Weirdo Coma Blues

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We drown out life mechanisms with just about anything; booze, drugs, herbal remedies to help us sleep, or over sleep in my case these last weeks. Why am I writing if there’s nothing to say? What is within the meaning of my lack of thoughts, or is the truth in what too many thoughts have become? Mostly, I’ve stunned my brain to the point of a tideless water. Theres a ripple, an undercurrent of energy forcing bubbles to the top, but nothings clear. I see the outlines of a shell in front of some transference. The zig-zag daydreams high as ever before. A Liquid recurring arm wiggling in the air, it’s a dance of roots and motion.

The boy was told not to touch the fence protecting those horses, so he grabbed it anyway. He yelled out a scream, a shock, he fell back knowing it was he who caused it. He was 12 years old. The leisure lost in a new world finding himself grabbing an electrical current in the middle of a farm, close to his new home he was forced into. The sun was shining behind the tall weeds and grass, the time of day where you see whats in the air you’re breathing, and you get a clear view of nature doing its work. In every direction, the lush green buttressed tightly to the dirt roads of an older time, the bumps of which he could hear in the form of a pickup truck, shaking as it drove to and from his new world. The greatest hits tapes of Steve Miller Band swirling the ether like the invisible faces that form from clouds. He like now, was alone with his thoughts, a beautiful freedom protected him from expectation on his walks. Who was he and did it matter? The sense of needing to stay busy, but knowing it was just an excuse not to feel who he really was. A boy in the country about to change his whole direction in life. He would throw down forced habits from his old upbringing. But it would be a journey with no intention, just life, just moving and becoming through experiences. And he was fat, and in his new reality, there was no place for the pitiful lard asses of the world. Get off the couch and move around the apples that have naturally fallen, and are now rotting on the ground, or go hunting for birds and almost kill your brother, but don’t be fat you fucking fatty with little man boobs, your chin line looks like the thighs of a truck driver. Deep Breath…

Feel this pain or happiness, understand the destruction, roll around in the filth of the weak voice telling you to run away from it, be a pig. The only faith I have is that the longer I touch this wire the closer to transcendence I will find. It’s not a mistake if you mean it, it just might kill you. The belief is firm in the visions of transcendence. Will you hate and love for the betterment of you and them? In a relationship you can see the escape routes in between you and your friends, or your lovers. If you’ve went beyond yourself at all, you know how to blow up your scene pretty quickly. The reasons behind this are important. Socially they give us the guidelines of how to act with each other. There are certain tendencies in all of us, you can see them clear in mannerisms, tonality of voice, the way your eyes look down and your left shoulder turns to the right (just slightly) and you reveal a little “tell” within the uncomfortable dogmas you put forth in a persona. This is as real as anyone can be in a day, most of the time. Even those of us who profess an honesty to the world about ourselves have a deeper point, the depth of which is almost out of reach. There’s no map to it, and when you get there through expression you’ll most likely be dead or too dismantled in exhaustion from your own weathered trip.

We pulled up to the house around 11pm. It was a big birthday bash our crew was throwing for me. I was in my early 20s. My cousin (RIP) lived in the student ghetto on Normal Ct. It was a narrow dead-end street lined up with old houses, its symbols stark to me now. During the day we’d chill out chain-smoking cigarettes, joints, sipping cans of scwill, while we doodle in the mind for a plan to party, or an adventure riding thin lines of safety. We yearned for any decent idea to be absent from elapsing time. Grab the youth and mash that shit like you’ll never eat again. We didn’t know it, but this would (in a sense) be the last big moment for us, not this party, but this area, this epoch of togetherness was on it way to division. We don’t talk anymore, and some are dead.

