Seems like it's time for an update--but nothing's really up, so here's the first 1,000 words of so of the memoir I'm working on from my time in England.
Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
*******
On the night before September 11th, I split an eight ounce of psychedelic mushrooms with Jim R*****, an acting major at DePaul who Id been sleeping with on and off since the previous summer, when hes let me deflower him on his futon mattress during his roommates 21st birthday party. This time around we were getting daringly close to falling in love, but tread lightly, knowing our romance would probably come to an end when I left for my junior year abroad in England three weeks later.
The mushrooms, even after wed soaked them in green tea, has the taste of mold and the texture first of old shoe leather and then of gristle. It was my first time. Id tried acid a year earlier with mixed results, and was hoping this particular experiment with psychotropics would lend it to something more spiritual, more revelatory.
We spent the next three hours wandering from the kitchen, where we drank tea, to the back porch where we smoked cigarette after cigarette and Jim waxed philosophical about his classmates. The more he spoke the more uncomfortable I grew. I had nothing to offer, and besides, the only thing I wanted in the world was to watch the bricks on the next building melt together and drip down the wall in temporal shades of black and brown.
Back in the kitchen, Jim wedged himself into a corner of counter, cupping his large mug of tea, the sort of mug they once cracked on Friends might as well have a nipple, close against his solar plexus. Jim sighed and said I mean, there are just so many other things going on in the world. Its not like acting class is a fuck, whats it called, those people who wage Islamic holy war?
A jihad?
Yeah, but isnt there another word? Like for the people.
I shrugged and looked down. He was wearing green sweatpants and seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he had an erection. I wasnt sure what to make of it. Wed never spent a night together without having sex, and Id sort of assumed, despite my noble intentions, that we were going to have really hot, transcendental sex at least once before we went to sleep.
Ever since the mushrooms started kicking in, though, I felt like I didnt have it in me. I wanted sex, wanted it empirically, wanted it with him, but my body felt prickly and shut-off, as though a touch, for me, would have been like the a sudden screech of feedback inches from my ear.
We finished our tea and retired to his bedroom, reclining nearly prostrate on his floor-bound mattress. He read to me from a black and white Taoist picture book, but he seemed to be talking so loud that I couldnt follow. I shut my eyes and thought of Chuang-Tzu and the butterfly.
We woke up the next morning in decent spirits. Jim performed his toilette and left for school. Secretly I wished he didnt have to go, that we could just spend the day together, go out for breakfast, maybe catch a movie, lie around and talk. Instead I got on my bike and rode the two miles to my moms house. Looking back, I remember thinking how frozen and ghost-like the streets seemed, how odd Id thought it was that the only thing moving in the sky was a military helicopter, but I wonder now if I had those thoughts or if I created them so that day would make more sense. Because it just doesnt seem possible that I could have done all those normal things: drunk orange juice, kissed Jim, locked my bike in the garage, changed the water in the cats bowl, without noticing that something was off.
When I turned on the TV, both planes had hit and the first building fallen. I sat, awestruck, and watched the second collapse with that fearsome tingle you get around your cheeks when youre opening an acceptance letter or asking someone for a date.
I thought of jury duty. I was off that day and was supposed to call after six in the evening to find out if my number had been called again. I wondered what it had been like for the people that had to go in, and was mostly glad and a little disappointed that I hadnt been part of the mass evacuation from downtown, part of the fear and buzz burning through the thousands of people heaving to the subway, thrusting toward home.
I called my mother at work. Whats going on? I said, knowing what a strange question it was. I dont understand.
And of course all she could answer was, I dont know.
Weeks before, Id made an appointment to see a psychiatrist. Under the best of circumstances Im not a very well-adjusted person, and major life changes, even when fully endorsed by my ego, have been known to throw me into extremely self-destructive depressions. So, in anticipation of my big trip, I decided to put myself back on a strict Prozac regimen for the first time in two years.
The appointment was on the 14th; her office was on a mid-level floor in a high rise on the east side of Michigan Avenue. We chatted about the usualmy father, my cutting, the burden of intelligencenot bothering to go into much depth since we knew we wouldnt be seeing each other again, at least, not for the next nine months. I hinted that I sometimes felt a little panicky, which was true, but I mostly said it because Id just finished reading 4 Blondes by Candace Bushnell and I was wondering if I could get something interesting out of it. On top of the Prozac, she gave a me a months long prescription of Xanax, to be taken when needed, but never more than three times a day. I looked at her and nodded soberly. Her explanation of the drug didnt really make sense to meit took a half hour to start working; my attacks never lasted much more than ten minutes. Id been hoping for something more like an asthma inhaler, something that would just kick the fear and worry and complete hatred of the world straight out of my head like it was a soccer ball. Thwap.
Oh, well, I thought. At least theyd help me sleep.
Constructive criticism is more than welcome.
