Thursday, July 11, 2013

Happy Birthday, baby

May 12, 1978

I don’t know why I always do this to myself this time of year, as if I had a birthday death wish with me playing the part of Charles Manson as well as the low life he’s hunting, searching out the face of the stranger in the mirror.
Jobless again with no savings in the bath to pay next month’s rent with and no inclination to do anything at the moment but go get drunk.
I keep the radio on all the time, and loud, tuned to a news station so I don’t have to listen to myself think.
The whole luxury of living free of a job falls in on top of me like a half baked roof, a fantasy that wouldn’t work even if I had money to pay all the bills.
I like being around people and the idea of being here – even with the pretense of writing a novel – would drive me nuts.
I need some reason to get out of bed in the morning, need to see some face other than my own in the mirror as I shave – even if it is the face of an ugly boss screaming at me over something I fucked up.
Maybe I’ll go beg a job with the band and find some inspiration from the groupies and the bar sharks I write about all the time.
I envy them because they’ve found a purpose in life. But I could never be like them.
I couldn’t take the heart ache groupies suffer, falling in and out of love nightly like they always do. And I have too much of a conscience to exploit them and every body else the way the bar sharks do.
But for some reason, they fascinate me. The whole scene does. Maybe it is because in acting out their lives, seemingly so artificial in their artifice, they have stumbled on a corner of reality I still can’t sink my teeth into, and find that my role in their world is as an observer or confidant, or even someone to provide the victims a measure of comfort when they fall down.
For some reason, I can still hear their voices in my head long after I have sobered up.
It’s the quiet of the rat trap I live in that scares me. I’m the only person I meet here, and when I do, I hate what that person has to say, and I fear the pathetic look of panic I glimpse in his eyes.
Yes, I think I’ll go get drunk tonight, pick up one of the groups, let her fill my head with all that prattle other men find so annoying, but which does much to chase out my own thoughts, and when I wake up, someone else will be here in the morning to help fill up the silence.

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