memoir

memoir11

The killer caught the young man smoking pot.

"'Sup Killa," said the young man.

"Not much," said the killer, "what's new with you?"

"Oh, I'm just sitting here trying to figure out how to start my memoir."

"Is your memoir about smoking pot?"

"Sometimes. At least I imagine it will be, I haven't gotten very far."

"Why's that," said the killer, leaning on his bloody ax.

"Everytime I start it, I think of a new way to start it, or that the old way was shit and I had to come up with a new way."

"What about this?" the killer asks, wiping the blade of the excess body remnants.

"Not likely, but I do want to have dialog in it, so far there is no dialog."

"How does it start right now?"

"Like this:

In an instant.

What is in an instant? How much information is there in an instant? Any of the particles you capture will not be there the next instant. But why don't you capture them? As best as you can?

I'd have to carefully choose my instant. I have to censor myself in certain instances. Otherwise, I will not say what I think. And mistakes are all intentional.

Your pulse quickens, your breath quickens, What is going to happen? What is going to happen? Will they mock me, will they lavish me with love, will they make life complete and all my ambitions worthwhile? Will they do nothing at all?

When I don't censor myself, things go much smoother.

I think I have PTSD from what happened next. Or maybe I have it from when that psycho (confirmed: she had nineteen of the twenty symptoms--I can't find the link, but the only reason she didn't have all twenty is because she was underage before she met me and didn't go to real prison) ruined my life. Still, that was a gradual thing over 6 months. This was something in the span of a couple minutes.

Oh, you want to know more about her? I call her the CFA. I'll tell you more when you see this color again.

I mean, it all came up like a roller coaster, slow build. But then there's the eventual fall, and it's a quick fall. And I may have PTSD because of it.

Should I define censor as not going for the first reaction, those are boring. Those are the ones that trick you in the high-number questions on the SAT. They are deceptive. But the true answer? What, a true answer, how lost in obscurity of knowledge.

The first time you performed in front of an audience?

I'd say, yes, I hadn't performed in front of more than 30 people before.

But, here, you are in front of 400. I don't know where I came up with the number 400, I may have heard it somewhere, or maybe I am guessing entirely. But here you are in front of 400 people…

All contestants or family/friends of contestants. They can be a hard group. Imagine, all of them, sitting in a theatre. You've never performed in a theatre. (You meaning me, of course.) I've never performed in front of a crowd nearly that big before. But I was going to give it a shot… A poorly executed shot, but a shot.

I knew even before I opened my mouth, that it was going to go bad. At least that is how I felt. I should have done something in front of an audience before.

The killer: "So far, it's okay, I don't see anything wrong with it."

Me: "This is where it starts to go to shit."

The killer: "I'm so sorry."

Me: "Fuck it, I'm just cutting this whole bit."

The killer: "Ew, I can't watch, I'm squeamish." .

You know there are plants in the audience. You were in that audience just an hour or so ago. You'd seen the audience, you'd heard them boo, you knew they were restless. Half of the people going up got booed at least somewhat. But that was no indicator as to whether they made it to the next round, at least you couldn't do the math. But you wanted to right then… Maybe.

Slash, slash.

You're about to sing to an audience. No guitar, no harmonica, just you singing. You're used to having the backing, backing of instruments, not people. You're used to instruments after all, instruments you can control, you're not used to letting that go to someone else. They will soon play your backing tune, but it will sound weird, like they made a different mix or had different voices (you know, like barber shop type behind the curtain). It's hard to say, as everything will become fast and blurry soon. You'll just have to get through it.

Slash.

"What's next?"

"Chapter 2," I say, "I don't particularly like it."

"Then cut it," says the Killer.

CHAPTER 2

This is kinda interesting:

Sigh, fourth disturbance tonight by a family member in the last half hour. You think they were out to kill my high. But one mustn't get paranoid. I get paranoid enough as it is when I'm sober, why do it even more when I'm high? We're going to have a talk after church, my father and I. I dread this, I ask him what about, he said, "oh, you, and me, and us and the family…" Wow, that was really descriptive I thought, but then I thought, is whatever he's thinking worse than what I could imagine? That distracted me enough until he left me alone (momentarily—that was the first of his three visits, my mother made two, but hers were close together, they were probably more like one long one).

You're on a stage…. … Ah, forget it.

I suppose you wonder what I ended up talking to my father about. It was him and his drinking, how it's been a problem. And that was it. No, "now don't become like me." Then he said if there were any questions I'd like to ask. I said, no, but I would like to say one thing: "When you drink you get impatient." And I left it at that.

