Twenty-four hours of turntables and tension (700 hits)
Category: GeneralRating: 0 on 16 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by Kam "And this, kids, is your mind. On drugs." pA (View user info) at 2006-01-28 22:54:15 EST
When I get angry or depressed I usually brood until I slide into a kind of insomniatic self-destruction...I simply refuse to allow my body rest until I physically cannot take it anymore. On weekdays this makes classes the day after a walking hell of blur-grey speeches and bouts of alert clarity - pinpricks in a sea of wallowing exhaustion. I comsume coffee until my wallet runs as dry as my throat, I run a compass along my arm in a desperate attempt to focus my mind on the pain, focus it on anything but the empty black chasm of sucking sleep inside me.
So I sit now and type, pausing now and then to scrawl something on a page before me - sleep deprived inspiration for the concepts that flash through my head so brilliant and bright that their magic refuses to be pinned down - their brilliance untranslated by pen or keyboard. Only in sluggish hours when decent folk slumber do they crawl at a speed allowing my to spear one now, take another later as they drag themselves painfully through my subconcious, desperate to exit this decaying mess of organic suicide that is all I have to dream them with.
Twenty-four hours ago I was tumbling into my sweet bed - a newly sprung rectangle of holy promise that lies within touching distance of my flickering hand, extended on the end of an arm by synapses so shot through by insomnia that it twitches without control, as if shivering in some kind of freezing weather, a wasteland tundra of mental frost. Twenty-four hours ago, I was happy. I was content. A good time had been had, and more loomed ahead, teasing sprites beckoning reckless youth onwards with soft fingers tipped with hidden nails of sharpened steel.
Cards had fallen like cruel mistress', uncaring and unfeeling, giving luck here, stealing it there, running you to broke before raising you up on a sudden uphoric wave of chips then destroying you as utterly as cardboard fate-deciders can. Drinks were mixed and downed, vodka splashed like dirty water going rapidly out of fashion - crazy car rides with 4 in the back of a 2-in-the-back car along with off licence stock and a steaming pizza and a driver drunk on speed and torque and his skill. Then money and chips and cards and freeview pornography and the demonstration of bon fide karate technique...a drunken navigation across countryside and from side of Belfast to another, through Catholic stronghold and Protestant fortress from house to house to mine to seductive sleep in bed, the temptress Queen.
The hour of karate later the next morning brought my dream of a Fight Club one step closer...sparring with a big guy who nearly kicked me in the throat confirmed my desire to batter another human...to have that human batter me. I need it - I need to know what it feels like, how you respond, how much pain I can take, how effective I am at dealing it out. I can't live a life where I live on constant tension alert in bars and clubs and the centre of town for fear that the man walking past me will suddenly lunge forhead-first at my fragile nose. I yearn for the experience and blue eyes and rent lips to stop the forehead with scarred knuckles and a casually ready mind, buzzing away lowly on fight mode rather than having fear at the forefront of the conciousness and studying alert on every new face and demeanour. Three friends are interested, and I have a desire so strong as to be almost a physical need for mingled blood, for the wet meat sound of fist on flesh, flesh on floor. Once a safe hall is arranged all will be well...my indecision will leave in a rain of ill-timed blows, my patchwork confidence forged into something akin to folded steel by the repeated pounding of floor on flesh, of hand on face and knee on body and foot on back.
Yes, these are bruises from fighting.
Yes, I am comfortable with that.
I am enlightened.
The dream is so strong that the very image seizes my low, dizzy conciousness and forces itself down my spine in erractic explosions of synapse along nerve-ends through my bunched shoulders, across gym-hardened arms to scaly-knuckled hands onto my keyboard to explode back the way they came and paint a scene of primordal violence and release across my sleepless mind. So long as pain is feared everyman shall be a mighty invocation of dark terror, a threatening shade of brimless menace to the unconditioned mind. The brutal experience of sucessive beatings, the mental conditioning of throwing hundreds of connecting punches and kicks will wash this hideous, modern ideal of a man, this spineless worm of white collared political correctness...
This vicious tangent is merely a symtomn of my preoccupationg and growing compulsive obsession with having my abused in the act of beating the mortal shite out of a close friend...this is not the cause of my anger, though I pray to my blackened soul that it shall be the cure I envision in my messianic musings.
Fighting is my Jesus.
Experience my God.
The coming of the Saviour shall be heralded by a vision of cruel beauty in a state of pain-fuelled delerium on a cold concrete floor in the slick mess of your own sweat and blood.
The vodka of the night of poker and pornography had obviously not been cleansed from my system by a liver becoming brutalised by a series of short, sharp intakes of massive alcohol volumes once every seven revolutions of this blue-green globe we poison and call our home, the seat of nations, the realm of man, thrall of nature, the rape of humankind. Lunchtime pints left the sensation of much greater intakes of drink, the bus journey a blur and the rapid conversation with parents a fading afterthought as soon as I had fled to my sanctuary of chalk wall-drawings and stacked words on tumbed paper that set my mind aflame with momentary explosions of sheer creative genius, sloar flares that crackle to life and fade to un-memory as soon as they trigger upon my dancing brain.
