memoir9

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.

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."