fragment prose

so let's start this stream on Monday night.. it's a new friends 21st birthday party (chanting, 'now you're legal everywhere! how does it feel?' 'meh.. overrated') and we're sitting on a freezing cold December beach trying to start a fire while my toes sweat inside my shoes and then begin to freeze oh so uncomfortable it's got to be an infected cut almost.. I've been chain-smoking all night for no particular reason save for perhaps that consistent headrush which pushes me into the kind of manic I like, rapping to an unlikely porno-funk instrumental in Pete's car on the way to the beach, it's the one thing I can do that everyone gives me kudos for, verbal versatility.. it's so cold, as in it's too cold to even be all that much fun, except in the dark when I think no one can really make out the details of my face (god I kno I'm not ugly, not that ugly, somewhat attractive I think actually depending but still) I begin opening up under the cover of some measure of anonymity, now endowed with a perceptive wit not quite felt so often.

There's some guy lounging around the fire that keeps saying he's thankful for drugs during 'gratitude circle' in which we each give our name and something we're thankful for and once we've all had a turn, we throw our hands up in unison and bellow, 'ahoy!' he finally admits that he's very high on acid but that it's too dark to trip out on anything all that interesting so he's enjoying the fire, and he goes off on some tangent about how all drugs should be legal, someone retorts back, 'I dunno if I could hand somebody a latte while high on acid.. work just wouldn't work' to which he replies (in all seriousness) 'really? I dunno, I think most things would be better if I was high all the time.. could just stick a blotter in my coffee every morning.' another fellow, one whom nobody knows, appears out of the darkness beyond the flame as we are blessing the air with a jam session.. he's too stereotypically hippy in my mind and I almost expect him to introduce himself by saying, 'hey man, consider the lilies' but instead he shakes my hand quite vigorously and begins telling everybody about how he is going out to a farm on the Sunshine Coast the following weekend to experience ayahuasca for the first time. I tell him I'm from the Sunshine Coast and am shocked ayahuasca is something that has ever existed anywhere near me.. I begin asking him how I'd go about organizing some such session for myself and he goes on some rant about 'it's all vibrations, man.. you put the intention out there, and people will come to you, you know? it'll just happen, you just have to be ready' seeming to be shutting my question down for confidentiality or sumthin so I respond with, 'well, you're sitting beside me right now, eh? vibrations, dude. all me.' he silently refuses to go much further.. probably stoned or too lazy to give any info, as confused as anyone would be in a situation like that.. he, too, later gives me kudos for a freestyle, calling me a 'real poet' and asking for 2 cigarettes in exchange for some pot, patting me on the back with 'I'm giving you more than 2 cigarettes worth but it's cus you deserve it.'

Eventually Pete and the rest of the friends I'd arrived with decide to venture home, probably the cold and frankly I can't blame them.. I consider following, but end up reckoning I might have a better time if I stay (despite the fact that I work at 12:30 the following afternoon and it's already close to midnight and my place is on the other side of town and oh well in the actual fuck it's'all good that's why jesus invented taxis)

- - -

creating something in silence (save for keyboard clacks) is a practice in subliminal listening. Thought is like air and you can hear it whispering through the trees of your foresty dendrites.

Misery mixes with ecstasy and love mixes with confused dislike-- for 11 days straight, I've been losing myself in the phosphene glare of love for a girl named Sasha.
She insists she's not a Xanax junkie, but by my standards I'm still not sure if I'm convinced altho this seems like an unfair snap-judgement that still hurts her feelings. Perhaps she needs it, and I'm just blanked as the next heretic to go on trial in the pharmacratic inquisition.

For the first time the other night I experimented (incorrectly) with DMT. Sprinkling it over a packed bowl of tea (marijuana), I drew back a breath and felt nothing more than life as a conceited dream with a strange alchemical hangover-fear of psychosis.

- - -

in the crazy clasp of a darker place is the beginning of a laughing statue and it was nothing like any of this as far as the ketamine kept me floating above every objectivity so who was I beyond the flattery becoming bespecalled across my essence by surrounding loveships in-order to my left-: Sibelle, a mysterious artisan I believe all writers with a habit to smoke most certainly would (or have) fallen in love with at some point after an introduction; she's got these feline eyes of curious enamour and curly, short hair like Picasso curls and a soft, tough speech to her (INTEGRITY!!) perhaps a hard nut to crack sometimes but worth the effort to sit and get to know her, highly definitley one of the most beautiful women I've ever met-- where the existential confusion in her eyes twists to a smile in-which manifested is happiness-of-the-absurd, she secretly loves everybody like we all do but won't quite venture forth into extradimension to mention (to mention) ((but she does now because drugs bring us into Mind At Large as Huxley called it))

Greg-- a well-spoken sage of preference to beautiful confusion, a legitimately happy Boddhisatva who has found his bliss in the random number generator of life.. he showers everyone with praise and every love he harbours is a very very true love you just want to hold him close and cuddle, me particularly in a way that forgets the homoerotic connotation that says 2 men can't hold hands as good friends.. who invented my mind anyway? a culture vulture? or culture as represented in sculpture? forget it, Greg is a good looking fellow but not just that he has the brains and brilliance, there is no doubt in my mind he is eternal. sometimes I wonder if he forgets me in the throng of university personages like Kelvin has, but what a beautiful place to start-- I'm glad I met him and he is already a best friend.

