Hunger

What, Write?

Recently confined to home after a small accident with the back window of a Ford Explorer and a visit to the E.R. has given me all sorts of time to find ways to fill the time pointlessly.  One may consider that with a small amount of free time one would be able to act on a sense of urgency but with my week splayed out in front of me I could not help but feel  as though I have all the time in the world.  It’ll be back to work on Monday, but I don’t think I could accept the fact that I have stayed in my house, practically in front of my computer the whole damn time without having written anything.  But the Vicodin is blocking that part of my abilities.  I suppose I’ll have to accept that, but this is not to say that there will be nothing at all.  If I can’t write now, I’m sure I’ll be able to find something I’ve written before to post here.  Because, if nothing else, there must be progress and consistency.  I’m listening to Jim Morrison’s poetry in the background, trying to stay focused as the music switches to Brother Ali, having come from Ben Harper by way of Fugazi.  The music wants my attention, and my fingers are too obedient of gravity for me to type as fast as my thoughts come.  How do people write on downers?  I always used to write on uppers.  It was a little hectic, but it’s easier to reduce later than it is to add to a lackluster piece.  Air comes on next, and it takes me back to Paris, where I lived in an apartment with a Calvin & Hobbes comic drawn on the wall, graffiti behind the mirror and terrible, terrible neighbors.  That place was like a frathouse/drug house/library (if Borges wrote about libraries on cocaine) and we listened to Air and Booka Shade a lot there.  A coming-of-age place and time it was.

Hydro really compounds poop.  It’s not that you can’t poop on opiates, but anyone who’s taken them extensively will tell you that pooping while down is indeed a difficult yet life-changing experience.  I read somewhere recently that caffeine enhances the effect of opiates.  Well, I’ve got my cold-brewed, wood-fired, locally-roasted-by-men-with-moustaches espresso I’m drinking from a straw with my retarded mouth coupled with generic Norco and antibiotics.  I can already feel my writing to be slippery-slobby, but I need to write, and, due to a recent lack of submission, I need to publish SOMETHING.  So this is it.  Opiate- and caffeine-fueled, self-important cannon-fodder.  Would it be clever to say canon-fodder since this is a recurring theme?  Is that clever or obscure?  Does it even make sense?  No perspective and I’m sure time will make this entry into a piece of shit, but for now let’s just have fun, shall we?

It says to take one by mouth every twelve hours and to drink a whole glass of water with each pill.  But we have so many differently sized glasses and cups.  Is a cup okay, or does it have to be a glass?  And what if it’s too small?  Does coffee count, or should it be just water and nothing else?  Am I doing damage to myself?  Is this one of those things where the cure is only good because the ailment is worse?  I think the coffee is not what I need for this but water.  Waaaaaaa trrrrrrrrrrr.  Wata.  What?  Errr…Water.

I think it may be time to continue on my way, off in search of a featured image which encompasses whatever the hell it is that I’ve written here.

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This entry was published on August 10, 2012 at 09:53. It’s filed under Prose and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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