5

Partying is intimacy. Like getting high with Adam, there’s an intimacy to inebriation. A cheap intimacy.
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You have to love this world to enjoy it.
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The memories help me to enjoy summer but I don’t need them in order to Know the summer.
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It’s like when I was little I sold my soul. I was a boy, I didn’t know any better.
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(coming back from grocery store) The better I get at this, the worse I am at handling the outside world. I could only mumble to the cashier. I’ve got to learn how to be this relaxed while doing both. There’s this great space of anxiety between me and the outside world.
I woke up to an alarm going off in another room. As I slept a piano piece was playing and the two sounds competed with each other as I dreamed, me focusing in on the beautiful sound and its implied perception on the dream I was having, despite the alarm’s hindrance.
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I don’t know how to describe what it was like to grow up with an incestuous sister, a year older than me. Well known for her attractiveness, her laugh, her trickery. Or an incestuous younger sister, all that over-cuteness, that wanting-to-be-liked flirtatiousness.
I was supposed to play back. Back when A__ played her tricky, incestuous game. There was supposed to be a winner, a right and wrong. But instead I chose to destroy her.
It became the most efficient way of dealing with them, destroy them by getting them to believe their own lies. If A__ were asked now, she’d describe that tricky game she played as if there was no incestuous-ness. But I’d see in her eyes she was lying, and she herself wouldn’t know she was lying. In that way I win.
If I had to do it over I’d be more coy, more confident. But I was a year younger than her the entire time. There’s no way I could’ve known then what I know now. All I knew without knowing was that I had already had sex, and she didn’t know it, hadn’t acknowledged it to herself.
_I killed who she could’ve been,_ said the child sexual abuser, the younger one, who continued a manipulative sexual relationship with an abused cousin three years younger than him since he was little. _I killed her. Just because she’s up and walking around doesn’t mean I didn’t murder her._
I found a way to kill back.
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I finished a full week of being high. Now, I’m up and about, working out daily, running errands. Last week I mostly slept and watched television.
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It’s like once the body has slept that deeply, it remembers.
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Hope. That was the dream. That everything would be made okay through story. Like in films, how everything ended perfectly and happily ever after was assumed. The past enemies become best friends, family dramas play out just right, everyone turns out to be so cool.
Hope now is different, should be different. Hope shouldn’t be wrapped up with Story. There’s nothing wrong or ugly about pain. Hope should be wrapped up with How; Hope in who you become, who you turn out to be, hope in how you handle things. Your attitude. Your qualities.
The story simply has to be a believed story. The story that everything really would’ve been alright in the end, it was just that those people, those terribly good people in the story, simply made too many mistakes, each mistake felt to them like an accident they didn’t mean.
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There’s a story in my head, where I turn out to have a different biological father. A Methodist pastor with two other sons, one a preppy football player ready to marry, the other a pot smoker with a wry humor, in my mind the two characters becomes the two young guys in the play Next to Normal.
The biological father still lives local and J__ and Ms J__’s family keep me on, so I go from having zero families to three (if you count the local A__, L__, and R__) in a short time. There is a young woman, which makes it four.
My character is one who says little, with a deep voice, and a small, muscular, tanned, hairy frame. He seems dumb but really he’s wise; he seems interesting because he can have an air about him like the lead actress in the show Weeds, how her eyes seem deadened they can be so dumb but in them you see a Shiftiness, as if she could be someone very wise and articulate, to the point of writing her whole life down and keeping the whole thing a secret.
The story plays out where the brothers and other family members become the center of the drama while my character remains an innocent sidekick that everyone is always talking about and reacting to.
A few obvious scenes play out, then there’s a shift, and I am the complete opposite character. I am at the center of the dramas. My voice is the one who says the words, this time, plays out the How, my frame and countenance watched.
It was like the story wanted to prove to me that the two were the same, each opposite’s opposite.
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I’m glad I decided to handle things this way. To smoke so much high quality pot in such little time in privacy. There are moments I’m glad I only know: like how I really didn’t know how to use a bowl at first, and how I didn’t really know how to inhale properly. Simple things, things teenagers know nowadays.
The highs were so seamless with not-being-high that I don’t really know when I was high and when I wasn’t.
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Change is Stress.
Improvement is Change.
Improvement (done Soulfully) is Evolvement.
The only way to battle stress head on is to square your shoulders and be brave.
Trust with a wry smile that the bravery is good enough to be health.
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Everyone has a hard time of it. Why make everybody talk about it? Why feel as if you’ve been lied to?
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It is pain .. Presence.
I like feeling my muscles from the inside, it used to be I could only feel that when I was sore, but now I can do it while I’m high.
It is literally pain. Like the way sex is literally pain but such pleasure.
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To feel deeply, you have to feel back in time, you have to know and feel your heritage. You have to feel millions of years old.
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