Journal entry #3,5: The Hangover

Wow! Seeing last night's entry, I'd say I was rather, um, drunk. But I won't edit it out. After all, that would be censoring myself.

Yes, I went somewhat crazy, passed out... and was a big burden to my neighbors. Lost my keys. And, I'm really not sure about anything else. All I know is that I've got a Whiskey breath to go with the lack of sleep. And I'm still drunk.

Jack n' coke.

It was because of a sellout love story. It's not me, not what I do, nor what I feel. I feel "Sister Ray!", I feel black and white, neo-noir and surrealist, absurd and crazy, I am "Sister Ray!"... The same way Flaubert is "Madame Bovary", Camus is "L'Etranger", Rimbaud " Le Bateau ivre", "Le Dormeur du val", "Les Effarés"...

God, it's so early. I never think I've ever been up this early. I'm not thinking straight. I stumble when I walk. My clothes are scattered all over the room.

Last night I was screaming. I went crazy.

Is the alcohol slowly taking over? Am I but a mere puppet to its desires? Am I losing a war? Slowly, drifting away from who I ever was... Who I still am, hardly... And who I will not be, anymore, ever. Is the alcohol fueling the writing? Or is life just fueling the alcohol?

This is not one of those cry for help things, more of a "Look at me! I'm crazy!" type of things. Well that's the good thing about being surrounded by people that don't know you, they don't know you're not actually like that. I can pack my bags, move two miles north, west, east or south - although moving more south would really take its toll with the bullet wounds and whatnot, still - and start a new life. Again. God, I'm feeling like I've done this my whole life. Home is an abstract notion. Home is where the heart is. Home is where you're making love. Home is where you can always be accepted... This is what they say, only, I wouldn't know. Never felt it. No direction home, so to speak. Make friends, settle in, fall in love... Then, leave. Once again. Brown boxes, white boxes, big, small, light and heavy - I know how to pack. Always, the new kid in town. London's different for that. I feel accepted, but that notion of growing up with people I've known my whole life, nada. I guess what I'm trying to say, in my little way, is that, I might miss it, Switzerland. Oh yes, I might miss it.

The squareness, short-mindedness, violence in train stations, stupid and depressing winters, the lack of style, the petty thieves with attitudes, the white ballerine wearing-whores, and, my friends - my family. Thanks for making the overdue stay worth while. Thank you for last night, although my recollection is bad, you got me jolly again - that's you May, if isn't obvious. Thank you for the Summer nights spent in total decay and oblivion. Thank you for trying to let me in the Jill Scott concert, and getting punked by the security. From the illegal fight clubs held in my room, to the disrupting of German classes. From the rough trainings getting my nose broken, to the first time I got drunk. From the stars from a balcony smoking, to the free newspapers in the morning. The overpriced McDonald's, to the cheap vodka called Wodka. From the Wednesday we spent rolling in the rain making out, to the first time I got laid. From the fistfights in train stations, bus stations, clubs, lakeside, at house parties and whatnot. From the first time I smoked weed, to the first time I threw up. My first hangover, my hands broken on walls. No names need any mentioning, it's just an anonymous. And knowing you, you'll never read these lines: too much English. But that was the thing with you, none of this ever needs to be said. We just have to pop open a Goodbye-bottle of Jack, and just live. I'm not gone yet, 10 months really... And funny as it is, I'll miss it. Because regardless of the bullshit, the bullshit, and the bullshit it's given me, it was home to the worst days of my life, but also to many many good ones.

I tend to have epiphanies when I drink, lots. This rang true last night. I guess I'll miss it. Think of this as escaping, it makes it romantic. Think of this as not looking back. As a red convertible Chevy' swerving off to Mexico with dirty money and silly dreams. I've got a soul... but I'm not a soldier. And as much as I tend to go to war with about anybody I've met - because, I'm somewhat crazy - I don't believe in the war. Going to the army would be like admitting that the world needs one. I'm a pacifist, very funny, I know. Well, we poets tend to be contradictory, but then again, we're poets, so we can. DEAL WITH IT!

I'm not writing it. At least I don't think so. Fuck them! I don't have to prove shit. I walked the world with my dick in my hands. I lived... this is me, unadulterated, hungover, still romantic, still crazy, happy, tired, listening to The Killers, I don't know why, waking everyone, everyone I met last night.

I'm Bob Dylan with the cue cards. I'm Jimi Hendrix with teeth on some strings. Ledger as the Joker. Sid Vicious singing My Way. Doherty on coke. Bertolucci making Paris. Scorsese behind the lenses doing Taxi Driver. I am Paul Schrader writing Taxi driver. Rimbaud writing "Une Saison en enfer". Cocteau. I am a black and white movie, a feature-length, a short, a color movie, good dialogue. I am all of these things.

But all I'm thinking about right now is: "God, I hope I see her today."