Perspiration, admiration, hesitation, anticipation, but most importantly procrastination. The entire world seems to be waiting, with baited breath, waiting for you to make a move, but how can you? Why should you? There were so many things in the world that needed to be done; apologies, explanations, projects, repairs, cleaning, work, you name it, it wasn’t getting done. My life had become a swirling abyss of thinking to myself “Does it really matter? Does anybody understand?
No. Nobody does, but that’s okay, I don’t want to attempt to understand anybody else either. This is my very own litter box and it’s up to me to tend to it. Right now, It seems my scoop is missing.
“Sometimes you just have to pee in the sink.”
― Charles Bukowski
I sat, quietly on my bed, wondering what happened to my drive. Where did my will to write go? I used to have everything, I used to want for nothing. I had everything handed to me with an open door and a smile. I needed nothing, I was comfortable in my life, but that wasn’t it, I needed something else. The problem was that the chaos that I needed was the same thing that was killing me and destroying everything in the world that I had worked hard for. I worked to achieve a reputation as a designer, a writer, a web designer, a good girlfriend/wife/partner, a good sister/daughter/cousin. Where did that drive go, why didn’t I care anymore? If anything I was almost flipping the bird to anybody and anything that seemed to care about me. Fuck the world, I was on a destructive path to hell thinking to myself the whole time “so what, hell, it doesn’t sound so bad, I don’t like ice water anyways.”
Why, though, did my life turn into this Hollywood production of a decadent and depraved lifestyle that chases stuff that doesn’t exist. I was Don Quixote, I was going for the windmills, I was going for that mirage, but I didn’t know why. What in the world did my professional life turn into? Where did my journalism skills go from interviewing important people in the back of race trailers to crashing my car and making a story of it. Where did I go from being interested in becoming a race car driver myself to just chasing other people and their fast cars. Did my brain snap and just decide that it wanted speed, extreme speed, and booze. What happened? Where did I go wrong?
I didn’t realize it until I took a moment to analyze my heros. Although the old song croons about “heros always been cowboys”, I never had that. My heros have always been in the drug culture, the bar culture, or even the back alley gambling and crime circuit. When other girls were looking up to role models of beauty or intelligence my inspiration was to be fucked over, or fuck other people over. The role models of my childhood didn’t watch Disney movies, go to the museum or even watch the news in the morning. My role models were deep into the consciousness expansion of life.It only happens once, so, why not?
“For way down there, in a shot glass’s false bottom, everything was bound to turn out fine after all.”
― Nelson Algren, The Man With the Golden Arm
I read the Golden Arm back in college (the first time), a midst my crazy trying to achieve and also find myself period. Lets just say neither of them happened and the only thing that I took from that particular time frame was the ability to lose myself chemically. It was golden, just like the Heroin that was depicted in the book. If you haven’t read it, it’s okay, not many people have, however the prime character in the book was Sophie, the lead males woman. Sophie was an innocent bystander in some ways, and was wheel chair bound due to the main character having too much, ahem, fun, and crashing the car she was riding in. She was paralyzed, and of course the male figure had a lot on his shoulders knowing that he ruined her life more or less. She would spend her time looking out out at the “El” in Chicago and he’d go out and hustle.
Hustle, that was his life. For some reasons I can relate to him more than I can the wheelchair bound heroine (different sort of heroine). He was haunted by his indiscretions, he screwed up her life and as a noble man, he stepped up to his duties. Although it was never quite certain if she was putting on a mental fuck on dude and could actually work but didn’t want him to know because she was utilizing his guilt to make it easy to capitalize on his gullibility. He loved her, he felt guilty, he needed escape. He found that on the streets of Chicago. The primary difference is that I feel I’ve put myself in that wheelchair, I’ve crashed myself, and am not having an excellent time getting away from the guilt and remorse of it.
With heroes like Charles Bukowski and Hunter S Thompson, it’s hard for me not to approach it with a cynical vantage point. If I’ve already proverbially pissed in the sink, what’s to stop me from doing it again? If I’ve already blown my paycheck on ridiculous mind altering nonsense, what’s to stop me from doing it again. I’ve lost everything that has ever mattered to me, what makes me want to put the pieces back together again? Isn’t it easier to go along and keep pissing in the sink and blowing money on things that temporarily make me feel good (like cookies and beer!). Easier, yes, the right thing, no.
My difference is that in the book Sophie was a constant reminder of failure and mistakes. I’m haunted with my won Sophie everyday. She goes with me to work, to the store, hell, I sleep with Sophie every night. I. Am. Sophie.
“You can walk? …Since when?” Frankie (the main dude) to Sophie
I can walk, I just forgot how.