deconstructing cher & tripping on meryl.

from “fucked-up fairytales.” — comp book, 2000.

Sit down, light a smoke, flip open my laptop. “Such a good title,” I think to myself as I type : Another Tuesday out in WeHo with Break, the boulevard draped with rainbows and hunky Santas, the misery of Christmas fast approaching, Keith and Little Will along for the ride. “Might be too much, though. Nah, shut up. Christmas is central to that chapter. It’s only incidental here. Besides, it’s just too good” : Look down at my watch, the numbers blurred as always, these days. Break with his arm around my waist, helping me along my way, my 11o pounds not handling well the amount of alcohol consumed throughout the night, I think I lost count at six. One of them, I can’t see who, slips into my spot in Deborah, turns the key. I’m too drunk to care. “There’s that throw-up scene, remember. Shut up. I know what I’m doing.” : Tumble out of the car and into Break’s apartment in the nausea-filled blur I set out to avoid when I drink, my grace with alcohol always having been lacking in nature, this evening no different. Trying, attempting to ground myself, away from the spinning, I curl up in Break’s chair, pulling a throw over my head, attempting to shield everything out. The light, my friends, and the sounds that I’m hearing. I slow my breathing to steady, rhythmic breaths, trying to lull myself to sleep when I feel a hand on my shoulder, Little Will looming above me as I slowly open my eyes. He produces a vial, small and his, and doses me. “I don’t know. There’s so much Acid in the narrative, as it is.” : Lysergic coaxes me out of my stupor into visions of clouds and trails, Break by my side, Keith and Little Will likely long gone, circumstances of exit lost to me now. I step slowly out and about, among the airwaves, coaxing me into another world. A world of soap and bubbles, blurbs and molecules. “Jesus Christ no one is gonna get this.” : He rises silently from my side and I close my eyes, breathe slowly in and out, letting the Acid wash over me. He returns with a bowl of berries and four beers. He leans back in the couch with me, his arm around my shoulder, thumb riding remote, into worlds of home shopping, cooking, paid programming, and now Good Morning America, reprieve for American stay at home suburbanites, he thankfully landing on VH-1 or some such channel. ‘Do you believe in life after love?’ Images fly out of the screen, alive and a shade of green I’ve not seen before, everything sparkles. She transforms in my mind, first human, then an angel figure, dispensing advice to her minions, Break transfixed like I am. I glance at him as the video ends. We laugh together, at ourselves and our folly. My Aunt’s Christmas party. “This is a lot of goddamn Christmas.” : I must go, I must go, but his couch holds me in place. He twitches again. We land on a Postcard with Meryl and Shirley MacLaine in the dark. “Dude. Goldie Hawn in the dark at Moulin Rouge. You’re fucking skating here, man.” : My god, is this fitting. ‘I dropped Acid socially.’ So do we, honey. The two sit in the dark yet in blue, the weight pulling me down with them, Break follows us, I can feel it. Inch by inch, wrapping our trip in their world. “You’re going to have to cut this. You know you have to.” : Emotions build, watching this. I want to scream into the blue, into this mirror of a scene. Out of the blue he tells me we should go to see some art today. “The San Francisco chapter with the Prince, remember.” : As he twitches us on to our next adventure. “I have to fucking cut this.”

for blazing at USC with the boys, ca. 2000.

That wasn’t the only instance, as I’m sure you can imagine. Watching was one of our favorite things to do tripping on drugs, my friends and I. Sometimes each other or out the window, often movies and shows on t.v. For a time it was “My So-Called Life,” strictly for crack-out, our early Sunday morning house party after the warehouse. All of us in sweats and under blankets, the steady pulse of the theme song so comforting to me, for some reason. Weeks of this, then the boys would switch the volume up to Drop Dead Gorgeous, the tone of the choice to the tone of our drugs, in this case FUBAR. When I hung out with the SC kids we’d blaze, pop the Beastie Boys Anthology DVD into the player. Ben sitting there in his La-Z Boy chair, he’d switch switch up the angles and track with the remote while it played. We’d spend hours entranced by the smoke-heightened looks and sounds of the clips.

The moments that never find their way in. Sometimes it simply falls away as the narrative moves closer to what it’s meant to be. Or. It might be that I didn’t write it down, thinking it was too good to forget. That it could wait till I got home or to school or wherever, that familiar sinking feeling there to greet me at my destination. Or the page of the tiny book I wrote it on fell out somehow, and ended up behind my desk with cat puke on it or something. That I won’t find till months later. Sometimes it comes to me after the fact. One could certainly argue those instances don’t count. But they do. Part of the exercise in emotional torment writing sometimes is. But, I digress. Thank goddess there’s a fucking flipside to everything.

I know I will always have those moments as a writer, but I’ve come to realize those moments never really die. It’s one of the things I find so beautiful about the process of writing and the new ways technology allows me to interact with my text. It was in writing that some of these lost moments found their way into other parts of the narrative, allowing me to focus on another cultural text, Baz Luhrmann’s Moulin Rouge, as a way to invite the reader into the shared chemical experience of a visual medium and the greater meaning they’ve come to have in my story, while here I sit, writing of moments lost on a digital medium, my words composed essentially of zeros and ones.

“a f*cked-up fairytale” — now available on amazon.

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