I cough, and check my phone. Laying in the bed of my poetic paramour- she claims to be a poet anyway- I check Tumblr. This is set in the past. Also I must go back to the poet descriptor- see, she claims to be a poet but she’s only ever made one self-published book. She never actually writes any new poetry, but it’s so part of her identity that she hits you over the head with it. Anyway, back to the topic. This is the past but some might not remember Tumblr- it was a personal blog that people would keep and you could follow them online. For me during this period, it’s main use was a way I could look up a girl’s account and casually go through her selfies- typically you could find some nudes. I used to have an interest in those sorts of things, but not really anymore. You see enough women’s nudes and eventually it feels like you get the gist.
There is a girl on Tumblr I had been following for a while, we’d talk back and forth. She doesn’t know what to do with her life. She is pure fire. I’d been following her since before I met my last big ex. I am taken with her- I just said you get tired of nudes after a while, but no way, not still to this day. I get them from her sometimes still- only when I have a girlfriend or am dating someone but in those rare moments they are still the best thing I’ve ever seen. I might even share them if you message me about it.
I only stay with the poet when this other girl I normally run around with isn’t doing so great. I worry this all makes me sound like some kind of lady killer but that’s not the scene I’m trying to set here. The reality is I haven’t done so great with women most of my life, if I come off as doing well it’s probably just that I’m doing well when compared to YOU. It is one of those weird moments in my life, where I’m not quite stable and crash at different people’s houses as I try to figure out what my long term job should be. Privilege of being liked- or maybe of just getting away with using friends. I headed out of the room before the poetic paramour would come back, messaging the Tumblr girl as I wandered around town.
I met up with my friend Ryan talking about drinking and frying (psychedelics for those who are uninitiated). Ryan was his last name, his first name was Michael, but I called him Ryan ’cause I knew too many other Michaels. We drank some, dosed, and headed downtown. Dosing always makes me sweat really bad, but only right when it’s kicking in. It’s a terrible tell to the people who know me, but it is also one of those things that is unavoidable. Irish get red in the face and I sweat hard when frying.
There used to be a night club in the basement of this empty building in the south most area of downtown past the train tracks. Hobos would hang outside and sleep in tents. Stumbling into the basement was like entering another world, stumbling down the stairs where the walls are painted black, the stairs painted black, with red lights shining down into the area. It creates a real playboy video feel. You could probably even catch a girl with rabbit ears here to set the scene. This place isn’t popular enough to have a line.
As soon as I enter the place the ‘cid hits me hard and I start sweating. I get in line to get a drink of something with ice in it. I lost Michael entering the club. I don’t remember the drink I got, but I remember the ice. The feeling of heat hitting me like waves. Disco style lights emitting colors of all types in all directions. Deafening music. It felt amazing. I like places like this, frying. I get so tired of talking to people, hearing all their problems. Life is pretty boring and it’s nice to be in a place that drowns it out.
Even nicer on a substance that helps the real feel unreal.
Placing my hand against a wall and walking toward the dancing, my eyes dart across the room augmented by the feeling. My mind always goes to DevilMan Crybaby in moments like these. Clubs are never actually so over the top but in my altered state, my mind always goes there- nightmare fuel that always feels just right. I’ve practiced the art of being high in public enough that nothing rattles me. I have one of those moments where I can watch the crowd open up a little bit, and a figure of a girl sitting down raises up above them. Her hair is thin, greasy, and black, short to the shoulders, and she has a serious face like a wine connoisseur trying to find that flavor on her tongue. Her body is petite, as flat as a boy but distinctly feminine. Looking up at her she doesn’t even notice me, but in my headrushed frying state, I had one thought- that this was a goddess of the underworld Persephone, and she was looking over those who had died. Their gold masks symbolize their burial rites… She was looking over her dominion.
Love for her.
A desire. An inspiration. A Muse.
Just as she raised up she lowered back down into the crowd. The room became smoky, and the rest of the evening I lost in a haze. I woke up at Ryan’s- head and throat broken from the night before. Trying to remember the night before all I could conjure was Persephone’s visage. I looked around for Ryan but I couldn’t find him. I hear sometimes you get caught on acid and the cops rough you up and put you in a cell overnight. Drink tank sorta thing. It’s never happened to me but I hear about it sometimes. Hope Ryan’s doing better than that.
Ryan was an artist type- or he said he was an artist but I’ve never seen zero art come out of the guy. He hangs out with some art girls and I think he can use it for an in. He’s always trying to get them to model or like me to do a photoshoot with them. I don’t know if it worked for him in the past. I set up his art supplies and do my best to paint the scene as I remembered it in my head. I wasn’t too good of an artist back then. Still not too good. I just didn’t want to forget that moment.
