failed attempts at resurrection

I am at work, surrounded by invoices and numbers I don't quite understand. my computer is behaving poorly, something similar to a hard rock. but it is quiet. and the air is still, preparing for the thunderstorm that drifts overhead with inevitability. inadvertently, I am dressed like the weather, mostly gray with a splash of plaid socks and tennis shoes too big for my feet.

I tried to disintegrate on sunday. it only partially worked for about 27 minutes, but I become a velour shadow of a man and was able to walk around freely without having to engage in social intercourse. that was my halloween. my friend lylesz also told me that boogers taste like salty butter. I believe him for many reasons.

tonight is Ian's birthday. we are going to take him out for Indian food.

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so it wasn't indian food after all. someone decided it should be japanese. and there was sushi, lots and lots of sushi. three huge platters to be exact. and sake. after closing down the restaurant we would delve further into the uptown realm, all the way to the Island. there is an abundance of cocaine there and we came away with a small supply for the rest of the evening. change a record, take a line. two acts of brilliance, perfect and complimentary for one another in the world of covert drug consumption. partytown, usa. I would be up until 5 in the morning, wake up at 9, get hit by a car, work, drink, smoke, and then on to the bar for chili and BACON. every wednesday. tonight, cocktail party, secret backyard speakeasy pizza, bj's, and god only knows what else.

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Hell0, I am space cadet nathan murphy fresh back from outer space. I am disorientated and slow and weird. but I will listen to your dreams all day. night will be reserved for research and the study of human anatomy.

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another bike wreck and a partially separated shoulder. I'm also turning black at the knuckles. I do not know what the consequences of this will be quite yet, but I have my worries. what I do know is that my office and my bedroom, once grand monuments to killing, have become desolate mausoleums, grim reminders of my talents now crippled indefinitely. blood stains the walls, but it has long since dried and the insect bodies once collected on the floor have succumbed to time, boot treads, and other dimensions. to make matters worse, there has been a short heat wave that have brought the mosquitoes out for one last feast. they are sluggish because of the time of year, our only opportunity for true revenge and here I sit having to grab them straight from the air with only one hand, the other attached to an arm, attached to a shoulder sore and broken.

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when I was 19 I worked as a bagger at the U-village QFC. besides being paid close to nothing, I stole my fair share of cigarettes and havarti cheese with dill. as I didn't have a car at the time I would make the walk from our 21st St Apt down to the village using the long concrete stairway down the hill through the greenbelt. it was a pleasant stroll with the exception of any night it rained. what I remember most was november. by then most of the leaves had fallen from the trees, and left there for a month the weather had swept most of them away into the next life. all that was left were the sidewalks color stained by the earthly remains of leaves, the autumn specters left perfectly imprinted beneath my feet. I was always fascinated by the vibrancy of the color, the shapely precision contradicting the indistinct, immense gray monotony. those perfect little ghost things, look for them. they always made me feel better.

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30 years old and I am just now discovering that women have leotards with buttons strategically positioned at the crotch. respectable women and their mothers. I of course learned this, in fact witnessed the advantages of this garment, sitting on a bar stool, while the president of the hair club for men, el presidente, watched pro wrestling and bought everyone a round of lemon drops. he has business cards.

I work with a pregnant woman. actually, I work with two pregnant women. I bought mescaline from one, who first bought it from Keith, the man we buy our wheatgrass from. the other, gretchen, has a husband we suspect slash know is gay. I mean lets face the facts. he doesn't drink often, but when he does he is never opposed to making out with other men and oh yes, he never sleeps with his drop dead sexy wife, an ex-burlesque stripper with a tattoo of a squid languidly residing down the length of her body and a bull ring through her nose. that being said, normally being attracted to breasts of a more athletic and petite stature, it is odd that I myself can not stop "examining" their boobs. they are gigantic. who is to blame for this is hard to say as they both shamelessly flaunt their newly engorged assets, all spectacular and mesmermizing, I swear I never stood a fat chance. oh well oh well oh well.

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jon hill is in new orleans. which is to say, I am fighting for the losing side. I have been drunk since Sunday, drunk at night, drunk at work and tonight we dine at jaque imo's, a pillar of blasphemous decadence of every kind. there will be hard drugs as the surrounding area is populated by the beautiful people who keep themselves well medicated and we will be their guests. I am only slightly concerned as I woke up this morning with my tongue caked to the side of my mouth, something I could not explain. needless to say, I am allowing the beast to take over for the duration of jon's stay, simply to keep myself alive. it is, unfortunately, the only option.

