Monday, February 8, 2010

Session #1

What am I thinking? God, that’s such a vague question. What am I thinking? I'm thinking that I can’t seem to stop thinking. See, my problem is that I can’t turn it off. I think all the time, constantly, about everything and nothing all at once. I don’t want to think anymore, you know? I just want to be. I want to be left alone mostly, but I can’t, and because of this I kind of want to explode. Can you smoke in here? No? I don’t smoke or anything myself, I just don't see any ashtrays is all. But yea, back to the thinking thing. I mean, it’s this weight, you know? I can’t really explain it. It’s not in my head or in my heart – it’s in my soul. That’s the best way to describe it. I feel like I’m attached to an anchor and I’m just sinking, into this, dejection. And it happens everywhere, and then out of nowhere I’ll just cease to exist. It’s the strangest thing really. I’ll be somewhere and then all of a sudden – I’m not real. I’m seeing everything through someone else’s eyes, like I’m watching a movie. I can’t hear anything though. I can see people talking at this, this person; but it isn't me, and I can’t make out what they’re saying. It’s like when you’re underwater, you can hear these, pulsing ambiguities, but you can’t make out any words. You can distinguish between a man’s voice and a woman’s voice sure, but that’s as specific as it gets. And I’m just – not real – in that instant. And it makes me sad really, not existing.

When I’m driving, I have to listen to Spanish AM radio. Anything else is to depressing. I hear the people on the radio talking, but they’re not saying anything important, or lasting, or relevant. It’s just these, provisional sneezes evaporating into the air. But see, I don’t speak Spanish, so those words don’t make me so sad. And also, salsa music makes me kind of happy. But if I don’t have anything on in the car at all, I just start thinking again. I think, here I am, this skinny little white kid who has nothing to be sad about. I mean, growing up was weird, yea, but who doesn’t have a weird childhood? I mean, I think about all these black kids in Africa who are starving, and diseased, and who face genocide, and they get chased by lions and shit, and here I am driving over this bridge in a car that my parents paid for and I’m thinking – Liam, Liam just drive off this fucking bridge so you can feel something, anything at all. I’m this mess of self-ambivalence that I can’t seem to turn off. I can’t feel shit doc - I feel like I want to die.  


            How do I cope? I dunno, I mean, I’ve been trying everything. Lately my thing is picking up hobos. Yea, hobos, you know, homeless people. Why? Why the hell not? I just like to sit with them, talk with them, get to know them. They’re about as close as I can get to helping those African kids. What do I mean by, "pick them up?" I mean in my car. Yea, I’ll just see them walking and I’ll pull over and ask ‘em – hey, you need a lift? And they look at me kind of funny at first, but they usually always get in, and they all say the same thing to me. They say – hey thanks, I usually wouldn’t do this, but you have really trusting eyes. I don’t really know what that means, but as far as I’m concerned, that’s about the nicest compliment I’ve ever received. Sometimes, they'll ask me - hey, what's up with this salsa music? And I say, well hey, if you don't like it, I can drop you off right here. Am I ever worried about them robbing me or hurting me? No, not ever. Because when I pull over to pick them up I’m usually pretty disconnected. I’m not even really in the car with them. I’m just watching a scene unfold. I don’t think they can hurt me because how do you hurt somebody who isn’t real?

Well, they usually get in and when they do, I ask them about life on the road, about what it’s like to be a modern day nomad, about what they miss most about rural life, and I’ve come to find out, that most of them just want a new pair of socks is all. Yea, socks. Little things like that which we take for granted. So now, every time I pick up one of these hobos I say – hey, how about we go buy you some socks? And they love it, they fucking go nuts for these socks. You’d think I just told them they won the lottery. They smile really big and say, really? New socks? No foolin’? And I say, yea, why the hell not?

            Do I have any normal means of coping? Well sure, fucking is normal right? I’m sorry doc, excuse my French, I meant sex. I don’t do it on purpose or anything; it’s not like that. Again, it’s hard to explain, but I’ll try. My friends will convince me to go out with them right? To, I dunno, a party, a bar, an event of some kind. And then when I'm there, I get all detached again, and all of a sudden I’m not at a party at all, I’m watching a movie. Then, out of nowhere, I’ll realize there’s a woman on the screen, and she looks engaged, like she’s been having a conversation with someone for hours. But who? It isn’t me doc, I can tell you that much. I don’t even know this girls name. I don't know who she's been talking to, because I’ve been sitting in a movie theater by myself, watching all of this unravel on a big screen. 

As I’m watching the movie, I notice certain things. I see her reach out and grab this guy’s arm when she laughs at what he says. She’ll keep her eyes locked on the camera when she takes a sip of her drink. She’ll move her hair out of her face all coy, until I realize, oh my god, her and this guy are going to fu – I’m sorry, excuse me, doc. Her and this guy are going to have sex. And I just watch it happen. The whole thing, it just unfolds right in front of me, and I’m not a part of it at all, which is kind of unfair in a way, but hey, that’s why I’m here talking to you, right? Well anyway, I’m completely disengaged, right? Until it’s over that is, and then all of a sudden, I’m back. I exist again. It’s me again. And I’m naked, and she’s asleep on top of me, naked, and now it’s my job to shake this girl awake (whose name I don’t even know, by the way) and say, excuse me miss, I think it’s time you go. And then she rolls over and looks up at me, and doc, you should see their faces when they see me. Like, they realize that the person they had sex with, and the person waking them up, is not the same person. This is someone else entirely. This is some new guy. They just get this look doc; it’s the strangest thing. Well, anyways, their faces start to flush, and they pull the sheets over their breasts and sit up, scanning my floor for their clothes. I'll spot my underwear and reach over to grab it, they – still clinging to the sheets, realizing that this new person in bed is wholly unfamiliar with their naked body – reach across the floor to grab their own. And so, we slide on our undergarments awkwardly under the covers, and they'll turn to me and say - Sorry, but you drove me here. Can you give me a ride back? Doc, trust me when I tell you that I prefer driving the hobos around. I don’t even mind that they smell like rotten banana peels. But I mean, yea, for the most part, that’s how I cope. When I’m not driving around a smelly banana peel of a human being, I’m having an out-of-body experience inside of another one. What’s that doc, time’s up? Well shit, thanks for listening to me. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy or anything. 

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