death of vanity part one

DEATH OF VANITY part one

To whom it may concern:


Death of vanity. Birth of pity. I am reasonable. Little danky with an old man of twelve at one end and a chick of fifty-two and her equally aged companion of forty-two, Diane. And, of course, me. Fifty-two asks my name and, before I can answer, tells me her's, the fellow's, and her friend's badge.
History has it that by now I am long in need for a drink. (Nothing quite as strong as to my fingernails and hair grow- yet). Therefore, I order some rum with the servant needing a picture ID, not believing that I am old enough to be here. I sit amazed that she couldn't believe that a picture of me doesn't look like me. But, I remember that I never look the same, not even my eyes. I am patient but obviously annoyed as I am asked rather loudly for my birth-date.
“The day of your lord's birth, 1975.”
“Weight?”
This last question throws me off. I hadn't expected such an assault on my own identity. Truth is I don't know; I didn't know. This trivia never mattered my whole life until just now.
“140,” I reply, quickly guessing, hastily adding, “well the ID says 140, but I really don't know my exact weight...” Doubtful look from her as i kick myself for adding that last part.
Christ, this place stinks and it is 5:30 pm and I just walked about four miles. I have 500 dollars in my pocket. Some holiday is tomorrow. I just want some rum.
“Look, my mother comes in here all the time-” I begin to offer and am cut off-
“What's her name?”
“J-A-N-E D-O-E”
I get my drink but am annoyed that it took so much trouble, but still, though it is cheap, dusty rum- it is rum.
At this point, I expect a leper to come walking in. I think at this point I would sit with him. A few years ago, I wouldn't have been caught dead in a place like this. I really would now. I promise you that I am reasonable.
I take a look at my ID and realize that my weight says 160 lbs. I mumble to the alchemist why she didn't believe the picture, but she doesn't hear me. I wait for a moment and decide not to ask again. I guiltily drink my rum, half-expecting myself to become an undercover agent aimed at ceasing under-age drinking at dives like this. To my surprise, I never produce my imaginary badge.
“My name is Bradley...” I offer to Diane unintentionally, but she quickly says, “Oh Brad, this is....” My mind has ceased to listen to her; did I not just tell her my name is Bradley?
Oh well. Soon enough I start asking myself why I am here. The filthiest part of town with so much money unearned. Don't get me wrong, though, I have no guilt now. I have decided to be blank.
Well...more appropriately, I am blank. No music. I find any public establishment suspect when no music is playing; even if is music that I don't like...Again I ask myself why I am here.
The truth is that I have no other place to go. In fact, it feels that it was written in some ancient text that I am supposed to be here right now. This justification suits me fine and I am now relieved to think of other things. A nervous look at my watch confirms that I just need to relax.
Diane gets up to play pool. This is a great diversion for me as then I don't have to simply hear the ocean; I can now distinguish something from the white noise that has plagued me so far. I notice that she is playing with a man that I had not previously noticed. I wonder if he had always been there. I can never be sure. Not because of my bad memory or perception, but because of my lack of subtle acuity.
The balls break by the stick held in the hand of the man. He is successful and sinks three more balls. This only reminds me how proud I would be if I could annihilate even just two consecutively. I also quickly remind myself how many times I have been laid over a stupid game of pool, never minding the fact that my fingers are always too sweaty to make my mark.
“3 off the right wall to the corner,” he shouts. The ball plunges to Buddha and readies for its next life in a new game in the little window under the board at play. The game ends as abruptly as it began. little consequence. Like the dogs that hear the dinner bell, everyone resumes their station with a fresh round of brain damage. Before I could ask for more, a drink is already there. Precision and punctuality makes me go into convulsions. If a pattern is present, my first notion is to blow it into the smallest bits possible. Then again, I am the most predictable person I know.
Where is the fucking music?
A third cup of manna is in me by now and I am glad. I already feel that familiar burn in my stomach. Very warm and comforting. I imagine that the sensation is like that of having a used womb. My tongue also is starting to get numb, starting at the back and creeping to the tip. My neurons are firing more freely. I also have a cold virus that doesn't matter now. Yes, I am beginning my leisurely swim through the rich cream gravy.

BUT STILL NO FUCKING MUSIC.

Why cant I retreat back into my head like in the good old days? I could float for hours in the infinite. I could find the pattern in the white noise. I could see the lines and reconstruct them. I may have even sat at this very stool and made a million universes. Object becomes trivial; only the shape is significant.

no judges. no enforcement. no hands. no feet. no ears. no eyes. no stool. no picture. no sphere. no stick. no tongue. no inability. no force. no destruction. no scent. no sound.

but i had my construct. my weight.

Now I have only reminded myself how much I hate this. Though I find it refreshing to state what is obvious; to shoot a man after kicking him in the head to have him thank you. I no longer want what I have; I need what I have.
I think I may have my psychic constructions confused. Everyone in this place understands me. All I have to do is not look at them and they will know. Yes, as long as things aren't said, they are understood. As long as I know no one, everyone is my friend. Every single human my personal soul mate.

I need to piss, but I don't want to move. I am glued. Things were not always so lovely, so bare; when I had no hair. No those days I don't want to think about. I just want to be here, tongue numb. After all, isn't this what I have been crawling to reach? To sit on this very stool. To allow the air to impregnate me.
An immaculate conception. I bear a million fetuses in this fashion every week. My womb is as tidy and neat as a generic motel. Not because I keep it clean. No, the babies do it for me, scraping the slime of my uterus only to vomit it back up when they get out of what they would call a hell. Who, after all, calls their hell home? (Not only would the bits of flesh be dis-respectful, but outright liars).
On second thought, maybe it really is me who keeps the womb clean. No... that would only be flattery. I have promised you I am reasonable. I will promise you I am a Holy whore.

You can’t beckon death. Go ahead and try to invite her. She will undoubtedly ignore you. No, not ignore, but not even realize that you aren't already dead. Often this leads me to wonder, who will kill my offspring? Who will kill me? The latter question I acknowledge as being merely egotistical. No one will kill me. Death forgot about me.

Old man, Diane, and I down another drink.

Filled for fuel for forgotten memories.

I like the music I picked from the jukebox, from a generation ago or two... Songs.
“Fleetwood Mac” sings “you can go your own way...” and the “take the long way home....”

So I shall.



to be continued.......