Some people have bad breath. Some people have bad teeth. Bad gums. Bad credit. Bad examples. Bad coffee. Bad drugs. Bad health. Bad marriages. Bad luck. Me, well, I've got all that and then some. The worst of it is, I have bad dreams. Nightmares! Hideous dreams that give me convulsions. Makes me want to drink myself into the dust. Makes me want to throw up my lunch in a doorway somewhere. Makes me want to go back to my room, lay in the darkness, order a beer, look at the ceiling, disappear behind a wall, jump out a window, clamp my lips to the back of a cable car, put my hands in my pockets and be dragged away. The only reason I don't is because I wanna be a photographer. Someday when I grow up, I'm gonna be one or know the reason why! But for right now, I'm in the middle of a sidewalk taking pictures of a cigarette butt I found in the gutter.
By the way, clonazepam doesnt always work. It has too many mood swings. Today's one of those days. One of those days when jazz is crude. It's either too fast, too slow, too sentimental, or too square. Sitting in a cafe nobody's there to wait on me. My thumb on my left hand is in a splint. It wont bend. It hurts if it bends. My meds arent working either and I'm feeling depressed. I've got a bottle of Jack Daniels and vicodin. That might help, but probably not. The fan on my computer is too loud for some reason, it's never this loud.
I took some more pictures and fell asleep on the sidewalk outside a bar. I went back to my room, found a note on the door. I dont know if I read it or not. Maybe I ignored it. I stood close to the wall, slid into my apartment like somebody's tongue in my mouth. I sat on the steps, my head in my hands thinking. I put the note next to me. I heard Coltrane pacing around in the room next to mine, playing modal scales over and over. I was in a bar being talked to by a woman with a dark face, big dark eyes, long white graceful neck. Full red lips. Her face torn apart, torn open like paper. I read the paper looking inside her mouth. And what a mouth it was! Her tongue had faces of women all over it like fever blisters living in the spare room from the world of tomorrow, a grim horrible vision of my wet hands wrapped around her throat, sweat dripping from her hair, lips smiling. I opened a door and looked inside for a magazine. An old dog lifted his leg and pissed on my computer. I walked across the street mad enough to kick him but I was in a robe. No, I wasn't in a robe. I was in my bed and a red light flashed on and off through the window. I remembered that I changed my mind about the photo shoot.
It was nauseating but when I thought about photography I forgot I was sick. The woman with a face like dull darkness bent over at the waist and her short skirt got even shorter. She gave me her hand, I gave her something else. She pressed her body against me. I was embarrassed that I couldn't think of anything else to do so I picked up my camera. I was furious that I couldnt kick the habit. It was unnatural. It was absurd. I sat down across the table. She crossed her legs and they fell off her body. I took a picture of them and had no repentance, not even an apology. She laughed. It was terribly funny. I felt crushed. I dropped my camera...... again. Without saying a word her skin began to crumble off her face. That gave me bad gas. My stomach was bloated. I was in a pure state of morbid illness.
I remembered what Dostoevsky wrote: "Every decent man of our time is and must be a coward and a slave. That is his normal condtion." The next thing I knew i had dizzy spells. Insomina. Pains in my chest. Shortness of breath. Loss of appetite. Itchy skin. I lost five pounds in a week. Ten pounds in a month. When I pissed it burned. When I slept I had night sweats. I dreamt I saw a photograph of my father. What the hell does that mean? The psychic said I was clinging to false hope. Guilt. A happy situation in the past I wanted to go back to. Something isn't as it seems to be. Isn't that what photography is?
I began to toss and turn. It hurt. I woke up on the sidewalk. A cop was shaking me awake. I had a broken bottle of whisky next to me running, spilling out on the street corner. He was yelling at me. People were walking past taking pictures of me. My camera was gone. My money was gone. Then the answer came to me: in America, nobody listens to each other. We listen to what other people say to other people. We eavesdrop! I don't look at other people's photos; I only look at my own and admire them. I eavesdrop on myself! I con myself. I scream about my own stuff and die for photos I can't take myself!
By the way, clonazepam doesnt always work. It has too many mood swings. Today's one of those days. One of those days when jazz is crude. It's either too fast, too slow, too sentimental, or too square. Sitting in a cafe nobody's there to wait on me. My thumb on my left hand is in a splint. It wont bend. It hurts if it bends. My meds arent working either and I'm feeling depressed. I've got a bottle of Jack Daniels and vicodin. That might help, but probably not. The fan on my computer is too loud for some reason, it's never this loud.
I took some more pictures and fell asleep on the sidewalk outside a bar. I went back to my room, found a note on the door. I dont know if I read it or not. Maybe I ignored it. I stood close to the wall, slid into my apartment like somebody's tongue in my mouth. I sat on the steps, my head in my hands thinking. I put the note next to me. I heard Coltrane pacing around in the room next to mine, playing modal scales over and over. I was in a bar being talked to by a woman with a dark face, big dark eyes, long white graceful neck. Full red lips. Her face torn apart, torn open like paper. I read the paper looking inside her mouth. And what a mouth it was! Her tongue had faces of women all over it like fever blisters living in the spare room from the world of tomorrow, a grim horrible vision of my wet hands wrapped around her throat, sweat dripping from her hair, lips smiling. I opened a door and looked inside for a magazine. An old dog lifted his leg and pissed on my computer. I walked across the street mad enough to kick him but I was in a robe. No, I wasn't in a robe. I was in my bed and a red light flashed on and off through the window. I remembered that I changed my mind about the photo shoot.
It was nauseating but when I thought about photography I forgot I was sick. The woman with a face like dull darkness bent over at the waist and her short skirt got even shorter. She gave me her hand, I gave her something else. She pressed her body against me. I was embarrassed that I couldn't think of anything else to do so I picked up my camera. I was furious that I couldnt kick the habit. It was unnatural. It was absurd. I sat down across the table. She crossed her legs and they fell off her body. I took a picture of them and had no repentance, not even an apology. She laughed. It was terribly funny. I felt crushed. I dropped my camera...... again. Without saying a word her skin began to crumble off her face. That gave me bad gas. My stomach was bloated. I was in a pure state of morbid illness.
I remembered what Dostoevsky wrote: "Every decent man of our time is and must be a coward and a slave. That is his normal condtion." The next thing I knew i had dizzy spells. Insomina. Pains in my chest. Shortness of breath. Loss of appetite. Itchy skin. I lost five pounds in a week. Ten pounds in a month. When I pissed it burned. When I slept I had night sweats. I dreamt I saw a photograph of my father. What the hell does that mean? The psychic said I was clinging to false hope. Guilt. A happy situation in the past I wanted to go back to. Something isn't as it seems to be. Isn't that what photography is?
I began to toss and turn. It hurt. I woke up on the sidewalk. A cop was shaking me awake. I had a broken bottle of whisky next to me running, spilling out on the street corner. He was yelling at me. People were walking past taking pictures of me. My camera was gone. My money was gone. Then the answer came to me: in America, nobody listens to each other. We listen to what other people say to other people. We eavesdrop! I don't look at other people's photos; I only look at my own and admire them. I eavesdrop on myself! I con myself. I scream about my own stuff and die for photos I can't take myself!
