The Effects of Sleeplessness, Inventory, Mozaic Pieces, What Works

15 May

I have logged exactly 4.5 hours of sleep in the last 3 days. It’s unbelievable what that does to the body. And the mind. But somehow things roll through. Things function normally. I wash my teeth. Dry my hair. Put on shoes. I go to work. I get ground down properly for eight hours. Then back home to an empty, quiet house now. Not mine any longer. I’m just a temp. A squatter. Caretaker. Lloyd the Barkeep in the Overlook. Sleeplessness infects the ones I love, too. The effects on their bodies are macabre. I give that off. It’s a fantastic curse, only no enemies seem to be affected by it. Only friends. Fiends. Romans. Countrymen. Added to those measly hours of weird rest are the following: one bottle (750 ml.) of Bombay Sapphire gin, 6 small shots of dry Vermouth, 3 bottles of red wine, 11 cigarettes (menthol), 8 Manhattans, 10 fingers of Johnnie Red, one can of tuna fish, two slices of bread with butter and salt, 18 Bukowski poems, 55 pages of Palahniuk, three Arcade Fire tunes, and six hours of chasing cars. I’ve given up talking to people who try to re-arrange me into some sort of tightly-organized polyhedron. We go in circles and they only bring me back to the basic hypotheses they’ve been taught in Shrinkie Schyool. I tell them, I’m used to sweeping up my own pieces, thank you. And I would love a refund. Because I’ve calculated I can procure a case of Montepulciano with all the resources I’ve parted over the last four weeks. I am now convinced no one in the professional field is out to help anyone. I may be wrong, but that’s entertainment. Thursday I’m off to the Great White North to visit a city which I haven’t seen since May 1981. I have Polaroids of this somewhat tall, sad kid with huge eyes and a pseudo bowl haircut, peering down from the top of the CN Tower. Back then, “Sharky’s Machine” featured a savage stunt in which some bad guy falls from the umpteenth floor of the structure. I remember thinking how insanely the Hollywood machine must run to actually throw some poor sod 1,815 feet off the top of this gangly monstrosity in exchange for a couple months’ rent. Polaroids. I’ve dug them out to remind me to look for this kid, periodically, when the holes get too big and I need help getting out. It’s what seems to work for me. I may be wrong about the whole thing, but that’s entertainment. If I never write again, you’ll know I jumped sometime between 17 and 21 May. But I very much doubt that. I’m not keen on heights. I don’t dig the whole falling thing. Even in dreams. I rather enjoy systematically dismantling my vessel. I may be wrong, but…yea, you know the drill.


4 Responses to “The Effects of Sleeplessness, Inventory, Mozaic Pieces, What Works”

  1. Tisha! 15/05/2007 at 10:40 PM #

    still processing…

    I’m glad you’re not keen on heights ;)

  2. Anonymous 16/05/2007 at 12:53 AM #


  3. Rachel 16/05/2007 at 2:54 AM #

    Two more sleeps [that is if you actually sleep] and you’ll be here. Lx in the hood.

  4. Lx 16/05/2007 at 10:41 AM #

    two more sleeps…never arrived.
    we’ll try again tonight, although…
    can i use parlance such as “da hood” in Toronto?
    i’m from Wash. D.C. the original “crack hood” so i’m somewhat validated reverting to the oh so beautiful ebonics with which i grew up, but Toronto?
    they’ll just laugh at me and call me Vanilla Ice.
    “See, theirs song goes: dum-dum-dum da-da-dum-dum, dum-dum-dum da-da-dum-dum. Ours goes: dum-dum-dum da-da-dum-dum DUM-DUM dum-dum da-da-dum dum”
    (actual verbatim defense of “Ice Ice Baby” from the accusations of too closely sampling the Queen/Bowie tune. Don’t ax me how/why I remember this word for word; it just cracked me up when I first heard it, and kept it w/me all these decades. i’m fucking Rain Man sometimes. Wopner!)

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