Sunday, August 31, 2014

Trepanation Blues

The sound of cars in the distance. I lie on a mattress. The most jagged in Hell. Head over the side face down in waste paper basket. The waste paper basket metallic rusting contains an astonishing volume of vomit to which I contribute munificently. Vomit scorches inside the nostrils coats throat tongue lips chin.

Sucking back spittle and flashes of light retching everything stabs any attempt at movement immediately punished with more of the same bile poison stomach muscles shriek.

Splash of tequila no place time name only spasms spewing and this soul-destroying bed of nails.

It goes on forever.   

Icy bone fingers on bare back “¿Estás muerto, mamí?”  voice raspy deep but feminine like Stevie Nicks. Who the fuck is in bed with me?

Splash of tequila snot bubbles drool choke up question “¿Dónde estámos? – Where are we?”  but throat fails emitting hardly a sound.

The air is too dry light too white room too pink even for a motel room. I am not in Houston. I am in a desert place. Splash of tequila. How long have I been here?

From somewhere above me again: “¡Estás aquí! Conmigo, mamí. ¡Por supuesto!”

Angry buzz red-eyed hairy blue bottle fly big as a chihuahua lands on lip of waste paper basket proceeds consuming vomit and joined by several of its friends. I jerk up back from fear into arms of unseen bed companion brush of skins splash of tequila scent of vaginal juices. “¿Qué pasa?”

The scene pink and turquoise breaks frame. Clicks at edges. Before me on the bed stands an impossible tower purple red translucent tube contraption. Maybe a sex toy maybe a bong and most probably both or neither. Pray God it has not been inside me.

My bed compañera is revealed as a taut brown bag of longbones of indeterminate age dark nipples nose like an old Aztec god. She has a recent trepanation scar right in the center of her forehead.

Reaches. Kisses my shoulder with air of familiarity.

A thought perhaps a memory of what brought me here belches up-up-upwards almost in view and I want to drown it in a splash of tequila but instead take inventory of what I know:

v  Who am I? I am Katy. (Certainty level 63%.)

v  Where am I? Not where I usually am. Location unclear but a western desert motel seems possible. (Certainty level 49%.)

v  When am I?  Later than 2003… 2004. I remember buying a Nick Cave album once and it was 2010. This is 2010 or it is later. (Certainty level 7%.)

v  What am I?  Question not operative. Splash of tequila. (Certainty level nihl.)

v  Why am I? To not see-think-remember something. To keep something faraway. (Certainty level 100%.)

Sick ghosts flapping in my peripherals splash of tequila and I smother myself into the arms of Señorita Longbones. The way I see it: To undo all my efforts at forgetting by just going and remembering now would be a crime punishable by death firing squad blindfold and cigarette. Gotta be a reason I came here, ¿Verdad?

Sharp electric shock from my kidneys splash of tequila dribble and fumbling towards fadetoblack I begin the long crawl across the potholed surface of the mattress to the waste paper basket again.

A woman sits in corner shadows watching observing jotting down notes. I pretend I don’t see her. I am not asking any questions.

Not today…

26 comments:

  1. Your drunken morning stories are much more vivid than any of mine... (probably because you remember shit a sane person would purposefully erase from their memory banks).

    I once woke up under the pool table in my parents' basement... only I didn't know that was where I was at the time. I just looked up to see a dark slab of marble over my head, then felt some hateful bastard kicking my feet from the south side-pocket area of the table. It was my dad. And he didn't find my hungover situation amusing at all. Put me behind a garden tiller for three or four hours, then behind a lawn mower for two or three more, and then we moved on to pulling weeds from the iris beds until it got dark.

    Good times.

    Hope you'll elaborate on your story with the next installment.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Yeah, I almost ALWAYS remember what I do when I'm under the influence. But I almost NEVER remember any of my dreams, so it balances out, i guess.

      This post was well on its way to being about 3 times longer - I have a whole bit written where I get trapped inside of a t-shirt while trying to put it on, another where I walk outside and look up and down the road. The style of the piece wore on me after a while, though, so I shortened it for the sake of my ADHD readers...

      Delete
  2. Yeah, face down is always best (somebody should'a told Jimi, Pearl and Jim) but that makes it difficult to put one foot on the floor, too, sooo ..... eveidently you're weathering the storm well, though .... or weathered, rather.
    Sounds like a scene right outta 'Touch Of Evil' ... but 'cept for that extra hole, I mean.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Wha- Oh! The trepanation hole. I thought you were making a reference to us both being chicks...

