When I am walking here with these noises in my head I feel dizzy with the effects of whatever is inside of me right now and cannot keep my eyes open, there is (–) who is probably shining like a holy thing, but I cannot see properly right now and my throat is on fire with the effects of something and someone is screaming and it gives me a headache – I wish this woman was not so full of lies as I think she is, because I cannot marry a liar – though I do not know what she has done just yet – I sit down (I am inside somewhere) D. was here but cannot see him – can I see at all? The time is 17:58; my home feels like a temple, round as a Stupa (a heap of power I have now used in the wrong way [18:01] whereby I dwelleth not in temples; he who does not believe dwells on himself).
'You are stupid,' (–) says, but I do not know why she thinks I am stupid as I find my body stood on the other side of the room, which is wider than normal – Oh, it is my room, I recognise the window, I recognise the mirror (not my reflection, but the Café Tabac menu) and pick up a book (heavy) and notice the bulging blue veins in my fingers constricting … something … there is a pain in my wrist, which causes a lump in the joint (or does that cause the pain?) which is an old injury that comes and goes, though it strangely notices the weight of books (Infinite Jest) … feels like I'm one of the Satori Mowri of the Inhubai Village who used bullet ants within a glove as initiation to become a man, the pain of which is unheard of, you'd want to gnaw your own hand off, rip it clean off the joint –
She called me stupid. I stand there with not a dickie bird in that I've no idea what she's on about – I think she may have said Stupa, the shape of my temple, although I've no idea what her face is saying to me – her stupid voice is saying something.
'You are so stupid, you know that?' she says. She has the look of someone who has licked a stinging nettle. Her clothes are the colour of tooth decay, which is going to rot itself into her skin – she's too sweet, rotten to the core, but I can't keep my hands away, I'm simply attracted to filth. I cannot help myself. I spoon-fed this one sugar after sugar and given myself my own healthy dose of a potent analgesic, though does nothing for the pain which resides in my lowerright molar (and the pain in my shoulder, and my headache) – doctor said I need more tests. Mouth dry, I see Christine's cat on the outside of my window, a little black and white thing saying Mao as if it is a Chinese Communist revolutionary, (specifically of the Hanzu ethnic group) who, by a cult of personality, has come to have it's picture hung in my living room, along with a million other households, by which he can uphold his own charismatic authority by way of hero worship. I hate that cat.
'Why?' I say, my eyes rolling underneath the drunken stupor I thought I was hiding very well, though I cannot – what, with me still stood, wearing my uniform-black coat, and unable to sit still, seeing through a mist of red/green/blue – 'Why am I stupid?' I ask her, but I know why and it's not how I'm acting, not at all, I know how I'm acting, I always do (up until the point I forget, but I always always know what I'm doing – not that that means I can control it), no, what she means is what I've said. This dialogue between ghosts is so difficult I'm unable to comprehend. I'd asked her to marry me.
'You idiot, you actually think that I'd say yes?'
'Yeah. You can't marry me. We're hardly even together,' she says 'together' as if it tastes bad. I now have a bad taste in my mouth, it's a metallic taste, which is much more prominent because my mouth is as dry as cotton anyway, and my tongue is cracking and splitting in two.
'I'm going to have to go,' she says (I've offended her) 'I'll see you tomorrow,' (Just embarrassed) 'Maybe,' (she doesn't know).
She walks out of the flat, closing the door in slow motion so as not to hurt my feelings further, but it's okay because I'm so drunk I've forgotten the whole thing. I begin to laugh because I think I've been talking to D. since I thought he was here, but he's not. I suppose he's out in the street, up to his eyeballs in ketamine somewhere, probably near Canning by now, harassing the waitresses with false hopes of love by producing large amounts of money he obtained from his own shitty job, which pays much better than my own. There is no sign of him, except the one glass tumbler (lead crystal) browned to the sides with Jack Daniels and Coke, which, itself, smells of lead.
I suppose it is now September and the Summer leaves are on the ground (I see them through my window); sky is the colour of a gun. I feel sick to my stomach – feels the partial depression within the walls of my arteries pumping the 5.5 litres of blood pounding into my brain, which feels the after-effects D. has left me with: musculoskeletal relaxes. I am jelly. I turn my head away from the window and this knocks me dizzy – head jerks forward, and I vomit. I spit some blood.
Evil brain. What have you done? I must leave, I cannot bare this much longer. It is disgusting. Man dwelleth not in temples.