No, wait there were four visits by my father. First, "we need to have a talk son." 50s sitcom voice added for effect. Second, where's your phone, I want to charge it. Third… No wait, first and second were close together, my fault. Yes, there were three visits from father. One visit from mother. The rest has been peace.

I'm actually smoking right now. My mother wouldn't approve.

I am enjoying my high. Who knows how long it will last? It's my third attempt today. Usually that means extra effort, or acceptance at a little hop, instead of a leap. Well, I'll hop. But I'll hop a lot. Hip hip hip…

Hip hip, the hippie, the hippie, the hip hop to you don't stop, the bee bop and the boop boopie doo.

What does this have to do with that moment?

Oh yeah.

The lights were bright. The world, out of focus. This is all because he didn't have his sunglasses on, which were prescription lenses. He left them on the pedestal. Someone finally asks him if he wants to wear them. He decides right before going on stage to go without them. Foolish, foolish choice.

Notice the third-person tense. That's because I'm a clever writer.

I was blind to the audience. I wanted to be blind though, I didn't want to have to face the 400 some faces before me. It was scary. Slash.

After this moment, I cry, then I go home, then I wait for the show to air, I am not in any of the footage but the audience reaction shots. I wanted to cut myself, first time I had ever felt so suicidal. Then I had my psychotic break, I thought I was part of a concert with a bunch of famous musicians, I thought I got attacked, thought I was in full Truman Show situation (hence Truman Show Syndrome), called cops on the attack, got myself put in mental institutions, was moved out of my place in San Diego by my folks, moved back in with parents, spent a lot of time with Stephen online.

"Woah, woah," says the killer, the gleam of his ax like a star in my eye.

"What's up," I say.

"That was a lot of stuff in one paragraph," says the killer.

"It'll be elaborated."

I can't see the audience yet. It is too bright, but I know they are there. The sound of all those people watching, talking to their neighbors, just existing, was almost unbearable. These people were all in front of me. I couldn't see them, but I knew they were there, as I was in those seats for over 8 hours, over two days—not all that time was "filming." But the point was, I was in that crowd, I'd seen the crowd with my sunglasses on. (No one gave me any guff before I went on stage about my sunglasses.)

It wasn't "guff," by the way. It was just someone's last minute call.

Let's see, I can blame the sunglasses, what else can I blame? Oh, how about the razor I had to use, since I didn't have an electric shaver yet that was any good. (After this experience I went out and spent two hundred on the best shaver Fry's had to offer.) I cut myself using this dumb, straight, disposable razor. I was too nervous, about the whole possibility of going on stage, which was quickly becoming reality.

The problem was later I would go on stage, and the cut would still be open, so there was blood on my blind-looking face.

I saw they were buzzing off people quickly with strange acts. But I thought mine was normal. Just singing. Unfortunately, my back-up audio was weird. I asked them to let me hear what they were going to do. Let me hear what they could offer, since I put mine together in one night by myself. I wasn't sure what was going to come out of those speakers around me. It eventually sounded a bit like me, but then also like a bunch of people doing the voices. It was too surreal a moment, I couldn't tell you what it sounded like. I was asleep before I knew it. The rest was a dream. Getting out one line of the song, then getting buzzed off the show. Going into a corner of the studio to cry? What should I tell?

CHAPTER THREE – Is in italics

Chapter 4

Chapter 5 and 6 are explained above.

Chapter 7

Took me a while to find the color. Okay, where was I? Oh, I don't want to have to read all that. Let me just say that what my father wanted to know, rather, what he wanted to talk about, was himself and his foibles. I told him he got better these last 4 years. He tried to give me some mark twain quote. I told him the only thing he should leave the conversation we had with, was, that drinking makes him impatient.

But the reason they had the talk, that is, my mother helped orchestrate it, but it was between my father and I--is because of my pot use, that is now in the open. I am legal now, and I get my herb from a dispensary. I have valid medical reasons, and I wouldn't think them useful here, but I might as well say they are for anxiety, depression, and hemorrhoids. This is a memoir, after all. Need the juicy tidbits. (Notes, reviewer makes mention "I was all lulled into a sleep when suddenly I read about hemorrhoids, and I was upset from then on!")

You see prior to this moment, I had been smoking herb. In the parking lot, that day, but also, in the days before, and like, seven years. Since this moment, it's been 4 years, 2 of them sober. Right now, I am high. I am eating hummus and crackers. This is not one of the sober years.