As soon as I got out of the car, the smell of smoke, porch laughter, and music engulfed my body. A sensory tingle, the invisible lizard came out of his shelter and crawled up the back of my neck; that orgasmic feeling which props up your follicles for a second. It binges and blossoms as it slithers over spine and vibrates the blood. Autonomous sensory meridian response . We were there earlier to set up the party, and then went record shopping up about an hour away. I don’t recall who was with me, but I’m sure it was another cousin of mine, they were everywhere. When you get to a party you’re throwing, playing, or simply attending, the first thing you do is head for the DJ booth. For one, you want to see how the party feels, walk through it inviting the eyes on you, hearing the sounds bounce off the walls and the organs gathering inches apart. You wanna inhale all of it, focus in on the beams bouncing, heads angling while the mouths churn. The energy is endless and the settings have to fit the moment, they have to be close to the right spot for everyone, or it’s a shitty party.

The placement of the DJ, speakers, seating areas, dance floor, lighting, etc, are all strategic, or should be in order to garner the most effective response. Attendees might not speak of it all that much, but their experience is a manifestation of someone else’s before this one. The whole scope of this moment is tied to another, and that one to another. The kinetic mapping is not an accident, it’s a coming of age synthesis, that s seasoned, sculpted, and swallowed for the masses to transcend into another version of itself. It’s about as close to “GOD” as I’ve been (aside from watching birth), and not because of the drugs (although they’re really fun), but its evolution in a product made by man, from the raw fruits of natures gift in emotions.  All the operations moving like machines to expel a sensory in the visions of nature. Your body moves and twists with an endless delivery of meaning, you can’t catch it the whole time, but the seconds are similar to ASMR. The only requirement is let yourself become it, to let yourself transcend the restrictions that aren’t real, they’re just a smoke to blind you off the true traverses of your life. Next time you walk in any room, throw your mind above your head and look down at how you move amongst all the sounds. You can do this anywhere because music is existence.

We have fallen into the place where everything is music” ~ Rumi (translations from The Essential Rumi by Coleman Barks).

We weren’t drug dealers or gangsters, but it felt like that. When I walked into the house, I can’t recall how many people handed me gifts, gave me hugs, or stopped to chat. The girls were a plenty, even old hook ups that were in town, and wanted to reopen old wounds. As soon as I got down to the basement, one was in my ear immediately. The soft whisper tucked razor-thin amongst the heavy house music, I couldn’t hear anything but “lets fuck again”. Which was a definite possibility but I had to mingle, and play a few records. So like a brush of dust, off a table, I kept walking, letting the party sway me into the center part of it as I kissed her cheek and said “get at you in a minute sweetie”. Our history spinning in my head, how she seduced me into sex when I was her man’s close friend, all played like gears on a VHS tape. Her breasts were in my top 5 of all time, no doubt. But I wasn’t sold on going back there. Plus, my girlfriend (RIP) was upstairs so there was a logistical dynamic involved. All of this wrapped my brain in a time frame of about 30 seconds. Then I was passed her and I forgot about it all, aside from a few moments of making eye contact, and debating the fling once boredom and drunkenness set in hours later. The music was loud, and the heat warming just beyond comfortable.

This was an old school party. The Michigan rave scene ain’t shit unless it’s in an environment that’s unfinished, with a cross between “I’m on drugs and happy, but whose that weird motherfucker throwing eyes my way”. For me at least, it was always pay attention but indulge, in aura of color atoms splitting with demons, all of it falling from the space above you at a pace unmeasurable by time. What else would you expect from a large gathering of people fucked up and wanting to escape the normalcy that life was trying to shackle them with? Take a room filled with horny youths, not giving a damn about much, mix that with misunderstanding, burnt bridges, and a few broken hearts, and you got a recipe for something expired. So it can’t last long, but in the beginning its communal, and beautiful. And we held it long enough before the whole thing blew up and spun out into another suckers orbit.

All these memories recently popped up like a blown transponder in the armpits of a vacant lot. I’m on the porch here in Tennessee, and the Fall is just on the outskirts knocking on summers wet pussy. What’s next is unimportant. I’m armed with my own history and the weirdo coma blues has its hand firmly fixed in the blood cells, it too will fall.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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