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all I want to do is eat. last night I consumed roughly 5000 calories worth of mcdonald's nutrition food. afterwords I could be best described as sweaty and awful with a sinkhole stomach condition. today I am self-medicating. one must be fit for an occasion such as thanksgiving and I have no intention of becoming one of those left behind. I will be going to the horse track, dressed to the hilt, drinking mint juleps and bloody mary's to pass the warm afternoon while I bet on the ponies. there will be many others like me and we will formally socialize until we can no longer hold our own weight due to over-consumption of every kind. and then we will eat turkey. eat eat eat. and then maybe dance with no pants on.

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it is finally growing cold here. my office isn't heated and it is only in the low sixties I would think, but I am still adorned in full winter apparel: stocking cap, fingerless gloves, sweater, wool pants, boots and long johns head to toe. call us pussies if you wish, but for us 60 is a thirty degree swing from what we have been accustomed to for the last 5-6 months.

bodily heat loss has always fascinated me. take off my cap, core temperature drops. take off my shoes or gloves and the same reaction occurs. but lie naked and nestled into the body line of a beautiful woman and even the especially cold night appears inviting if only as a contrast to the space between the sheets.

I've always loved the smell of the cold. it reminds me of me. this morning the waitresses that I work with mentioned that I wear my winter gear much better than anything I could muster up in the summer, said I looked warm and worth snuggling. I understood it as a backhanded compliment, but it nevertheless put me closer to home as all of my best and most fashionable decisions are predicated upon my blood relations with the northwest.

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I experienced a wonderfully sweet moment this morning. a rare breathe of cold sunshine, the first tingling sensation towards frostbite, just at the tips of my fingers and toes. and behind my eyes my tired has been frozen, my lungs are still warm. this is just a moment before I have to layer up again, dig in against the frost and the open door to my office. it is dangerous how well the cold numbs the body into a sensation of quiet. you must keep it in the outer extremities.

from this thought I glance down at my desk. in front of me are the Tools of Utmost Importance. they are three pens; 1 black and 1 red bic cristal and 1 black sharpie. I also carry a baby blue lighter on the off chance I succumb to the need to burn this place to the ground.


I can hear the dishwashers in the kitchen, movement outside, but my solitude remains intact. call it a reward for sacrifice, myself namely to the bone cut weather, as I hope to keep the gods at bay for just one more breathe.

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I'm losing my marbles, spitting out broken soul parts for the betterment of mankind. remember, even the pigeons are federal agents and your dreams always foreshadow what's to come. in my future the box of cheez-its I bought will not last the day. the crackers are the only source of focus I have left. scattered, my thoughts are hardly visible and provide little insight beyond my own instability. by default I continue to look towards the past for guidance, a shred of something I once deemed worthy; incomplete notes, letters, work of all sorts ... all I find is the same disjointed negligence, years of procrastination and an unheralded lack of drive. as a result, reality has come to be nothing more than inconsequential, a nuisance at best, as I can not grasp it long enough to conjure up any sort of coherent narrative. experience, emotion, facts have all become something I now fabricate simply because I don't know what else to do.

a slowly rotating ceiling fan in the window and the sunlight breaks and refracts on its travels to the ground. it feels good to keep my eyes closed, hold tightly onto my coffee, both hands full. I am in an official state of mild revolt in regards to my working conditions. a steadfast mutiny known only to one. and this day is swiftly coming to an end.

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the day is lovely in spite of itself. I can say the same for myself, but I need to start drinking in a hurry. the lines have blurred, northwest by dirty south, dog and man, today they are one in the same. being tuesday we have come to the end of an extended haunted weekend; the madness no longer possesses the air. I can tell you, however, that to walk around in such a flurry is both eerie and intoxicating. imagine gale force winds harboring a stillness that allows you to hear all of the haunted sounds of the night: wind chimes forlorn, the creak in every gate and door, the howl of the black hounds. animals and mankind alike become infected, neurons fire backwards and in on themselves as survival instincts cross with suicidal tendencies. you can watch the feral cats, confused and psychotic, scream from dark hiding places and into oncoming traffic, compelled by some unknown force, terrified by their actions, they are still unable to deny the urge. I wonder and talk to myself as I walk the streets back to my home, come to know the rising crescendo and the dark gentle cascade of the notes gone mad; I allow myself to slip into a tar black suit tailored by the shadows and at the present moment I am opening the business mail with a butterfly knife.

so many days that bleed into one another, wearing awfully bad christmas sweaters, drinking eggnog laced with spiced god knows what, how is one to keep track of it all? sobriety is quickly becoming a notion of substance as I can not remember the last time I stood face to face with my own madness, if I ever have at all.