Disturbed Reminiscence and Existence in Broad

The fragility of the hypotheses was that even if I did remember what had happened, the memory could have been comprised by the flash of abundant booze and dirty neon lighting, not to mention the dismal circumstance and standing of the entire history of the night, and of every other night that had ever passed by my eyes.

Splintered wreckage, shards of chemical reaction that fasten things to your recollection, tinges and tints, lips and eyes like brilliant swarming constellations, drunken poetic banter and booming shouts of obscenity, drinking swift on the clean bright streets, wishing your life absent before it seems worthwhile and then after it does as well.

However we are free. The eternal curse of living. At any given time at any given space we can do what ever it is we please. This night I drank until the planet burst open and introduced me to some hot girls I’d never met before. Hours past daybreak and the hangover is so disastrous that suicide seems sensible. You wake up in some anaesthetised drift, lighter and heavier at the same moment just waiting for the kick-start of damage and brutal nauseous survival. Your life was pretty terrible yesterday, but right now your entire existence is useless. Everything you’d ever planned for it is void, relationship troubles, parents and friends on your ass, money, popularity, security, sex, fitness, meaning, satisfaction, nothing is enough to overcome the liberty of wishing you were dead, there is no superior self-determination, hangovers are bad for the soul insomuch as they lend a darker perception, they allow a man to not overlook the importance of just being damn alive…Do you detect still what I vitally propose?

Now he’s explaining to me how he has nothing to say to most people and even less to say to the rest.

I say that’s understandable.

I say I’ve been in that mode my entire life.

There are flashbacks of being at bars with unfurling swank about them. Of the obliviousness concerning all men and the immense infatuation toward fine looking broads. Of the way the liquor so potent that arsonists would delight with it’s capacity is being dispensed down your throat and savoured, of how sound you know you dance, how fucking level you are with both bitches and sons of bitches, and you are so much smarter than anyone else and fuck them and the public and even the supreme being who apparently gave you the capacity to work out that mostly everything and nothing are the same albeit with an offhand approach and great sense of style.
Though suddenly I am more concerned with the nature and compound makeup of flashbacks and less about their content. Brain matter firing something amid synapses disaffected by booze and the slaughter of cells. How can reality lived be lost forever in the morning. How can that be fair? Memory loss, blackouts and abductions, deja vu of déjà vu, I believe I recollect something about that, commit to memory the rope learning of the best and sunniest moments of your life and try to work out how much of them you invented or borrowed or added to for remembrances sake. How much floridity or clearness did you insert, how much awfulness or ennui did you omit.

How much were the things that nearly happened the most wondrous of your life.

Enough though of this unclarified word muck, two episodes undeniably stand out amongst the journey toward dawn that night. Maybe there are three. The initial duo exist while the third only really seems to. Nevertheless.

 

Dehydration and Despair
Irish was about and he is hardly ever just about and if I tell it properly he wasn’t only about that night either. He was thriving and furious and really trying with everything he had to not just be there but to transcend that night and enter the record of nights and as such he was drinking til it hurt. Now he was with the Gunman who was performing his so called null art and I only met them there by a fluke. We must have been at the casino because I’d ended up with more money than I’d started with and I hadn’t held up any liquor stores to the best of recollection. Together those two were playing the space about them with quarrel over the validity of numerous topics, even the girls with them were in on it, spats about the significance of Joyce over all other literature, concerning the consequence of phallus dimensions, trying to entirely disagree when speech came to amounts of liquor consumed and finally the never-ending debate over where Pavlich should play, I say where ever they need him but who am I advise. Anyhow the row got a little vicious and a wayward punch was thrown into the atmosphere. Playful cruel seconds that erupt from friendly discussions simmered by jungle juice. It struck Irish, a clip really. He looked at the Gun, then at his drink, deciding on the occasion. He drank in a gulp and ordered another and drained that plus snatching mine in consecutive gulps followed by hollowing gasps and then busting through at the crowd and to the restrooms. I pursue. Get in there and can’t find the guy. I can hear the retching, ghastly banshee heaves and groans, I thought to myself the boy hadn’t downed all that much, he had had a number but I’d observed him do further than it. I quickly realised I’d discounted the hip flask with straight up burning liquor.

A rookie oversight.

The room was full of guys trying their darnedest to piss and not look at anyone else’s genitalia. A tough gig for several. I hastened toward the cubicle producing the racket and tap open the door and Irish is on his knees praying not to die.

