I told my friend Will to write the start of this thing for me. Sorry if it’s a waste of time.
So ;et me start my story. I am a man. Yes A person who has a penis. But what I want to tewll you is that if you create a universe.. anything can happen. Fuck this world. think about something outside of this world. What if … What if the world as you know it where to be exint .. then we must start over. and how must we start over. with a sence of community. Community involves loving peple for whjo they are. I and let us design a place where we can all live together. thjis can not happen. so let us give the benefit of the doubt to the person you dojt lknow. know him learn him. give human kind a chance… fuck this future. what thios future involves is fucking other people. … liven with them …. live to them .. live .. fucking live fucki society live.
He just went to take a pee.
Now he wants to delete it. But I won’t let him. I read over what he wrote, and I suppose my part of the story will be to interpret what he said. Now he’s stumbling across the bar.
I had the idea to write this blog as I was getting drunk. Then I realized that is a stupid idea for several reasons. One, I am starting to feel odd writing this at the bar; two, something will be spilled on the computer, and three, the chances of writing something substantive are extremely small. Maybe I’m getting there.
First course of action: acknowledge the gorgeous bartender. No. Done that. Second, turn to the reserved couple sitting straight up in their seats to my right.
Time to spy: “any other elicit drugs?” he asks, “cocaine exstasy?” I can’t hear what she says. He looks into his beer, “I did alright with them. Weed?” She perks up, crosses her pudgy legs “I did smoke weed. But then I started to get really paranoid.” He laughs. “Yeah I used to make brownies for Mardi Gras.”
They’re a couple in their thirties. They must not know each other very well. They're quiet.
“I’ve actually done LSD twice,” she says and looks embarrassed. She doesn’t know why. Something about college. The man says “always, always.” The conversation is getting deeper. He says something I can't hear then something about not going to the bathroom on LSD. She says she came back from the kitchen once with a mouthful of food and sat on the couch and all the sudden thought she was eating the couch so she spit it out everywhere. Then I guess they took her outside. They laid her in the grass and said to calm down. To feel the weight of the world underneath her. She felt she was going to feel like that for the rest of her life. The man says his friend thought that everyone was dead once. And he had to take his wallet out and show him pictures of himself and his parents to convince him they were alive.
Time to spy: “any other elicit drugs?” he asks, “cocaine exstasy?” I can’t hear what she says. He looks into his beer, “I did alright with them. Weed?” She perks up, crosses her pudgy legs “I did smoke weed. But then I started to get really paranoid.” He laughs. “Yeah I used to make brownies for Mardi Gras.”
They’re a couple in their thirties. They must not know each other very well. They're quiet.
“I’ve actually done LSD twice,” she says and looks embarrassed. She doesn’t know why. Something about college. The man says “always, always.” The conversation is getting deeper. He says something I can't hear then something about not going to the bathroom on LSD. She says she came back from the kitchen once with a mouthful of food and sat on the couch and all the sudden thought she was eating the couch so she spit it out everywhere. Then I guess they took her outside. They laid her in the grass and said to calm down. To feel the weight of the world underneath her. She felt she was going to feel like that for the rest of her life. The man says his friend thought that everyone was dead once. And he had to take his wallet out and show him pictures of himself and his parents to convince him they were alive.
The man goes to pee and she checks her cell phone. Stirs her drink happily, reflecting on something. His forthcoming company.
I guess this post will be about drugs. As it began, in a way.
Three years ago I did mushrooms with eight of my high school friends. For hours we all riled in a park repeating “that’s there, that’s there” and “it’s all about water, it’s all about water”. Which it is. And everything was moving. The drugs really turned on me suddenly we were watching a spider eating something. I ran away from everyone, rolled in trash, took my shirt off and called my sister. A girl gave me a cat-call from a passing car. It hit really hard and I started crying.
Will is back from peeing. He is watching me type this right now.
He says, “three years ago? Fuck that! These people you’re writing about were just trying to fuck people in sophomore year of college. I’ve gotten past ‘fucking bitches’.”
