Something Like Thunder, No Edit, Just Additions
Something like thunder woke me. I kicked off my wet blue sheets and ran toward the door. Stopped to find an empty cup, which drew my gaze to all the other red and blue cups caked with either whiskey strait or whiskey mixed with some sweet soda. Cowards, I thought. Why are my feet wet? Chunky urine? Smooth Vomit?
“… The crossroads I’m standing at…”
Somebody left Dylan on repeat. I wish I could repay them but I am alone. But if my nudity was any indication I wasn’t alone always. Small Comforts.
Memories started shifting back from wherever they seem to hide. By the time I was in the shower I was totally aware of what had occurred to throw my surroundings into such a total hell. It also explains the lack of hangover.
“…Mama you’ve been on my mind.”
The quick cool water burned my shoulder. A glance and I realized that perhaps my time last night had been audited by my mind but not all of my actions.
Had she really been there? Did I really have to ignore her? Did I really put a cigarette out on my shoulder to impress someone else? And sweet God almighty, did that actually impress her… my lord was I such a degenerate… unwanted guilt began to circle my mind and twist it into a mobius strip of desire, understandings, confusions, innocents, hesitation, all breaking bad, all cresting and breaking, over and over.
Tired of hearing the self-pity/doubt/ loathing calypso machine turning in my head, I shamble to pour myself some breakfast. Once my thoughts had been properly disintegrated and only soft, marinated half thoughts swooned and began their cooing, did I remember my more obvious addictions.
A cold wind blew my red flannel shirt tight as I lit a smoke. A grey cloud of smoke mixed with the steel color of the Ohio sky. Why do the trees always look so dead?
“…Or bring me down with sorrow…”
Can’t turn that off. Some people chew gum or smoke to stay focused. I chew gum for the taste, I smoke to keep my goals in focus. I sing, I sing in my head, and the turntables seem to be pointing toward the last song I heard. I hope the chunks I cough up almost carry with them the traditional chorus’ of “ewws” and “that’s awful Don.” that usually follow my spring cleanings. More yellow then brown, more brown then red. These are good signs. Sort of.
My cigarette has been out for a minute now. Whatever chemical they used to keep a few drunken idiots from burning their houses down has pissed off this drunken idiot. My light flickered in the wind and with a deep pull I saw the paper burn into the first genuine smile I’ve seen for weeks. I walked back in and turned Repeat back on. Repetition of outside stimuli are the key to reflection
There is an old story that my mother used to tell me. My grandfather was driving home, in his old blue Pontiac, tearing up Route 1 back up to Vermont, when he understood he wasn’t alone. He turned to the man sitting next to him. Always the gentleman he offered him a Lucky Strike, and was met with an upraised hand and a counter offer of one of his own Luckies. My grandfather accepted, and the devil then smiled and told him the day that he would die. My grandfather nodded and when he arrived home he told my grandmother. She didn’t believe him; of course, my grandfather had a knack for telling stories. But my Grandfather did die, he woke up knowing it was the day, had cereal in the kitchen, and when my grandmother turned around to pour his orange juice, he was face down, Aneurysm. And I have to believe her, my mother that is. I have to believe that she never would lie about the devil, that she would keep the getaway car running if I asked.
I know my father has talked to the devil as well, because I have. The devil always sings with me. I’m waiting for him to tell me the day that I will die; I am waiting for my father to tell me when he will. I just don’t smoke Luckies.
