Three drinks, one headache, two cigarettes and a codeine tablet. Its past midnight and blowing cold so I caught a rare taxi home after leaving Spencer on the corner outside the cafe Superman can't abide.
Things stopped making sense this morning. I turned on the stereo, sat down at my desk and took up my pen. Before words hit paper I got one text message from Elliot. Now I know that there are no mobile phones in rehab. I'm going to go and get a biscuit or something, hang on.
I have licorice. Licorice can be used as an antispasmodic, I think it only works on your belly, not your whole being so if you are running around being a spaz then eating licorice is not going to help you make better choices. Spencer and I were talking like we do, wandering around our ticking histories and rethreading ourselves through new needles and hallways. We tried building a case for something that others would have us tear down, we agreed that its effects were possible to discuss but that the thing itself defied all language and sound.
I was sitting in a cafe in Glebe last Sunday night with Spencer, Grizelda and Superman. The man at the next table was so drunk that he slid to the ground knocking over chairs and table. Superman hurried to help him like the only living thing in a hall of statues. While Superman grasped the man's arms and hauled him to his feet I set his table right and breathed carefully so as not to weep. He had bread in a paper bag, it was ruined by spilled coffee and I wondered if he had any money for more. I wanted to help but this was beyond my resources. I thought of Elliot sliding down walls and chairs and beds and halls and me. He's been sitting in my brain like a helicopter on a launch pad until this morning when suddenly there he was. I wonder if I conjured him somehow.
I looked at Elliot's message twice, he said simply "How are you Dale?". I put down my phone and walked into the kitchen. I stood next to the kettle, one hand raised, and waited for the water to boil. Its not a steam filled ritual but the water must be boiling.
Things stopped making sense this morning. I turned on the stereo, sat down at my desk and took up my pen. Before words hit paper I got one text message from Elliot. Now I know that there are no mobile phones in rehab. I'm going to go and get a biscuit or something, hang on.
I have licorice. Licorice can be used as an antispasmodic, I think it only works on your belly, not your whole being so if you are running around being a spaz then eating licorice is not going to help you make better choices. Spencer and I were talking like we do, wandering around our ticking histories and rethreading ourselves through new needles and hallways. We tried building a case for something that others would have us tear down, we agreed that its effects were possible to discuss but that the thing itself defied all language and sound.
I was sitting in a cafe in Glebe last Sunday night with Spencer, Grizelda and Superman. The man at the next table was so drunk that he slid to the ground knocking over chairs and table. Superman hurried to help him like the only living thing in a hall of statues. While Superman grasped the man's arms and hauled him to his feet I set his table right and breathed carefully so as not to weep. He had bread in a paper bag, it was ruined by spilled coffee and I wondered if he had any money for more. I wanted to help but this was beyond my resources. I thought of Elliot sliding down walls and chairs and beds and halls and me. He's been sitting in my brain like a helicopter on a launch pad until this morning when suddenly there he was. I wonder if I conjured him somehow.
I looked at Elliot's message twice, he said simply "How are you Dale?". I put down my phone and walked into the kitchen. I stood next to the kettle, one hand raised, and waited for the water to boil. Its not a steam filled ritual but the water must be boiling.
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