SLASH

Okay, fuck that, fuck that, fuck that, I want to go for colors that look good, not colors that fit some "i'm going to be story" no "i'm going to be bullshit" no "fuck all that bullshit." Instead, I will use new colors, but they will not be anything other than a good color to add to the painting. That said, I think I'm going to start another draft, this one, I'm adding a touch of green, but I'm deleting a whole lot of shit.

"What color am I?" asks the killer.

"Green."

"Cool."

Then the killer died. And the writer began again.

Let me start by telling you about this time... Oh, man this time... Like it was so great. Right? Me and that guy. No, not that guy. The guy from before. Yeah, him, him and his girlfriend, no not the crazy one, the less crazy one. Yeah, me and that guy and that girl went to the place, because, you know, everyone was talking about The Place. And we had a ____ time. (Under that underline, without anything overline, is a line that says "Wacky Adjective.")

Have I mentioned I'm lonely? But good at it. Yes, I've been lonely for a long time, I've gotten used to it, know how to deal with it.

You know, I don't think I can recall any time where my father has hit me. Except there was one time that I remember getting spanked, and I seem to really believe it was on my birthday, at that (remember vaguely some valentine's related stuff around the dinner table (my birthday is on Valentine's), and having it difficult to sit at the table because my bottom hurt. Other than that, my father never hit me. And of course my mother didn't. Why do I mention it then? Because you want to get to the root of these people's problems, don't you? You think, maybe it's in their childhood, there's always an explaination. But, no, as much as I examine my childhood, it was pretty bland and not that bad, considering i had an alcoholic father. Oh, he'd do the whole crack the belt thing, when were young. And we'd all pretend that it didn't scare us, but I know it scared me.

And that feeling that your parent could do something malicious to you, is a horrible one. Luckily, I have not had it very often, and can right now claim no maliciousness ever to occur with them. They have their foibles. My father is impatient, and domineering. My mother is anxious, and overbearing. But not domineering in a way other than conversation. He must be allowed to finish his sentences, which can last minutes, as his brain must constantly try to reconnect when it wants so desperately to break out. And I'm not sure overbearing is the right word either. She just always wanted to know the who, what, where, when, why's, how long, what's their parent's phone number, tell me exactly what you are going to do, tell me exactly what you have done. And on, and on.

I'm getting sick of this color, it seems a bit nauseous to read. Maybe that means I should stop for now.

So, anyway, my life was somewhere between bucolic and phlegmatic. I was a good lad. did as i was told, got good grades. But I was screaming internally the whole time. As long as I can remember, which is basically puberty and everything after it, I've felt like a prisoner of war. Which is, of course, extremely belittling of true patriots who suffer as prisoners of war--I know. But damn it, I sure as hell didn't feel free. And even now, as I live with my parents once again, I don't feel free. So I will smoke my pot and try to.

Now I try to type in my room, while my mother watches tv in what used to be my room.

I think of all those years when I was in san diego, and she was alone. Now, now she's had plenty. But back then, I didn't visit. How could I? She wouldn't want me to be stoned all the time, or any of the time, but I want to be all the time. Damn, I should never have first smoked pot.

I have an addictive personality. It was going to manifest itself someway. I should be glad it's only pot. When did I first start smoking herb? Well, shit, now I better go into subfiction mode.

Hmm, now I'm thinking of finding that old email I wrote about the first time I got high to Otto. My life will be better. My life will be better. My life will be better.

No, that has nothing to do with the first time I got high, I was just trying to convince myself that right now. Oh, right, so I was going to tell you about the CFA.

chug. chug... chuchunk. chunk-chunk-chunk.

(Engine's revving. The exhaust exudes.)

pppprrrr, prrrr, ppp ... ppp... [snooze]

"This thing's dead," I say, to my friend AManIJustMadeUp. Also known as Amijmu.

Amijmu looked at me. His eyes told exactly what he was thinking, that I was an idiot. Here I was driving cross country for a woman. Or, here's a man meeting a friend for the first time, and somehow, meeting herb as well.

"Check the exhaust," says Amijmu. "It always knows."

I sniffed the exhaust, it was sweet, no, sour, no kung pao. It was exhaust.

"You're right, it needs more buffalump." So, I take out my whozarit, unzip it, and bust out a buffalump-pump. "The pump needs a jump."

"Howznarit fizbang!" He fipplegibbled the hopnpop next.

The world came in focus. And the young man knew what he needed. That young man, was I.

