What is the allure of the past that the present and future cant compete with? My head is all past tonight just a non-ending repetition of 96, 97, 98, 99, over and over again running that crazy loop clean into infinity. Theres a girl holding a constant place beside me. The night is hot. The night is cold. The night is always blurry and looks like beer after beer pounded into oblivion. Im explaining to her that people should look the way they feel people should look blurry people should look like a random process of misfiring calculations and funny ideas and bad ideas and sad ideas and glad ideas. Im in love with her, but Im too nave for love and hence, settle for drinking. Im on guard. Im a lookout. People want what I have but I wont give it up. She wants what I have but I wont give it up. My self is an essence that I hold clear for all to see and none to care a crystalline prize and shes staring at me sideways out of the corner of her eyes, motioning to others about that funny thing I said that one time when no one cared and life was drunk like gypsies. Glasses are clinking and conversations are canceling each other out all through out the bar, all through out the night, leaving a pure wash of sound emanating out of every drunken downtown club. Buildings are stretching into infinity, greenlit with fluorescent lights, grounded by sidewalks, haunted by bronzeglow streetlights and a million different instances of a million different people all gone and here and coming, gone and here and coming, gone and here and coming and one day therell be nothing once it all loops around on itself.
Were going places. Im in her car. Shes in my car. This is her apartment after dark. This is my apartment in the early morning hours. This is that one Polvo summer and all the talk of those songs that were the era that tasted like hot beer sneaked into stores in plastic cups and vodka and sprite in water bottles and all the things youre not supposed to do at the mall. This is that Yo La Tengo sextape summer. This is that Pavement summer when I told her the bar tender looked like Chloe Sevigny, only moments later, to actually run into Chloe Sevigny who wasnt the least bit famous-acting just tall and quiet and sweet. These are those long drives from city to city. This is that constant back and forth of almost-adults college parents college parents, etc. These were all the promises I made when I first met her and life was engulfed with enthusiasm. Every night was god every beer a testament to the fact. This is that era when night time was sacred and rituals had meaning.
This is my first true notion of the others subjectivity theres an essence inside that head, behind that face, inside that body and those perfect tits and perfect hips and that ass that drives me crazy theres a life inside there and its blurring with mine. Our subjectivities are mixed and intermingling shes standing off to the side, talking to people and my thoughts are her thoughts, only my bodys aching from this drinking guts rotting heart pounding this crazy sickness thats over-ridden because Im existing in her body too transcended because my life is her life and vice versa.
But all of this all of this will fade. England will happen. France will happen. New York will happen and Ill get so sick of smarty-pants would-be film makers and their fucking world travel shell ride that allure cause Ill have nothing to offer but a building resentment towards her. And now of course, itll be new boys shell step from one stone to the next, but always clinging to me in the process. These are the falls and winters of beer and real jobs adult dilemmas and a slow death of the soul. This is the pulling away. These are the latenights of self-indulgence the seemingly infinite burning agony of her with him and all the where she was and what they were doing that a person can stand. This is detachment at its worst. This is bad attitudes and strip clubs and endless drunk nights of bad TV. This is the never-ending crumbling process and the realization of mortality. This is the inevitable maturation that comes with sobriety the death of the former self and all the sleepless nights and rampant impatience that makes you understand what it is to be crazy.
But itll all lead to an eventual lessening an easing of anguish a fading of memories a loss of concern. Solitude brings forth a zen-acceptance and everything is quiet like beach-nights. Mortality and immortality form an easy unity thats always been. People go their separate ways.
And Im way separate.
Were going places. Im in her car. Shes in my car. This is her apartment after dark. This is my apartment in the early morning hours. This is that one Polvo summer and all the talk of those songs that were the era that tasted like hot beer sneaked into stores in plastic cups and vodka and sprite in water bottles and all the things youre not supposed to do at the mall. This is that Yo La Tengo sextape summer. This is that Pavement summer when I told her the bar tender looked like Chloe Sevigny, only moments later, to actually run into Chloe Sevigny who wasnt the least bit famous-acting just tall and quiet and sweet. These are those long drives from city to city. This is that constant back and forth of almost-adults college parents college parents, etc. These were all the promises I made when I first met her and life was engulfed with enthusiasm. Every night was god every beer a testament to the fact. This is that era when night time was sacred and rituals had meaning.
This is my first true notion of the others subjectivity theres an essence inside that head, behind that face, inside that body and those perfect tits and perfect hips and that ass that drives me crazy theres a life inside there and its blurring with mine. Our subjectivities are mixed and intermingling shes standing off to the side, talking to people and my thoughts are her thoughts, only my bodys aching from this drinking guts rotting heart pounding this crazy sickness thats over-ridden because Im existing in her body too transcended because my life is her life and vice versa.
But all of this all of this will fade. England will happen. France will happen. New York will happen and Ill get so sick of smarty-pants would-be film makers and their fucking world travel shell ride that allure cause Ill have nothing to offer but a building resentment towards her. And now of course, itll be new boys shell step from one stone to the next, but always clinging to me in the process. These are the falls and winters of beer and real jobs adult dilemmas and a slow death of the soul. This is the pulling away. These are the latenights of self-indulgence the seemingly infinite burning agony of her with him and all the where she was and what they were doing that a person can stand. This is detachment at its worst. This is bad attitudes and strip clubs and endless drunk nights of bad TV. This is the never-ending crumbling process and the realization of mortality. This is the inevitable maturation that comes with sobriety the death of the former self and all the sleepless nights and rampant impatience that makes you understand what it is to be crazy.
But itll all lead to an eventual lessening an easing of anguish a fading of memories a loss of concern. Solitude brings forth a zen-acceptance and everything is quiet like beach-nights. Mortality and immortality form an easy unity thats always been. People go their separate ways.
And Im way separate.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
drknievel:
Wow, pure poetry in prose form. You don't even need to tell a story but it reads like a novel. That's the way I try to write fiction. 
captknutz:
I like it , better than anything I've ever done by far, reminds me of henry miller, but not 