Until a plate of rice and beans and delicious spiced sauce I sit hunched at this screen - this master of my time, slave of my imagination, terrible and brilliant, a slayer of my potential, chains locking me to modern man in all his glaring weakness and pathetic degredation - reading, compiling, mental notes to fall dark abyss until by some freak chance of circumstance in later years they resurface in a situation useless to the information, prompted to crawl from their dank holes by actions psycologically linked in inexplicable ways.
The Grateful Dead haul me through my inebreation, Jefferson Airplane play coutnerpoint to the indecent yearning inside me that I refuse to crush in the name of Experience, my God...chemical induced visions are no less relevant than Buddhist meditation-inspired mind images of beauty and brain-warming harmony. The Faithless provide a rope to climb out of this confused state, until my concentration is such that conversation is no longer a struggle and words exchanged over dinner betray no hint of my secret indulgence.
Driving into town was one of the stupidest things I am yet to do - any minor accident attended by the police is accompanied by an alcohol breath or blood level test...there is no way in twenty cold hells that I am under the limit, and I have no need for suspension for two dozen months, but I have become uncaring and dangerously reckless. Night-vodka and day-beer grumble uneasily within my stomach, bickering siblings whose infighting warns me that giving them a third playmate will cause a reaction so violent that they will vacate their temporary home, rushing back the way they came to damn me in shame and curse me in illness.
Nevertheless, additional brew is risked and I am not found wanting...a couplet of hours pass and we blag seats on rolling wheels to our ultimate destination, a pulsing club filled with two seperate parties, whose goers are female to the last secutive curve and reason-melting scent. Filled with joy and happiness and the kind of confidence that comes from twenty-fours hours of the dice in your life landing on sixes are kicked from under you like so much rotten wood prop when one cunt of a doorman runs his thumb across your licence.
Months ago, at the tender age of seventeen, I applied my ability to work in small detail to rewriting the history of my life on a flexible blue card bearing my name and likeness...I was the same man, but somehow one year older...more mature, more confident, more...legal. It had worked unfailingly through my adolesent binging. When the years swung around and I reached the promised land walked by those who have spent eighteen years on this blighted rock, I reapplied my skills and suddenly I was a different man yet again, and history slotted neatly back into place around my deception.
Flash back to the head of the queue. Half the last digit of my date of birth disindegrates, even beneath the varnish coating lasvished exclusively to prevent this kind of uncovered fraud. I'm a cheat, in my own legality. As a kid I waltzed whereever I wanted. As a man I am refused for the sins of the past. I'm gone. Friends file past on their way in to my numbed assurances. Only the grey prospect of home beckons, a night ruined by one hideous action of vicious, backlashing karma...months ahead pitched from the true trail into the loose scree of uncertainty by the lack of concrete evidence to prove my right to consume alcohol upon the soil of my country.
And so I I sit now and type, pausing now and then to scrawl something on a page before me - sleep deprived inspiration for the concepts that flash through my head so brilliant and bright that their magic refuses to be pinned down - their brilliance untranslated by pen or keyboard. Only in sluggish hours when decent folk slumber do they crawl at a speed allowing my to spear one now, take another later as they drag themselves painfully through my subconcious, desperate to exit this decaying mess of organic suicide that is all I have to dream them with.
For I am depressed, and that angers me, for I hate to feel weak emotions within my fragile shell...soon to be thrust into the furnace of neanderthal brutality in the name of advancement and death of fear, Fighting; my Jesus, Experience; my God. The coming of the Saviour shall be heralded by a vision of cruel beauty in a state of pain-fuelled delerium on a cold concrete floor in the slick mess of your own sweat and blood. Harsh breathing and heaving chest, victory or defeat but above it pain and strength gained.
I yearn for it as I ache for the pulsing joy of alcohol, the mysterious delights of drugs, the pounding euphoria of ear-wrenching music, the slippery ecstasy of simply dancing with firm-skinned girls, to feel slimy tongues entwined with your own, to experience hands raking along your hardened body, to grip soft flesh in your own. I want all...I need experience...nirvana through my God.
Yes, these are bruises from fighting.
Yes, I am comfortable with that.
I am Enlightened.
User Reviews
Submitted by Doberish (user info) at 2006-01-30 10:28:37 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
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Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2006-01-30 07:35:00 (#)
Ranking: 0
http://www.ubersite.com/m/72793
There's more to life young 'un. You need to find yourself a nice young lady to look after you.
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<to make the sound of hollow laughing>
Yes, just what I need...and it was probably the least-forced thing I've ever done on this site, typed straight from my head into the submissions box between 4 and 5am the other night...
