February 24, 2016
My last entry ended randomly, for after eight Klonopins and the high gravity six-pack, I passed out. I thought about finishing it, but it was the 23rd, and it is the 24th now. I have no desire to time travel back a day to finish. I let it be as it is.
I woke up hung over. I went out for a cigarette, finished it, and went inside to throw up. I felt better. I took five Percocets and went downstairs. Speed, even the pure Amphetamines I get from Teddy, have a terrible tolerance problem. I try to take breaks, but that rarely happens. I think for a moment, and come to the conclusion that the only governmental conspiracy theory, or at least the most important, is the neuro-production of raising personal tolerance. I’m not sure how they do this, or how they spread it, but it is a travesty of corruption. I think about writing the president, asking him to stop funding the tolerance program, but the truth would be false. I guess this makes it a lie. Pure truth from our politicians would have terrible repercussions, and may cause protests and riots, but it seems that we as people, or at least me, shouldn’t have to ask for pure transparency. This should be a given, but obviously it’s not. The opiates destroyed my hangover and make me feel good. I wrote another poem today, the poem about the squirrel. It was about a squirrel who make a collage out of acorns. But when winter came, the other squirrels stole all the acorns, making the furry collagist unhappy. It was meant to be a happy poem, but I thought it was unfair of the squirrel and decided to rewrite it later so he could keep his collage. I think he will be happy that I can change history, for art is strange and acorns are hard to come by. I had to submit an article to the paper by midnight, a final draft. I haven’t written anything, and when the opiates wear off I’ll take some major speed and draft out something for them. I need the two hundred dollars. This wasn’t freelance work, though. I am an employee of sorts, I guess. I just never go into the office because it’s drab, depressing and I see no reason to. Mann, the editor and publisher, hasn’t seemed to notice; that or he doesn’t care. As long I write him his piece, he’s happy. It’ll take me an hour, but I don’t know the subject. He told me and I wrote it down, but that note is long gone. So I think about what I want to write about. ‘Is Lou Reed Really Dead?’ became the title I have. I was once told to question everything, but I believe it’s a silly thing to say, for I would question everything anyways, including what he said. I don’t know if he meant it that intensely, but I gain pride and joy by knowing that nothing is certain and never will be. The speed I take all day could be a doorknob for all I know. I think of the absurdity of eating a doorknob, but it’s not completely out of the question. I got up and tried eating the doorknob into the kitchen, but it hurt my teeth.
Being a recluse that doesn’t have friends and spends most, if not all, of his time by himself can be strange. Social, human contact is the only way to be integrated into normalcy. It sounds awful. I, personally, have never been over the edge. I had a friend in High School that look bad LSD on a boat and was never the same. He went over the edge without a latter, thrown to the wolves of insanity. I, on the other hand, am at the foot of the cliff, looking down. I climb down sometimes, always with a latter, and walk around. What I find in irreversible insanity is interesting, but I take a couple steps back and breathe. Nothing down there is any better than what’s up here. I may have psychotic episodes with days, weeks, of extreme paranoia, but I know for a fact that I have not jumped the cliff. Maybe I should, I think to myself often. I slip in and out of my dissociated wonderland, and I enjoy this very much, but having the ability to slip out whenever desired is something that I hope will never go away. Things get weird when you deny any sociality, living in your mind and creating everything that constructs your existence. I guess this is why I became a writer. I don’t know, but I do know that even when I try to integrate myself into the external world, I know for a fact that I am, and will always, be on the outside. I can make friends and go to movies and work retail, I can do all this with a smile on my face, miserable and confused on the inside. It’s not that I don’t understand life, which I don’t at all, but I don’t understand how humans live a daily life without being completely confused all the time. When I dose myself with enough speed, I can become talkative and involve myself with one or more people, but that is because I’m high. And if I drink enough, I can go to a bar and talk to the people around me. Some people think that my addiction is terrible, a crutch, something I must overcome to live a happy and healthy life. But between the internal world I created for myself and the external world that dictates what you do throughout life — Every time I will chose drugs, writing, and insanity. Do we only live once? I sure hope so, but if not, then I’ll try the regular way of living in my next life.
