At some point, all highs are the same. The world static suddenly shifts to clarity, every leaf in every tree distinct. I only get high because I’m bored.
I am not high now. Nor am I low.
I was sitting at work when my head fell off. It detached at the neck and fell over on my right shoulder. All at once, my vision unbinoculared into my skull, and I wondered if Dr. Maser knew my head had fallen off. She made no easily discernible reaction, but at the intersection of her lips her smile cracked and I knew that she knew. Even if Dr. Maser pretended not to know, her soul knew.
I wasn’t concerned with missing what Dr. Maser was saying. The other people in the meeting were taking notes, and I could fake it later. At the time I was thinking about this girl who knew I was playing the game, but I continued to play the game anyway, and she continued to go along. It was the 4th grade recess kickball game of dating: we were bored and the cool kids were doing it, so we played along too.
In middle school I read Jack London books voraciously. I must admit they form some foundation for fantasy: the great white, the nature, the disparate solitude. They are how I feel. But New York? New York is how I feel I am.
I was in New York tonight.
In a club Madonna owns, they have a Co-Ed bathroom replete with showers and a hot tub. Magi neophytes not realizing they’ve begun training cavort high on E, one tab after another, rolling till noon. People wiggle betwixt eachother, engulfed in total velvet caress, oblivious to the truth:
Every word leads to enlightenment.
Oblivion. Decay. Not doing well. You cast your spells carelessly like spittle from dry, nervous lips. I would ignore your spells, but I end up playing Missile Commander, intercepting your bad Mo Jo. I’ll be damned if you blow my high, but cursed if you blow others.
There was some evil about, coalescing in deep irredescent green reflected in the backs of large beetles fucking in the gutters. At least I think they were fucking. Draped in London Fog, the Top could very well have murder about, but that bothers me not. Tonight is too dark to discern whether it’s blood, drizzle, or humid night that glitters in the cobblestone runnels. And I don’t care. I hop from soft, yellowed gaslight-glow to soft, yellowed gaslight-glow, and I have already had this dream. Upstairs in my apartment is a drawer that will fill with viscous, fresh blood.
This is just one of the infinite multiplicities of Now, but I have engagements. The Faerie Queene has invited me to tea and I am expected to witness blood on a saucer.
The streets are quiet. Far away the pulse of lonely au-to-mobiles feeds the sleeping city.