Fat and Acid

fat-and-acid

 

The story, relentless, compels me to write it. Voracious, as an avocado tree sucks up water. I consume the story, shapes on the wall speak to a time I tried not to think about and never intended to write about. Shadow, light, reflection, from some metal surface glinting in the sun, rays ricochet onto a wall, or the red bricks framed by the window sill, two rectangles, one of the wall below blue sky, and leaves at the corner – acid cuts fat – lime and avocado – both essential – antidotes, paradox, contradiction, duality – green oval, green circle. Synthesize, distill, boil it down, edit, revise, expand, refine, iterations, hacking away with a machete and, later, small incisions with a scalpel, build it up and tear it down, shred the pages once I’ve hammered, typed ’em up, toss them into a black metal wire wastebasket, start again, and again, the doing…craft, trade, wanting to get to the mecca…fear of descending to such a low place drove me to work aggressively and with ferocious speed…brushing up against it, mixing with it, falling into the current like a crashing wave, out of control, nothing in control, and it’s ecstasy…scrape away blemishes, reveal what lies beneath, discard the rotten and find green flesh…ritual of consuming the first fruit, sustenance but also the experience…knew what you had to do and didn’t stop, put in a position to sell…acknowledgment that this life is lonely – acceptance…reinventing, falling, running, the chase, resurrection, starting anew…bartending, LA, none of it would ever be the same…swapping of words takes you to what you heard at dawn as it blended with thoughts scribbled half-legibly and another sunrise indicative of a flipped, unnatural, irregular cycle…visible signs, markings from the past, the shape of the bottle opener worn into the back pocket of jeans, a past that left you haunted, wanting to burn it all away, a place you love, embedded in it and it’s ingrained in you, yet, now, terrified of the other side…repetition, and more repetition within the repetition, circling back, and as far as this part of the process goes, no logic to it…

…the taste of mescal  with fresh lime juice and agave syrup, shaken and strained, on the rocks…millions of voices from that summer still chant at me…no way out…wanting and not having breeds stronger desire, then the hard kiss, lips that taste like cigarettes and coconut-flavored vodka, and she’s gone…throwing it all to the wind, jettisoning inhibition, going after it with a primal abandon…calm amidst chaos – seeking refuge – looking out over the downtown LA rooftop, three in the afternoon, just before customers flood the bar, in that moment, I’m relaxed…Friday nights – leaving – don’t get jumped – cop cars – DUIs – smoking a cigarette – two fake twenties in your drawer and on top of that, $34 short – “…that’s the biggest bottle I’ve ever seen…give me a ride, please!”…”yeah, they still haven’t brought me back there…I’m at a hotel right there…they do mostly special events…yeah, I’m that guy…I beat the shit out of him…” Just finish your smoke, get in your car, don’t get jumped, don’t get killed, drive safe…