The reason I go into full detail on this is because Mann, my publisher (I would say editor, but he has never really edited anything I’ve written. He scans what I send from my typewriter and puts it directly, as is, in the paper), the reason he still puts up with me is because he thinks that I see the world in a way that no one else has ever seen. I think he’s full of shit. I tell him so, and he laughs, thinking I’m just getting better. Mann is great because he pays me, but personally he freaks me out. He looks as if Five Guys created a burger called ‘Samuel Beckett’, that looked like Beckett but was a hamburger. And he smokes American Spirits, and brags about it every chance he gets. ‘All tobacco, nothing else’ he would say. ‘What do you smoke? Camels? Do you know how many chemicals are in those?’ His pretentiousness gets on my nerves. ‘Do you know how many chemicals I put into my body that doesn’t involve cigarettes? I’d fail a 12 panel drug test for ten of those chemicals. So let me smoke something that makes me feel better, something I can afford’. I don’t know if Mann understands that drugs cost money, and I have to produce at least three detective stories as well as his weekly but now monthly writing I do for the paper just to afford enough to have me feeling good at all times. Goddamn, this is why I hate opiates. They make me sentimental and corny. I used to shoot heroin, I did for 24 months. The writing I did during that period was good, but when coming up, I had to edit about 75% of the worlds I misspelt. Some of them I didn’t even know what I was trying to type. Things were great, but with all drugs, there are certain side effects, downsides that cannot be avoided. I cannot avoid the comedown concerning speed. But with heroin, you don’t comedown. You feel bored for a day or two, and holy shit the withdraws start. I won’t say more. I’m talking to myself, and I know the feeling. So why bother explaining.
Technically it is tomorrow. Can today be tomorrow? Time doesn’t make any sense to me, so I don’t believe in it. A new day starts when I wake up. And on a three day speed binge, it’s not really three days but one long day. I think, but I don’t know, I can ask my brother’s cat. I do. ‘Meow’ is his response, and it doesn’t make any more sense. It is 2:00 in the morning. I redosed at 8:00pm last night, so I take five Klonopins and drink the last of my two beers. 9%, but it’s not enough. I want to get drunk, but since that isn’t possible, I get high off benzos. The alcohol helps the effect, and hopefully I can sleep soon. I think of that bird and that squirrel, and I think of other poems to write. I don’t get paid for my poems, and no one reads them, but I’m forced, slaved, to the process of poetry. Two years ago, I wanted companionship, but now I want to be left alone. I think of going out, but I’m sure I’d get arrested again. This doesn’t bother me, but I have a feeling that messy man that bailed me out, who is now demanding money I don’t have, wouldn’t bother picking me up. I think about leaving town. I can’t imagine anything good in Cleveland, so I come up with the cost it would take me to get there. I would need to bulk on speed, but Freddy is a strange man. A chemist and a dealer. But he knows me, and will front me two hundred worth of speed. I think about doing this and never paying him back, but the obviousness of never finding a strange chemist that concocts his own, pure amphetamines is too real, especially in Cleveland. Nothing good is in that city. So after the front, it will not be too much money to make the trip. I start packing, but the Klonopin kicks in and I stop. Am I stuck in D.C.? Is there some outside force that is keeping me here? Men in sunglasses that follow my every move, keeping me in this godforsaken city. Maybe they could lend me a ten or so, but they are hard to find. The two beers are making me angry, for I want more but am unable to afford anything else. It’s 2:25am, and they have stopped selling beer at gas stations, or at least until 6:00am. I try to forget about the beer and think of hound dogs. They are weird animals, but their ears make me happy. I wonder how a hound dog would do with my brother’s cat. Can they speak the same language? Is there a universal animal language that I, as nothing but a human, can never understand. If so, I find this unfair, for humans are animals too. I look at my brother’s cat, that is sitting on top of Iggy Pop, and meow at him. He looks at me with a glazed, confused look. ‘At least I tried’, I say. ‘The least you can do is speak for a second, any work, just as a test’. Nothing happens, and I feel like an idiot, which is wonderful, because that is the album that he is sitting on. I haven’t played with him enough, so he does extracurricular activities. He turns the record player on, which is a Neutral Milk Hotel album, Aeroplane, and