"I"--I say--"I rule the world, I tell the tale, I am the pronoun, I am to the point, but a point made too often? Too often to attend to properly? Not give it too much power, too much billing, too much stock, or too much time. So, occassionally, he will say. Why not? You're an adult, you can handle shifting persons."

Amijmu looked sternly at me. I was high again, he had introduced me to a new realm, and I've seemed to like it more than the old realm.

"Oh," I say, "but I musn't shift time. Gotta stay present or past tense. Can't go shifting... Oh, but people can handle it. Or, what if they don't. Tough, read something else. I'm writing for my..." I stop. A quick panic. "I would say myself, but I don't read these things I write. I do them, get them out of my system, and then I post them, or something, and never read them again, sometimes. So, I have no audience. It's sad really. But I've always lived a lonely existence."

Amijmu puts one eye half mast. "Awbvious... And may I call you 'awbvious'?"

"I'd prefer it in this state, thank you."

"Awbvious: Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Well, let's establish what year this is. Let's pretend it's, oh, 2010. Where do I see myself in five years hence?"

"Yes," says Amijmu.

"Somewhere else. That I can tell you. I have a five-year plan given to me by god." I start to laugh. I'm being facetious, but it is true I was in church when I came to the revelation that I will be here five years and no more. But here is only my house. Not like "this earthly plane." I'll only have to live at my house with my folks a total of five years. By then, who knows, this memoir might get published. Or maybe I'll publish a compendium, of all the works I have, published and unpublished, and i'll take the best from both, and I'll submit the manuscript to places to be published legit like, and I I I I ...

/-----\
II II II

I made the coloseum. However it is spelled. I don't need no damn spell checker, you don't either, do you? I didn't think so. I will do something. It will be on my terms, but I will do something with my life. This upcoming class, I'm going to ...

Wait, let me put this in another ...

whirrrrrrrrrrrrr put put put poot.

[END FICTION]

Amijmu (not, A Man I Just Made Up, but Another Man I Just Made Up) looks at me and says, "other than the amijmu, everything was non-fiction."

"I find a little dialogue helps ease the process," says I.

"But it's not real dialogue, I mean, there isn't really two people here."

"It's another perspective, one, yes, of my own imagination, but one that will keep me in check nonetheless. You were called 'the killer' at first."

"Ah, yes, so, that's me? I'm the killer," says the killer.

"If you could read what I wrote, you'd know that you're the killer."

"Woopty me," he says, "where's my ax?"

"It was a cheap prop, we got rid of it."

"What?"

"The ax, it's just there to suggest a possibility of violence."

"And 'the killer,' doesn't do that at all?" says the killer.

"Nope," says I.

After a long pause, he looks at me. "Why not?"

"There are movies, bands, multiple movies, uh, uh... It just doesn't."

"Well, until I am proven to commit said crimes, I'd like to be Amijmu." Fine, you're Amijmu.

"I just wrote: 'Fine, you're Amijmu'--are you happy?"

"No. Now I want to know..." He stares into space. He doesn't stop. He goes beyond space. To OuterSpace. To the galaxy. To the cluster of galaxies. To the supercluster of galaxies, to the universe, to the multiverse. He can't go any further. The multiverse is fun in itself.

"Perhaps I shouldn't have smoked you out Amijmu," I say.

"Huh," he says, "what's that?"

"Perhaps I shouldn't have smoked you out."

"Oh... Right..." His head drops. Then two seconds later, it comes back up. He looks glazed, like a donut. "Aaaah. Where are we?"

"We're in the middle of ..."

My imagination just went. From hearing a scrap on the door. It sounded low, like someone was scratching where maybe my cat would, but my cat was in my bed, instead I thought... Violent things.

I'm not putting them in here. Fuck that. You want violence, go elsewhere. Sex? Man, I wish I had something to tell you on that one. I had one threesome, if that satisfies some of your curiosity. Yes, two chicks, one of them was the CFA, the other just some really adventurous bisexual woman. I had it on video. Then my parents moved me out, and they threw away anything that was illicit, which I, of course, kept together in one container. Boom. Whole thing is tossed. Tapes as well. I had lots of CFA from the first time we met. Jesus, we fucked like bunnies every chance we could. The sex was good people. The sex was real, real good. The rest was hell, of course. You don't get nothing for nothing.

Why do I always have to list them? The things she caused me to lose in the six months I was with her. My apartment. I tried to stop her from calling the fire department at 2 AM. I loved that apartment too. I miss it. I miss the time before it. It was lonely. But for my cat. Then it was good. Until she came into it. My financial support of my parents. Until then I hadn't spent too much money, so I hadn't had to get any on my own. I had a credit card that they paid for. But I maxed that out on this trip to get her in Texas. And after that, it was scraping to get by. Oh, but the sex. The sex was awesome.

