Be Careful What You Put Them Through

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I awake the junkie.

It's a cold, mean awakening. I am so deeply resolved that there is no conflict today. I rise, I am WELL rested. The dorm is already alive. I check my watch. It's nearly Eight O'clock. I have to make it out of here to see Dr. A for my Friday morning physical. Igor asks: "Hey, Hobobob, would you like to go out to breakfast with me this morning?" No Igor, I have a Doctor's appointment today. "Oh yeah! That's right. This is Friday for you."

Yeah, and for you too. I head to the bathroom to freshen up and change clothes. Murder Mike is gone from his bed. I don't look for him. I get my meds, grab my bags. A normal, every day day, right? Well, no, that's wrong, because deep down inside of me, below the range that I can even feel IT lurks in the marrow of my bones, like a cancer, ready to spread when receiving an unknown signal.

I go to the Doctor's office and Dr. A gives me a clean bill of health. Once again, my body reacts kindly to good treatment. This is pretty good for a man that was once given five years to live. I have to smile at that. I stroll like brand new out of the building and straight to a liquor store. Not to celebrate, but to drink. It was somewhere on my mind from the very beginning of the day. A resolve that was so strong it fell like my own thoughts. This was going to happen, whether I liked it or not. And between you and I, I really didn't hate it. It's like fucking a really ugly woman. You may not like it, but it feels damn good.

The bottle in my back pocket is my ugly woman, she is my vampire. I carry her to Starbucks and the thinking is in high gear. Where in the Hell am I going to drink her at? I could do some alchemy, which would make turning up the bottle easier in public. But no, I walk back to the library and slip into the bathroom stall to turn her up. Today, the rush is not like before. Those synapses are burned out. The back of my head throbs instead. A low grade leanover being awakened from slumber. It will ache until it feeds on alcohol solidly, which I fully intend to give to it.

This is not the Brown World. I repeat, this is not the Brown World, but instead its very threshold. I am here, in real time. I am not disenfranchised, I am not separate. The pull of the Brown World is here though. It's real. I want to go there, I miss being there. But it's a dangerous place for me so I avoid it. I'm particularly happy with my bottle of vodka and a nice buzz to my head.

I take a seat at my cubicle and check emails. It's pretty sparse for one day. I wonder what happened. It's all good though. I go to the bathroom and take a snoot. Oz comes on IM. He's re-inviting me to his recording session on Twenty Eighth Street. This appears to be fun. James comes on IM later, reminding me of the time the studio opens.

The library closes, and I barely make it out of there, being caught on an IM for longer than I should. I hustle over to Starbucks with my brother and we kill time before walking over to Lowfish Studios. When we arrive, John the sound engineer, Oz and James are comfortable in the studio, getting ready to begin. My brother and I sit and join the chatter. Oz gets behind the window in the other room and begins to sing with the Sound Engineer doing his thing. DD comes upstairs shortly after that to do his part for the album. My brother and I go out for a beer run, and shortly everyone is well oiled and comfortable.

Time flies, and soon I must leave the company of friends. My brother and I bid everyone farewell and we make our way across town to my downtown train. I say goodbye and head for the Box. Inside, everything is somewhat the same. Good point of the night: Mr. Franklin is not in. Thank God for little blessings.

I sit behind my laptop and begin pounding away, on email and missives, and blogging. I'm busy until night, but I call it quits somewhat earlier than normal. I am still tired. It has been a long day.

I fall asleep.

Hobobob