      Delete
    2. I just have to remind people once in a while, squat. Keeps the page views up.

      Delete
  3. YES! YES! I Completely understand!

    As my fingers slid off the curb, my cheap sunglasses reviled a sharp dressed man covered in Rio Grande mud. He declared that yes indeed, Rosario did the fandango with Tres Hombres at the brothel in La Grange, Tejas. Then the sweetest sound... Leila singing while grinding the tube snake boogie style... ZZZZZZZs

    I have been down this road before. It cost me 400 dollars in taxi fares and a great job. However, I would do it again!

    Was this a Burning Man thing or were you testing the immigration folks?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. She's got legs. She knows how to use them... I went out to Tuscon a few years back to go and catch spiders, and I've returned a few times since then. Sometimes I have to get into a different sort of mental space.

      Delete
  4. Back when I had mornings like that, the most important question was -- Do I really want to remember?

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Exactly! That was my ultimate decision. There must have been a reason I chose to do what it took to black out, right? In the blue pill/red pill option, I took the blue pill, apparently.

      Delete
  5. Sounds wild. I'm not sure I'm cut out for that whole lifestyle personally. I'd rather eat a jammie dodger and have a lie down than indulge in a crazed, liquor-addled sex romp. However, it does make for interesting reading and I have decided that I shall start living vicariously through you. Go Katy!

    (P.S. It's Addman by the way)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I think everyone should live vicariously through me, actually. But if they do, they'd better like lying around staring at the ceiling while listening to old prog. There's going to be a lot of that...

      Delete
  6. ¡This makes me so happy that I don't drink! ¡Si!

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. It's not normally this bad, especially if you stop at a reasonable point. I was clearly trying to wash brain cells away here. That is not an endorsement of alcohol...

      Come to think of it: Don't drink, kids!

      Delete
  7. I guess it's both a blessing and a curse, then, that my body processes alcohol so fast that I can't get this level of drunk. Sure, on one hand, I never have to deal with the consequences of drunken choices or the brutal hangover that follows, but on the other hand, every bad decision I've ever made has been sober. That's a scary thought.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Haha... Yes, it is a great excuse if you can get away with using it. Back when I was under the influence of something all of the time, I would rationalize every stupid thing I did and every lapse in judgment, memory, or logic as being a side effect.

      Then I got sober. My thinking wasn't any more clear, my decisions weren't any better. It turns out I'm just sort of an idiot. So I might as well drink.

      Delete
  8. your post is as close as i'd like to be to Hangover Hell anytime soon. certainty level 100%.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. In part of this post that I deleted, I thought I had injured my back while drunk and it turned out my kidneys had basically shut down. Apparently subsisting on tequila for several consecutive days is rough on a human body!

      You see how kind I am? I report back on this stuff so you don't have to go do it yourself. Adam (above) is going to live vicariously through me!

      Delete
    2. This is what people don't like about queers. They are always having to brag about their risky life choices and getting laid. In this case in the style of William S. Burroughs or somesuch shit. Not your best, lady.

      Delete
    3. Oh no! You've unmasked my agenda, Gert. I was hoping to pull impressionable youngsters over to a life of alcohol and anonymous sex by making this post as glamorous as possible.

      And I would have gotten away with it, too, if it wasn't for you meddling kids!

      Delete
    4. Shit, you owe me a keyboard.
      I'll never get the smell of beer out of this one.

      God. I hate it when it comes out my nose like that.

      Delete
    5. Ha! Get yourself a machine washable keyboard. They are an online drunk's best friend.

      Delete
  9. A trepanation scar!?! Did the tequila also transport you to the mid-17th century? They don't--please tell me--drill holes in people's heads to release the pressure (or demons or whatever). As a professional drunk, I've thankfully never woken up in such a situation in my career, only in some stranger's bushes in their backyard.

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. I'm not sure what the purpose would be today. if it was to get rid of demons, then the operation failed miserably... Or delightfully. Whichever.

      Delete
  10. Back again, no believable excuses, as by definination all excuses might as well be lies because they all sound like lies. i never cared how many times my employees grandmother died, I only cared if she died often enough to make me need to replace you. I pray you don't fell like replacing me. Fran

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. Frank, you have turned up a lot more times this year than in the last couple years. You never need an excuse for that. I know you're very old and that you've probably been trying to get online by pressing buttons on your VCR or microwave.

      Delete

Hey you! Why not leave a comment to tell me what you think of what I wrote?