He says I am specifically trying to intellectually stimulate myself, but actually I am stimulating myself at “fucking Madigans.” Now he sees I am copying everything he’s saying. Now he is mad. He says I am like a “court…..” but he can’t think of the word….I say register. He says that sounds right and he’s quiet. “Observer”, he says. “Right now what you’re doing is fucking observing. That’s it. What you’re failing to do is introduce your synthesis. You are summarizing a fucking bar conversation, writing down everything those people are saying.”
He’s getting too mad to talk to. “You are paying the fucking money and you play by the rules and you’ll get your fucking degree!” he yells. “That’s bullshit!” He’s watching my fingers while I type this right now like it’s magic. “Just because you follow the rules and paid the money,” he repeats slowly, “doesn’t mean you know JACK SHIT.”
So I am given a degree because I am following the rules. It’s getting serious again: I must break the rules. He asks me without wanting an answer who the people are who make the rules.
I have to take a break to defend myself…
Now he is attacking paragraphs and spaces. And the fact that I need a computer at all to express what I want to say. I say I can’t read my handwriting. He says:
“If you can’t read your own handwriting you’re a failure!”
Now I have to go pee. Let’s give Will another go: Here is Will:
He went to pee. Our generation. generation xz, generatiojn y . ;ltgh,u8upoyt087i8utpyoit
Ok I’m back, but now we’re talking about the idea of the draft and what heroism means. He feels awful about never having been challenged by anything before. He wants adversity; says our generation has yet to be tested. I cannot write anymore.
Two hours later I decided to give Will the computer one more time. His head is on a table with a napkin stuck to it. Here's what he wrote,
"so..im sitshit has gome dowm doing it doing it closing uop shjopting here next to this gurl..."
That's all.
That's all.
6 comments:
I can almost never tell who is saying what, and I suppose right here that works but if you were to develop this I would say dialogue should be discernible, as should spelling. Though I guess that depends on which is more important to you: what is said or attention to how it is said..
I like weaving in and out of unrelated people's conversations; it creates sort of a collective thought that is even more compelling since you've set it up to bridge generational gaps-- I'm also intrigued by your being only secondarily interested in the reader, whom you leave to have a conversation and pee.
Although I am still trying to figure out what your attitude is in all of this, I really liked it. It's was very interesting to read and the weird spelling/confusing dialogue actually worked for me. The way that this piece so closely imitated real life, in fact WAS real life at points, was poetic. I just would've liked to see a little more closure and conclusion at the end.
You've captured something. I wonder by the end if you know what it is, because I don't, but the sloppy and mangled quality gives this an impression of wholeness. Deliberately giving two authors makes the narration a character, which I guess can be said about any narrator, but more so with this piece.
"Write drunk, edit sober." Hemingway
Using the drunkenness is its best stylistic quality, but it needs to be weighed against practicality.
Maybe you've got some prevailing social questions that only get loosed when people are drunk enough to spill it. Maybe that's all.
"so...im sitshit has gome dowm doing it doing it..."
This is wonderfully comic. To agree with those above me, I'm not sure why. This can be a good thing.
Well to start off this made me laugh out loud. Also, I felt like it was very real, like I could relate to what you were doing and the conversations/ ideas you bring up, but it doesn't really ever come to a real conclusion, nor do you make a solid point. Maybe that was what you were going for? Either way, I agree with Mauricio's Hemingway reference : " Write drunk, edit sober."
Court reporter or court jester? Or is it courtyard? I'm afraid Will did not pass the test, and in theory this is a bad idea as an approach. But, I was engaged as a reader, I wanted to know what was going to happen next. I was interested in the couple on their date, and even in Will with the napkin on his forehead. And of course our fearless author, braving Madigan's in search of creative nonfiction. I'm not sure what to recommend in terms of revision, but this will need revision to move from amusement to literature. Probably some depth, some introspection on one of the topics raised: drugs, higher education, coming of age and aging.
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