Hunter-- classiest person I have ever met he's got a crick in every step that softly whispers his manifestation of the human condition in an art-gallery frame for centuries of witness to come. He is quickly taking the place of a very best friend to me but I never like to say there is one above the rest as it's impossible to make love exclusive.. but he has always been in my life in his rusty little class-car Jerry (or so it feels) and I hope the four of us know each other unto death... a soft-hearted punk-rocker with a temporal soul of glowing brilliance and lucidity, I love the guy like a long-lost brother I intend to never lose again; he is somewhere between on-screen and behind-the-camera in all situations, like a movie character who appeared to show us all Holy Moments needn't be framed becuz yer eyes are cameras and this is the nature of reality (a filmmaker if I ever knew one).

- - -

spasmatic shadow (a wordy exposé)

I finish Chapter 35 of Kerouac's 'Big Sur' as things begin to heat to a shatter and decide I've got something to write about as well.. picking laptop off of the carpet still-buzzing in a never-sleep mode sipping chardonnay from a floral mug, having just finished a hearty supper of spaghetti with meat sauce prepared by my roommate, Isaac, upon my unmade bed between completed chapters-- as Kerouac shivers through his alcoholically delirious existential crisis of slow suicide I have the appearance of memories in my head and parallel universes where things have happened differently, and perhaps I wouldn't be so strangely lost and redeemed on an almost daily basis yet it's alright as long as I know it's alright, all of this being confirmed for me during a beautiful trip on mushrooms the night prior in which I could not help but be socially anxious in the presence of others-- unable to complete full sentences-- but this did not rob the trip of beauty despite..

and I imagine a world in which Anya and I had never parted ways so violently.. or rather, at all.. as I eat my spaghetti and remember the slow summer days we spent together in bed for hours, naked, speaking of whatever and nodding off to nothing until finally I would lurch upward and begin working on a brand new hip-hop track for the dirty of the panic attack mixtape vol. 1 in the nude and in her presence in her dreams.. in this parallel universe I imagine we are naked in my unmade bed this very evening until Isaac knocks to tell us the spaghetti is ready so we leisurely dress and silently slip into the kitchen to make a plate, return to my bedroom and perhaps undress again, eat the spaghetti and comment to each other how delicious it is and how good of a job Isaac has done in preparation.. eventually she dresses to use the washroom and grabs our dirty plates as she does, peaking through Isaac's open bedroom door to state a sincere thanks, to which he sheepishly yet appreciately replies, "oh.. oh, not a problem." 

Instead, I, high as a kite as a God as a star as a lover, text her at 3 in the morning amidst a cuddle of 5 fellow friends and shroomdoers all fast asleep to state that the trip reminded me of when we were at a festival in July and I, high on acid, began to freak out from the endless cocaine thump of terrible music in the distance (brainzapbrainzapbrainzap) and she simply held me all night whispering 'IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou' under her breath to such a silent extent that I had to later ask whether I hallucinated it or not (to which I didn't) and that it reminded me that I am still in love with her despite everything and that I will always love her and that I'm so deeply thankful that she is still in my life..  she still talks to me the following morning via facebook but avoids speaking of the text, never responds to the texts.. perhaps a strategem of hers in which she looks on me with pity as still being stuck on the end, and wishes to be the all-benevolent Saint of What Has Come to Pass by 'wisely' denying the sincere gesture even so much as acknowledgement.. or, perhaps she is still just as in love with me but knows it would lead nowhere healthy (at least not now) and as such keeps quiet keeps quiet keeps quiet for her sake.. our sake.. who knows.

She's got some other lover or as such something now whereas I just don't know so I avoid the question incidentally leading a couple girls on and not meaning to goddamnit I really was sorry for that but narcissistically pleased in a way.. maybe I'm as low as I imagine, and it's only on drugs that I realize "THERE ARE ACTUALLY PEOPLE WHO LIKE YOU, IDIOT, NOT EVERY GIRL TRIES TO FRIENDZONE AND DO YOU EVEN NOTICE WHEN YOU FRIENDZONE ANYMORE OR DO U JUST LET IT GO TO YOUR HEAD LIKE 'AHH, LOOK AT ME, I HAVE THE POWER TO FRIENDZONE, MEANS I'M IN THE RIGHT HAHA, FAAAANTASTIC'.. do you even FUCKING NOTICE when a girl actually LOOKS AT YOU LONGINGLY ANYMORE? or do you ALWAYS JUST IMAGINE they're just TRYING TO BE NICE cuz you're some WEIRD WANNABE FILLING YOUR VOID WITH ATTEMPTS TO SPREAD YOURSELF LIKE DENSE BUTTER on a CRUSTY, COLD PANCAKE?"

and it probably all boils down to my assumption that I am ugly and who can love my tired weather-beaten face when I haven't slept, because I can't, fuckit.. I try to fill my perceptive void lack-attraction with another kind of beauty I can love, arsty farsty summer craft poems and exposé rivers like this one I ride in a white-water raft to feel the turbulence of my soul and hope just hope I won't tip over and crack my skull.. 

oh, there's the shore.