04.Jan.2003
new years eve 2002 part two
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new years eve part two
Fuck-me-lipstick-red. 1982 Porsche Carrera. I want to come from my clothes onto this car.
The entire inside of my body swims with rum and with speed, favoritely gazing at the moon as it disappears at 125 miles per hour. At this speed, it's simple to abolish the last year, the last 365 days in the wreckage of your cerebrum. At this speed, if we die, it was well worth it.
My nails dig into the back of the passenger seat, and my brother coos, "Awesome." to the distance.
I close my eyes and feel innately the exact way it would feel if we crashed, the way metal would eviscerate me, and I would leak, muscles, sinew, tendons, joints, organs, against the high-way in streams.
Curves. I could choke on my own spinal fluid, if only my lungs weren't apart of the fleshful mass of Josh, and this would be it, and this would be all there could be of us.
Nothing else compares.
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Memories are illusory.
I can't remember the last time my brain stopped emitting useless images, pregnant with ennui, doubt, pain. The vibrations of this debauched automobile tear through my legs, my thoughts, my self-loathing, my apologies. This is the speed I frame. This is the speed where your life is a movie, and you begin erasing the credits.
Memories are not what it is now.
Back at David's apartment, two of us tear open the beer while my brother rolls in the New Year watching ESPN2's portrayal of The World's Strongest Man. Thought-flashes of Dave Gahan and "Halo" and I'm a grinning 13-year-old soon die as I survey his films.
"You have Vanilla Sky on DVD," I remark drunkenly, "and you're subjecting us to THIS."
On top of my brother's entertainment center is the centerpiece of all his masked, homoerotic bachelorism: a dildo, until Josh picks it up and takes it back to his chair.
Josh begins mindlessly fondling its veiny, Swedish rubberness, then he places it, erect, onto his lap. I chuckle. He looks at me and says, "I suppose it would be too small for you," adding, "since you're such a size queen."
"Ah, yes, the last time I had sex," I began, slurring, and I stopped.
The last person I slept with rubbed my back when I was sick, when he was tangible, and I could trace the side of his neck with my tongue, regardless of him momentarily pushing me aside.
Five minutes on New Years Eve.
Memories are not what it is now.
Emotional trainwrecks of this world, please sever your seat-belts. I am your captain, and this is our speed.
"I revamped Slit," I said absent-mindedly to Josh and David.
"I saw," said David.
"What?" asked Josh.
"I didn't know you were Slit," said David.
"Few people do, I think," I said.
"What?" asked Josh.
Beer flows regnantly through us. I feel it on my tongue. I feel it in my words. I have stories no one sober would like to hear.
Josh's character will be in the sequel should we reach that point, but initially, he is taken from the role and goes home at five in the morning.
I stumble into my brother's bedroom, where he's listening to Coldplay over his Monsoon Planer Media speakers, the computer speakers that introduce you to immense bass and say, "You're going to be here a while. Please remove your spine."
"You downloaded 'Everywhen'," I remarked, looking through his Music Match playlist.
"Yeah," he said.
"Your thoughts?"
"I haven't had a chance to really hear it."
"I think this is so endearing," I said.
"I think you're an idiot," he responded.
When my brother and I are drunk, we reminisce to old times which involved scenes from our childhood, best described as a Crispin Glover film directed by John Woo. Rich with religious metaphors and schizophrenia, and Crispin's three-second cameo right as loved ones are buried into the very same soil of iniquity from which we first emerged.
This is New Years morning, where the masses stumble blindly to their beds or the beds of others, or possibly the metallic-wedge beds in jail cells throughout the United States, intoxicated, scared, bored, human.
We are supposed to celebrate new beginnings, when really, we celebrate the impending years knowing it will never change.
I feel Coldplay in the floor, beneath my feet, in my toes, radiate. It sounds like coming to life.
And he, my brother, looks to the window, through the chords of "Clocks", and I say, "Holy shit this is amazing."
And we, the hard-shelled musical cynics, turned our eyes on one another. And we, regretfully, bought the new Coldplay album, and we, regretfully, fell in love.
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time & machine