He doesn’t see me at first and I just watch his close to corpse writhe around and whisper water…water to himself again and yet again. The man is in the worst kind of hurt, the wish you were deceased variety, heedless of me there, of the fact that he’s lying in cold urine, probably some gag and ejaculate to boot, he stumbles up somehow, kneels over the thing and flushes it thrice, for good measure he tells me later, now things get a little corrupt here, I just view and could have maybe helped, Irish claims the water wouldn’t have come quick enough still, he claims he looked out the door through me and all the basins were taken, that going to the bar for free ice water was out of the question and that this was a matter of life and possible bereavement, that his brain had shrunk and the veins were shrivelling, his cells were collapsing into one another in an waterless and barren disintegration. I won’t sell this to you, without delay now, he dipped his silver flask in the toilet and it bubbled til full, drained it, dipped, drain, dip, drain, dip, I admit that I watched in enthrallment for at least two complete minutes. And you can’t talk to a man immediately after seeing a thing like that, so I motored. Met some shimmering blonde at the bar and bought us both a drink. Her eyes were this earthy green grey with lightning flecks and she was studying law at UWA. Just my type I tell you. Irish was out soon, he looked first-rate. Hair slicked and mouth wiped and exactness in his watery vision. I thought fuck it, bought him a drink too.

Side Notes
Is it possible to possibly know anything with any trueness or clarity? If I wrung my flesh til the bones bled what would come of it? Is it better to question the time you live in or add to it or is questioning it adding to it? If human perception is divided in over six billion segments how can anyone ever really be strictly and truly correct? Is relief the best emotion of them all? Why is sex the greatest taboo in the world yet without it we don’t even exist? If you can enlighten any of these in a capacity you think I’ll acknowledge you had better be confident or I’ll have to hand you your ass in a street fight. Know what…forget it.

The Doll and the Drifter
I know for a fact I met a different girl that night. Asked her to elope with me to Zurich and she just laughed so clearly that her smile I swear to God shone. She was a drunken luminary with hair like draping golden thread and a voice a like a vanilla milkshake. Fascinating and quick witted with style dripping off her every inch and portion. Her dancing eyes and self caught me when she walked in and still haven’t left. She was sexy so that it ached, her tresses all tussled while her body allures about and you wonder if you ever really met her and if you did was it enough to see her again, the way she shows you skin but doesn’t, the words that hint at forever for a second and only the moment unremittingly thereafter, you think you remember her name, you desperately want to undoubtedly remember her face, you’re going through all this after you walk her out and she gets a lift home with a friend in the windy coastal night, you tell she has great pins and she lifts her short skirt up and winks at you from the edge of perfection, you insist you’ll walk home alone, you’ll be fine, you need to, you can smell her on your fingertips as you walk away, not sure if it is her perfume or shampoo but either way you decide your offer to marry her and runaway was legit, you intended it fully.

You amble home in a dream, hands shoved in pockets, twofold intoxicated and forgetting that hangover’s exist. You decide to cut the corner of some main street off by dissecting a golf course in half. You situate there summing it up, doing the arithmetic. Interrupted by the rambling of some guy making his way toward the end of the night presently like you. And he seems nice too, literate and not on hardcore drugs or anything like that. In fact he quotes from Kafka, follows that with some Rimbaud, you say well hey I’m a writer and he says my place is just round the corner and I have a kickass collection of first editions. The sun is almost up and you introduce yourselves to each other and neither of you seem like serial killers or just straight up rapists to the other, he does have a eccentricity about his eyes but most reading fiends do. I mean really the guy is straight up, you get there and he offers booze and you say coffee and he obliges and makes it well. The collection is genuine, not to my taste but expensive and actual, I would have rather seen Bukowski, Kerouac and Hemingway than Updike, Wolfe and Oates but each to their own. I’d read some of the books and we talked them and others favourites and stylists, his house was nice, though sterile, and I eventually divulged on the girl I’d met. I spoke about it if I remember correctly as though the earth were dying and she were the sun. As if now she were my blood, or in my blood, some spectacular incarnation or the like, and he listened with intent for awhile, took it in like a sponge mopping up spilt liquid, asking good questions, adding further insight, offering more coffee, making me right at home, something clicked though, he went off his tree, in a second or less, he just flipped, asked me what I doing there, told me I wasting his time, that he had things to do at this hour (it was about 6:30am Sunday morning), important things and that I was just breaching his habits, why did I invite myself in and who would do that, who would take advantage of his caring demeanour and flaunt it back at him, him who was so busy and had no time to spare not ever, I said you invited me in, he said not a chance, no way, I said brother you did, he said get out of here, I said I would no problem, that he should settle down, he said he was settled, I said coolies, backed out through rooms eyes never off him, he shook my hand outside, said he was sorry but someone had to teach me about being uncongenial and he was glad it was him and not someone who didn’t really care about people. I said can anybody spell fruit loop?

He said what?

I said seeya.

 

Afterward
Walking home in early morning sunlight you can forget how dire things can seem. It’s a good time to walk. A clear time. You and the sky. The gentle heat lifting the earth into the air. Some intense clarity before the hungover slop and confusion. A nice girl and some hope facilitate, but neither are necessary.

Maybe trying is all that really matters.