*******
On the night before September 11th, I split an eight ounce of psychedelic mushrooms with Jim R*****, an acting major at DePaul who Id been sleeping with on and off since the previous summer, when hes let me deflower him on his futon mattress during his roommates 21st birthday party. This time around we were getting daringly close to falling in love, but tread lightly, knowing our romance would probably come to an end when I left for my junior year abroad in England three weeks later.
The mushrooms, even after wed soaked them in green tea, has the taste of mold and the texture first of old shoe leather and then of gristle. It was my first time. Id tried acid a year earlier with mixed results, and was hoping this particular experiment with psychotropics would lend it to something more spiritual, more revelatory.
We spent the next three hours wandering from the kitchen, where we drank tea, to the back porch where we smoked cigarette after cigarette and Jim waxed philosophical about his classmates. The more he spoke the more uncomfortable I grew. I had nothing to offer, and besides, the only thing I wanted in the world was to watch the bricks on the next building melt together and drip down the wall in temporal shades of black and brown.
Back in the kitchen, Jim wedged himself into a corner of counter, cupping his large mug of tea, the sort of mug they once cracked on Friends might as well have a nipple, close against his solar plexus. Jim sighed and said I mean, there are just so many other things going on in the world. Its not like acting class is a fuck, whats it called, those people who wage Islamic holy war?
A jihad?
Yeah, but isnt there another word? Like for the people.
I shrugged and looked down. He was wearing green sweatpants and seemed to be oblivious to the fact that he had an erection. I wasnt sure what to make of it. Wed never spent a night together without having sex, and Id sort of assumed, despite my noble intentions, that we were going to have really hot, transcendental sex at least once before we went to sleep.
Ever since the mushrooms started kicking in, though, I felt like I didnt have it in me. I wanted sex, wanted it empirically, wanted it with him, but my body felt prickly and shut-off, as though a touch, for me, would have been like the a sudden screech of feedback inches from my ear.
We finished our tea and retired to his bedroom, reclining nearly prostrate on his floor-bound mattress. He read to me from a black and white Taoist picture book, but he seemed to be talking so loud that I couldnt follow. I shut my eyes and thought of Chuang-Tzu and the butterfly.
We woke up the next morning in decent spirits. Jim performed his toilette and left for school. Secretly I wished he didnt have to go, that we could just spend the day together, go out for breakfast, maybe catch a movie, lie around and talk. Instead I got on my bike and rode the two miles to my moms house. Looking back, I remember thinking how frozen and ghost-like the streets seemed, how odd Id thought it was that the only thing moving in the sky was a military helicopter, but I wonder now if I had those thoughts or if I created them so that day would make more sense. Because it just doesnt seem possible that I could have done all those normal things: drunk orange juice, kissed Jim, locked my bike in the garage, changed the water in the cats bowl, without noticing that something was off.
When I turned on the TV, both planes had hit and the first building fallen. I sat, awestruck, and watched the second collapse with that fearsome tingle you get around your cheeks when youre opening an acceptance letter or asking someone for a date.
I thought of jury duty. I was off that day and was supposed to call after six in the evening to find out if my number had been called again. I wondered what it had been like for the people that had to go in, and was mostly glad and a little disappointed that I hadnt been part of the mass evacuation from downtown, part of the fear and buzz burning through the thousands of people heaving to the subway, thrusting toward home.
I called my mother at work. Whats going on? I said, knowing what a strange question it was. I dont understand.
And of course all she could answer was, I dont know.
Weeks before, Id made an appointment to see a psychiatrist. Under the best of circumstances Im not a very well-adjusted person, and major life changes, even when fully endorsed by my ego, have been known to throw me into extremely self-destructive depressions. So, in anticipation of my big trip, I decided to put myself back on a strict Prozac regimen for the first time in two years.
The appointment was on the 14th; her office was on a mid-level floor in a high rise on the east side of Michigan Avenue. We chatted about the usualmy father, my cutting, the burden of intelligencenot bothering to go into much depth since we knew we wouldnt be seeing each other again, at least, not for the next nine months. I hinted that I sometimes felt a little panicky, which was true, but I mostly said it because Id just finished reading 4 Blondes by Candace Bushnell and I was wondering if I could get something interesting out of it. On top of the Prozac, she gave a me a months long prescription of Xanax, to be taken when needed, but never more than three times a day. I looked at her and nodded soberly. Her explanation of the drug didnt really make sense to meit took a half hour to start working; my attacks never lasted much more than ten minutes. Id been hoping for something more like an asthma inhaler, something that would just kick the fear and worry and complete hatred of the world straight out of my head like it was a soccer ball. Thwap.
Oh, well, I thought. At least theyd help me sleep.
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I still haven't had a chance to read this. I will. I promise. I just have a few things to get done before I can devote the time and concentration to it that it deserves.
on a side note: i finally got in to SGchicago. after ALLL this time!