Submitted by wookie (user info) at 2006-01-30 09:58:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
This seemed forced.
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2006-01-30 07:35:00 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
http://www.ubersite.com/m/72793
There's more to life young 'un. You need to find yourself a nice young lady to look after you.
Submitted by r0fl (user info) at 2006-01-29 19:21:10 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Needs more periods. And I need to be more interested.
Submitted by Doberish (user info) at 2006-01-29 19:13:48 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
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Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2006-01-29 18:59:02 (#)
Ranking: -2
You are trying to justify modeling your life after a book/movie, thinking that you'll be better off. That cannot be more lame.
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No...no...no...no...no...no...
You really don't get it.
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2006-01-29 18:59:02 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
You are trying to justify modeling your life after a book/movie, thinking that you'll be better off. That cannot be more lame.
Submitted by Doberish (user info) at 2006-01-29 18:37:49 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
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Submitted by Byrd (user info) at 2006-01-29 15:39:17 (#)
Ranking: -2
I got about 3 sentences into it before I bailed. I skimmed the reast. It's angsty bullshit. -2 and die.
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If you're not going to spend the effort to read something that needs read (and not just pictures of goatse or child porn) then don't fucking review it, you sick sack of cunt.
Submitted by Byrd (user info) at 2006-01-29 15:39:17 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
I got about 3 sentences into it before I bailed. I skimmed the reast. It's angsty bullshit. -2 and die.
Submitted by Doberish (user info) at 2006-01-29 07:44:04 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
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Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2006-01-29 00:21:46 (#)
Ranking: -2
You're a pussy.
Not that's enlightenment.
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*now* rather than *not*, surely?
Asshole, anyway.
Submitted by c1ndy (user info) at 2006-01-29 05:23:16 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
whoa
Submitted by ScottPeterson (user info) at 2006-01-29 04:57:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Johnny's in the basement
Mixing up the medicine
I'm on the pavement
Thinking about the government
The man in the trench coat
Badge out, laid off
Says he's got a bad cough
Wants to get it paid off
Look out kid
It's somethin' you did
God knows when
But you're doin' it again
You better duck down the alley way
Lookin' for a new friend
The man in the coon-skin cap
In the big pen
Wants eleven dollar bills
You only got ten
Maggie comes fleet foot
Face full of black soot
Talkin' that the heat put
Plants in the bed but
The phone's tapped anyway
Maggie says that many say
They must bust in early may
Orders from the d. a.
Look out kid
Don't matter what you did
Walk on your tip toes
Don't try no doz
Better stay away from those
That carry around a fire hose
Keep a clean nose
Watch the plain clothes
You don't need a weather man
To know which way the wind blows
Get sick, get well
Hang around a ink well
Ring bell, hard to tell
If anything is goin' to sell
Try hard, get barred
Get back, write braille
Get jailed, jump bail
Join the army, if you fail
Look out kid
You're gonna get hit
But losers, cheaters
Six-time users
Hang around the theaters
Girl by the whirlpool
Lookin' for a new fool
Don't follow leaders
Watch the parkin' meters
Ah get born, keep warm
Short pants, romance, learn to dance
Get dressed, get blessed
Try to be a success
Please her, please him, buy gifts
Don't steal, don't lift
Twenty years of schoolin'
And they put you on the day shift
Look out kid
They keep it all hid
Better jump down a manhole
Light yourself a candle
Don't wear sandals
Try to avoid the scandals
Don't wanna be a bum
You better chew gum
The pump don't work
'cause the vandals took the handles
Submitted by shitfuck (user info) at 2006-01-29 00:21:46 EST (#)
Ranking: -2
You're a pussy.
Not that's enlightenment.
Submitted by belowground (user info) at 2006-01-28 23:16:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2006-01-28 23:00:36 (#)
Ranking: 1
How can In Living Color *ever* go stale???
</sarcasm>
====================
You forget yourself, sir. Fire Marshall Bill will never cease to amuse me.
Oh, and btw, being snarky with little html brackets makes you seem like some sort of raging e-badass.
Submitted by Sacrilicious (user info) at 2006-01-28 23:12:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
"my sweet bed - a newly sprung rectangle of holy promise that lies within touching distance of my flickering hand, extended on the end of an arm by synapses so shot through by insomnia that it twitches without control, as if shivering in some kind of freezing weather, a wasteland tundra of mental frost."
My bouts with insomnia, or even just lack of sleep, made this description sound as enticing as an elusive orgasm.
Submitted by jgreening (user info) at 2006-01-28 23:00:36 EST (#)
Ranking: 1
How can In Living Color *ever* go stale???
</sarcasm>
Submitted by belowground (user info) at 2006-01-28 22:59:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Thank you for giving me something entertaining to read. These reruns of "In Living Color" were getting a little stale.