The Propagation

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May 15, 2005

bags and bags piling up and then no bag

By the way, why don’t we ever talk about or believe in bag men? It’s always bag ladies. Not even a bag woman. Sexism in America today…used to be you could walk down the street and know what was what, who was who. We didn’t even has all these things yous have today, all these jisms and trysts… You meant ‘-isms’ and ‘-ists.’ Did I?…See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about right there. It’s a damn shame when a father has to learn the curses from his son. I suppose your buddies, those pals of yours…, and you have plans to carry me off to one of those places with the girls dancing. A real modern education that would be, wouldn’t it? Hoo. But look Donnie, I don’t want you going now and getting the wrong impression of your old man. I used to drink like a sailor, oh boy, I did. Really. They used to call me No Water No Wine. Now why do you suppose they did that, Donnie, eh? What do you think? It was because I never drank water and I never drank wine, do you believe that? It’s true. Lunch—every day of the week—I put back a big, cold glass of milk—that’s what you should be doing, Donnie. Keep up the regimen and you’ll be slappin’ oxen fanny, asking the poor boys where they manhood run off to, some other man’s soup? Isn’t that the problem they were having with those damn heffers of theirs? Heh. Well, anyway, ask your mother. When we went out nice and she wanted wine, I told her she was on her own and then I’d call the waiter over for a glass of beer. Yup, everytime like that. And if I was out with the boys kickin’ up dust off the dock, I was alway drinking Turkey them nights. We all drank like that Donnie! We didn’t know any better—from the time we were kids, Donnie! Like I say, it was a different country in those days. Little Frankie, let’s say, a black boy, lived on our block, we played with him. Nobody told us we weren’t supposed to. We ran free, we owned that street. Parents now, they won’t let the kid out of their sight. What kind of childhood is that? I couldn’t do it. Boy, I don’t know…if I was born today…I don’t know if I could do it.

Oh, dear doctor, the shit that is coming rickety-racket ricocheting up out of the septics of my pulmonaries! Cold a while back set the stage. My rate of Winston Lights consumption is/has been high. I’ve been high. Lot of that grayish sweet chemical incense being pulled in, probably—when that taste is sharp like that—right along with a few fumes from ignited, burning, glowing, melting mesh metal screens. And I’m a hold-it-in champion! And not only hold forever and a day, but—probably because I’m a child, a greedy child, and want just a bit more, a second longer [which I know is a counterproductive waste because that cokey steam never makes it down there to those cute soft little hard-workin’-for-me alvioli, standing room only, and spends the gripping minute just chillin in the larynx region or less, but stupid child that I am, I suck it all up anyway and then push and stuff it down there. That’s what I was saying’: on top off nature’s bounty, I pressurize it! Those little soft white tissues down there like it rough.

No, really, I’ve had nasty crap before. This is the nastiest. The darkest, but not even a relatively healthyish yellow—a flat slate gray. The hardest. I was going to put thickest, but thick isn’t the word. Not evocative of the sticky clumps of cement that come flying out when I really wind-up for a good scrape-out, and that’s when the body just goes spasmodic and the hand doesn’t always catch the goo. The breaks. But hte last cup o’ goo I fielded…I’m surprised I didn’t choke on it and go running to the stranger in the room over for a heimlich—anything for the touch of another human being, heheh.

The auditory and visual illusions have been a litle different and more pronounced in the last 24 or however many—in any case and regardless, it’s a lot less than the 6 day hallucinations. Stuff semmes to sway and breath. I look at the bedroom door and could swear, thought I know perfectly well it isn’t true, that the door is moving straight up in it’s frame. I watch it for a few seconds just to see what it will do. I know it can’t keep going. And so I’m calm. And interested in the mad science my brain is dropping in those moments.

My back hurts from haunching over the computer. The room is a messy. I have literally a pile of empty plastic bags. Looks like somebody spilled a bit of fruit salad made with those pastelish fruits….You know! The pastel fruits!!! hee So, yeah, bags everywhere, and a millino and four lighters. Last night I went back into my drug trash bag and pulled out lighters I threw out long ago, and I am tthe type to wear it down to the nubbin. You should see what I can do to a tube of tooth paste. So anyway, all day and night yesterday, I’m rotating through them. Strugglin’, man, strugglin’. but not enough to walk to the corner and buy a new one. No. Too much to do (on the computer), don’t want to leave the house…

So I don’t until I meet M. and C. after midnight down on 5th. Hoodie time! And even then, after being housebound (actually in the same fucking spot pretty much, the same 3 square feet) for 24 hours, I still don’t want to leave. I’m having fun. I spent a good most of the day researching blogware, purchasing Movable Type, downloading it, buying a domain name, looking at hosters and getting that set-up, plus the long and rapid fire emails to Prairie, plus the definite moments in the day/cycle/process when I’m just kind of damn slow and relatively inactive, clickin’ links around. But bed, hell no. Even though I’m pulling the seriously braindead sleeptyping,,,,,I’m a stubborn motherfucker! I spent like 2 hours writing Prairie an email. I’m telling you it wasn’t that long either. Not at all. I would stare and fidget and concentrate so hard and will my self to get through without knowing a damn thing about what just happened, what I read, where am I in the thing.

Anyway, between m&c,I swung home and didn’t waste time rationalizing the continuance. So I called one my boys and he comes out. He asks me for a piece of paper. I can see this. I get all pissed, “Aw, no, man, you’re gonna give it to me like that? All shaked up & shit? Taxi driver hands back a blank sheet as I’m grumbly. “Naw, man, I’m gonna give you that rock,” he says, as he pulls it out of the worn sandwich bag. “Ah, nice,” I said. And I was indeed pleased with and by it. But I think I showed satisfaction too soon, because he was like “That good?” (but a little like, “Yeah, she’s a beaut, all right! Do I treat you good or what? And you doubted me! [mock indignancy] Who treats you good? Huh? Who? I~as I’m imagining this play out right now this instant~glance as cornerward as possible at him. I do not want him pulling that Jerry McQuire bullshit on me. And he calms….Anyway, yeah. Um, that was just pretend. I take the rock look at it like a jewel for a sec on the dl, and put it in my pocket? I guess it makes sense to put it in a paper—I some people would. But that’s just extra garbage, harder to get to, and A) I’m not holding it long enough to gather a lint beard or urine dribble or anything like that, and B) I’m too uptight, anal, German, whatever, to not have a quarter mind dedicatedto it at all times, monitoring, caring for, asking if little rocki-poo needs help in the bathroom. … “No?”…”Well, why don’t’ YOU come with ME, then….Because, see, I DO need some help, especially from a cute and rugged little guy like you. Mind if I suck you off a little?” Ok, ok, sure, I’m feeling that absense in my life. Whatever. Hell, shit, I got my guy in the neighborhood. I can just walk down! No, I’m kidding.

Posted by peligrito at May 15, 2005 11:18 AM

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