended 'Gang of Souls'. Anyway, the Italian in me insisted on picking up the tab for them, and we made our way out of the bar. (With brief hugs and cameos from Double Dee and Bob Dracula).
The Contact and I walked Nurse Feisty back to her pad in L5P behind the parking lot of Zeitgeist Chicken (home of the Z-Burger and Z-Basket D-Lite!). Packed myself back into the truck and rode back to the pad. Indulged in a rare joint (budget cuts have me packing bowls instead of rolling jays these days). Hopped on the book of faces where my ex Violet sent me a request about a memorial page to my dearest and most missed of friends - who I call 'Jimmy'.
Blah, blah, blah and I click through some websites until I come across a page with all these images of him. And drunken, stupid ass me I ask this jpeg on a monitor - "Why aren't you here?" As if he, much less any of us, could answer.
Okay, don't mistake this for a black head space or a bad existential trip prior the next Birthday only two dawns away now. No, this is a recognition. This is a call to duty. This is looking in his eyes and knowing full well the invocation of his ghost I summon in the next book . This was a man who, like the Contact, is descended from a mutant breed of Germaniac and Viking Raider. This is a warrior, a front line general and in his shadow I served once proudly. My secret life, before Secret Rooms and Secret ambitions.
It is no accident my ex summoned forth this image of the man who gave me so much strength when the light was his to catch in the eyes. So high on my Parcival kick, I'm ready to joust hard and brave to tell this hidden little tale of mine. I tell you as I write under a hood, like superheroes before they save the day or executioners in the gallows noon - your call.
10-4. Over and out.
At 7 o'clock the Contact shows up for Operation: Reload. Banana Kush at four Jacksons no questions asked. Drop off and delivery to boot so you can't beat that. The Contact is cool, secret agent professional and gun-fighter of body language. Most artsy types and drug dealers tend to be. Threw myself on the mercy of the Contact before s/he left. I need to get out of the house. I need a few drinks in me on this, the last Monday of my year 40. I'm a bad writer, Contact, but good company I assure you - back up in the alleyways 24-7-365 guaranteed and all gentleman across the ballroom waltz I assure you. The Contact laughed and loaded me into their pick-up truck as we rode down to the Yacht.
Two whiskeys deep at a booth by the kitchen doorway and we ran into my darling Nurse Feisty. She joined us for a conversation of comic books, strange cinema, make-up, special effects, literature and confessions ringing anecdotic. I told them about a dream I had this morning when I woke an hour before the alarm clock rang. Skip this if need be, for as a fellow human being I too know how tedious the dreams of other people. I'll do my best.
I was supposed to meet Neil Gaiman at some house off Dekalb Avenue for a forgotten purpose. What was important to me however was that I was going to get there on my bicycle but be completely naked the whole ride. Which I did, because dreams to be frank can be fucking awesome that way, so yeah naked me rode down Dekalb at night to meet the dude who wrote the Sandman. Fucking A. However a block before I arrived I stopped off on the railroad tracks to get dressed (as I had my clothes suddenly and conveniently attached to a sack on the back of Baby - my beloved 21 speed steed). However I had a wardrobe malfunction - because for some reason my boxers wouldn't untangle for me to slip into. I kept dropping them. When I picked them up they I noticed a turquoise (thank you spell check) earring an ex-girlfriend lost on this date you don't have time to hear about laying between the tracks. I tried picking it up but when I did, I realized I missed (for lack of a better word), and had only gravel or dirt in my hand. That's when I woke up. Despite the tease - no actual Neil Gaiman cameo. (Insert frown emoticon here).
Jesus, any other human would order the strongest drink in the house and then splash it in my face in hopes of setting me on fire before escaping from this hell-hole snapshot of psyche-zero. Instead they both smiled and laughed and spilt wisdom. Jesus, I adore Nurse Feisty and the Contact. My extended 'Gang of Souls'. Anyway, the Italian in me insisted on picking up the tab for them, and we made our way out of the bar. (With brief hugs and cameos from Double Dee and Bob Dracula).
The Contact and I walked Nurse Feisty back to her pad in L5P behind the parking lot of Zeitgeist Chicken (home of the Z-Burger and Z-Basket D-Lite!). Packed myself back into the truck and rode back to the pad. Indulged in a rare joint (budget cuts have me packing bowls instead of rolling jays these days). Hopped on the book of faces where my ex Violet sent me a request about a memorial page to my dearest and most missed of friends - who I call 'Jimmy'.
Blah, blah, blah and I click through some websites until I come across a page with all these images of him. And drunken, stupid ass me I ask this jpeg on a monitor - "Why aren't you here?" As if he, much less any of us, could answer.
Okay, don't mistake this for a black head space or a bad existential trip prior the next Birthday only two dawns away now. No, this is a recognition. This is a call to duty. This is looking in his eyes and knowing full well the invocation of his ghost I summon in the next book . This was a man who, like the Contact, is descended from a mutant breed of Germaniac and Viking Raider. This is a warrior, a front line general and in his shadow I served once proudly. My secret life, before Secret Rooms and Secret ambitions.
It is no accident my ex summoned forth this image of the man who gave me so much strength when the light was his to catch in the eyes. So high on my Parcival kick, I'm ready to joust hard and brave to tell this hidden little tale of mine. I tell you as I write under a hood, like superheroes before they save the day or executioners in the gallows noon - your call.
10-4. Over and out.