‘You’re a good man, Jason’ she texts, and instead of weeping, I set on proving her wrong. This I begin by facing the corner in which I receive two bars of internet and scouring Craigslist on iTouch for someone with whom I can degrade myself without contracting an STD. I flirt with a few – pretty eighteen year old in Red Hook wants a foot massage, ‘generou$’ geezer in Queens wants to watch a ‘genuinely hung’ guy stroke – continually thwarting my own efforts (oh, those warring factions of sense and psychosis). Next I compose, then post three ads; responses dire, I erase their trace. Eventually, fatigue, familiar left side pain and the bottom line realization that this is not my style overwhelm the urges and I move on.
Pausing to eye the Anais Nin volume – I know it might save my life tonight, but I don’t believe I’m worth saving, so I find another road to ruin. Plowing through it, and another, doubling back to try out darker roads I’d heretofore eschewed. Ferocious, dedicated and very sad, I punch through an hour, two hours, ignoring hunger, body pains, exhaustion, conscience, good sense.  Ignoring the child inside.
Eventually I end up spent on a cot in a bunker, walls literally crumbling around me. I text her I’m about to fall asleep but the ghosts are tagging me full force, so I get up and take some self portraits. They’re good but it doesn’t matter so I delete them.
Halfway through an episode of Taxi, I relinquish and doze. The dreams are always the same – family. I awake with scratchy throat, as if I had indeed just been screaming at them.
I piss for five minutes, return to the cot and the stuffed monkey AM made for me (‘Something that I think you should have gotten maybe thirty years ago’). I fall out again, images of my skin being flayed by a butcher knife. Try countering them with Marilu Henner’s eyes, but it’s not enough, so I start making connections: Marilu as ‘Three Fingered Annette’ in Bloodbrothers, Richard Price, Clockers, Keitel, Ferrara – six degrees of David Caruso. In time, I drowse (the dream – mother pregnant and I vehemently wanted her to abort it), waking up at dawn for another five minute piss – one more night down. How many left? Don’t think about it, Monkey says and I listen, leaving it at that.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s