The sex wasn't so awesome with the first girlfriend, I had her, oh, 1999 to 2001 and a half. We had a two and a half year relationship, that's all I remember... No, that's a lie, I remember much more, and it makes me smile to think of it.

[flashback]

I am laying on the bed in a girl's dorm room, that girl, The Ex, is in there as well. I am going through The Ex's CD collection.

"Bjork?" says I, "you listen to Bjork?"

"I love Bjork, we should, you know, to Bjork..."

"Bonk to Bjork?" I ask incredulously. She puts on the album, something about primeval and animal and oh yeah, the song she put on was, "The Hunter."

"I am the hunter," sings Bjork as The Ex jumps on top of me and we start to make out.

[end flashback]

Ah, wasn't that nice? A little romp in history. I remember momments with songs, especially. Like one time, I wasn't even with her, I was on my way to meet her. I was driving the campus loop at my undergrad (which is where we both went to school), and I was hearing the song, "I Love You More Today Than Yesterday," by, oh fuck, i know this one, who sang that song again? No matter. Anyway, I was hearing that song and I was thinking, yes, I love her even more today, I'm loving her more and more, exponentially. And my heart started to soar.

Just now I was thinking about modern times. After the Ex, and things went back to loneliness and depravity. You know, I thought I saw her recently, she was laughing to her friend, as I was walking down Sunset listening to my music and singing along. And I never stop for anyone, unless I know it's them. But I turned and looked in their direction (she was with some other friend(s)), well, my old--one hesitates to say, demon--reared its ugly head as, and it hurts me to type it, I didn't...

Can't do it. I love her too much, in a way I always will. But I have love for everyone... But for everyone else, I would type what I meant to type, fuck their feelings. But for her, I will censor myself. For it is stupid and shows only that I am a ... I will tell the world anything I want that I think about anyone in the world, except right now, this thing, I won't. There surely are othes, I just don't want to think of them right now.

Right now I'm thinking of tasks, and how we do them sometimes. Like the task of finding a shirt, it's a simple task, except you go through the other shirts... Ah, nevermind, I actually thought that through, and it's stupid. I'd delete it but I am lazier than I am concerned with stupidity. Lack of grace is another thing.

I should just give up all drugs and see what happens. Wait, I've done it. I've seen what happens. Not much. That's what happens. This two worlds theory... I don't know. I'm just feeling melancholy today.

What was I talking about anyway? I'd love to finish the thought for you, but it would require reading that crap, and right now I can't stand it. But I don't dare delete it. For this feeling will probably pass, and I will say, "eh, better than nothing." Which is what deleting gets you. Nothing.

I'm going to get eye surgery on the ninth. That's it. That's the end of my screenplay! Sorry, but I needed a contrasting image of the world being out of focus, to now being in focus, once I get the surgery--I always put it off because of cost, but my sister and I drew up a budget that pretty much showed with the employment I have now, I couldn't make enough to move out of the house anyhow. So I might as well try something life altering. For me, it'll be lasik. I could never wear contacts because of a condition I have. It's called Hating To Stick Your Finger In Your Eye. Maybe you've heard of it. Anyway, I'm sick of these glasses. In particular because it's a kind of art I have to wear that I didn't make. Yet another, rather. For there are others, all my clothes, they annoy me for I did not pick out much of them, or if I did it was in duress and I pretty much had no other options. Now I got cargo pants. I do carry a lot in my pockets, I will admit to that.

But yeah, eye surgery. Expensive, but hopefully worth it. I really expect it to be life altering, if it ain't, I'll be a little bummed, but at least I took the gamble. It's so exciting all the stuff that's outside the confines of my frames, I can finally get to see. My peripheral vision will sky rocket.

Whew, I just remembered something.

"What's that?" asked Amijmu.

"Punctuation is a bitch, I hate having to put question marks in dialogue. I'm pretty sure it goes the way I did it, but it just settles weirdly." Says I.

I just want a girlfriend, that's all. It made me happy, now I am not. I need a girlfriend. But 4,000 couldn't buy me a good girlfriend for life. It can, and thankfully, over a 2-year period, be enough to make my eyes work like others do. I'm so excited, I can barely contain myself. I'm higher than a kite. I am on an up swing. That's nice. Woah, flyin' high again, gain, gain...

Okay, that's over. Now what?