turns into DJ cat, where he remixes Jeff’s songs. At first I am upset, but he does a wonderful stop and turn, and I realize that my brother’s cat is an actual DJ. I feel good for him, and think of ways to expand his art. But first, I need to expand my heart. I write for a national paper, and that pays well, but only once a month. It used to be weekly, but the paper is poor. The detective stories pay almost nothing, but enough for beer and cigarettes. I think of things that I can do to make more money. I can’t be a chemist, I know that, for I fucked that chance up. So I decide to be Monet. I wonder how many people know he’s dead, and figure that I can pull it off, as long as I don’t paint anything. I give it a trial run, so I call Daniel, from long ago. He answers with a grumpy voice. ‘It’s almost 3:00 in the morning, who the fuck is this?’ ‘Claude’, I answer. I don’t know where Monet is from. France? Should I do a french accent? ‘You have the wrong number’, he replies. Before he hangs up I try one last time. ‘I am Claude Monet. The painter. I’m famous.’ He hangs up and I think about whether he bought it or not. I decide not to be Monet. I wouldn’t want someone being Andrew Lewis, and there has to be some respect somewhere. I realize that I’m two hours late on my article for the paper; I haven’t written anything, so I take four capsules of speed, almost too much, and wait for the ride to begin. I take Jeff Magnum out of the record player and think of what to put on. I know I can’t put on Iggy Pop’s ‘The Idiot’ because my cat has fallen asleep on it. There are a lot of good albums to listen to on speed. I once tried making a list, but decided it would take too long. But out of everything I’ve listened to, the best, the one that singles into the receptors in my brain and parties, is Violent Femme’s ‘Why Do Birds Sing’. So I listen to Tom Waits, ironically, as I wait for the speed to kick in, thinking of what to write. I look around the room. I could write how the members of ISIS are actually vegan and are in constant contact with PITA. But I don’t have anything to cite it with. Something catches my eyes, which are hardly working. Two albums, one sitting out that my brother was listening to, and the other in the crate, just barely visible. My brother was listening to David Bowie. I see, in the crate, Lou Reed’s ‘Berlin’. The world went crazy at the death of Bowie, and tributes are still being made at this very moment. But only few talked about the death of Lou Reed. Bowie’s impact on society was wonderful; even the Republicans became glam rockers (Rick Santorum still has his eye-liner-glitter combo). But musically, Lou Reed did more than most, if not all, of the influencing of that time. The Velvet Underground was revolutionary, and created the distorted sound that was only heard after the fact, by other’s who copied them. But his solo stuff confirmed that he was The Velvet Underground. And after gaining popularity through his solo albums, he came out with his opus, ‘Berlin’. It was hated by everyone. The slow wave of two capsules is an incredible feeling, but the four created a crash, and I stood right up. I looked around the room, and decided that before I die, I will take advantage of the small trampoline. I go over and jump on it, but fall backwards. I hope Rifi enjoys this when I die. I look around for a moment and finally find my typewriter. I begin to write: What’s more important for a musician? A social influence or a genius music career that will live on forever? Yes, Bowie’s music is incredible, but the impact that Lou Reed made is undeniably more important. So I write about how the media and society pick certain people, and when those people die, the mourning process is long and exaggerated. But those not in the spotlight, where is their memorial? Why didn’t Lady Gaga sing ‘Satellite Of Love’ with black eyeliner on? This is personal, but I write it anyways. Five pages in ten minutes. Beautiful. I call Mann, even though it is 3:45am. He will answer, probably because he thinks somebody has just died. ‘Who died?’ he says after three rings. ‘Lou Reed’. I explain to him that I am four hours late, and could I drive to the office and drop it off. ‘You, in the office?’ ‘I’ve always wanted to see where I work, but I’d love for you to come and pick it up’. There was a pause. ‘Right now?’ I told him yes, and he thought more. ‘What’s it about?’ ‘Hound dogs. Will you come?’ After a while, we decided that instead of going downtown to the office, I’d take it to his house. So I grab my backpack full of drugs, uppers and downers, and this is where the entry stops. It’s been fifteen minutes since I’ve talked to Mann, fifteen minutes writing this for you, my diary. But now I need to go and visit Mann. Before I leave, I have last doubts about my article. I should have written about hound dogs. I like their ears.