кока-кольный делирий
She's wiping her nose, asking me what the hell's going on. Asking me loads of questions again, same old questions I've heard a thousand times before, and I don't care to answer. I stare into my coffee and make no effort to explain. She wipes her nose again (she's caught some cold) and insists on me having to start thinking about things I least want to think about. Not now. Nor tomorrow. Nor the day after tomorrow. Never. They don't think about those things. Those things just happen. Or they don't. They're not worth another thought, they're not worth a shit actually. She doesn't think so. We share the same flat, but surely not the same universe.
I hate mornings. Because whenever I wake up, I look like shit, and I feel like shit, and I still do one, two, three hours later. I hate mornings twice as much when someone else is in the house. Cause then I have to explain my shitty looks and hide my shitty feeling, and feel sorry for it, and talk, and communicate, and pretend to listen, and fake interest, and chat about all sorts of useless stuff, and perform all sorts of maneuvers to make her believe I'm not feeling as shitty as I am. And fight the immense desire to light a cigarette in the kitchen like I always do when I'm all by myself. Mornings are ordeal. I'm not talkative in the mornings.
That's why I'll never explain what the hell's going on. She's not tuned in to get it, just as much as I'm not tuned in to talk, in the mornings. Or any other time of day.
Cos nothing's going on. That's the key, nothing. Hell, I've cut, I've quit, I've amputated two things in my life which had been a habit, which I'd become dependent on without my realization. And when I realized them, killing them, I thought, would set me free, and it did, it did! - hell, yeah!! - you see - I'm smiling, I'm laughing my guts out, I'm having fun - I'm damn free as nobody else has ever been. But don't be surprised if you see me smiling at you and everybody else in the room when next minute I'll go crashing and smashing and tearing apart everything I can see and collapsing to the floor in hysteria. Scream. That's what I want to do. Scream and fight.
No, I don't regret anything. When you leave - you leave, that's it. But the effect of it is still wearing off, and though it's been four months since one thing and nearly two since the other, you'd say it's quite enough time for rehabilitation, it's not. Try wearing my moccasins, they're size thirty-six, I hope you'll enjoy it. One rehabilitation period will be followed by another, a rehabilitation from rehabilitation, and so on, up until I finally find something else I could depend on. The actor's life means nothing without the audience. My life has no sense without anything to depend on, a passion that grabs hold of me and spares me from the intimidating and self-destructive state of hanging loose in space. I hate this. Hate this. Hate this. But for now I'm numb. And I guess, I will be, for a while.
Though on the outside it's all confetti, and mango smokes and rum, and wine, and coca-cola, merry masquerade, party-party, me permanently high on music - my funk, my blues, my rock-n-roll - and you know, that last one - it's the only thing that keeps saving me, truly, it helps me not to think, cos under cover there's a crack, there's hysteria and a light sour taste of artificiality... But sometimes, I say, sometimes, I even feel like I'm starting to take some perverse and exquisite pleasure in all that. And I find myself sitting in my corner of the bar wishing desperately to see someone, though I know he's not going to be here tonight, but if he were, he'd tell me, he'd tell me what he always tells me, he'd say, When you're at the bottom, kid, when you're at the bottom, every move you make is up. That's what he'd tell me, but he's not in here tonight.
And then it's Jarmusch Time. With all the coffee and tea and cigarettes and awkward conversations, in my kitchen, her kitchen, his kitchen, their kitchen... someone else's kitchen I've never been before.. And all I have in my head is just lines of my favourite songs, but they're all English songs, and the guy, the one I've just made another coffee for, he doesn't speak English, and that's shit.shit.shit. and my head and my guts are so full of them I could throw up, but I can't spit them out just like that, and that's eating me. And what do you think? You, so young and unspoilt, you think you could rush into my life, like you've just done, and expose your demands, and want something from me, want me, want my time, want more of my time, want my acceptance of you just as you are? - and I would love to, I'd really love to give it, but oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so so fucking terribly sorry. I don't feel anything.
Nothing but a pale shade of pity for all of us.
I hate mornings. Because whenever I wake up, I look like shit, and I feel like shit, and I still do one, two, three hours later. I hate mornings twice as much when someone else is in the house. Cause then I have to explain my shitty looks and hide my shitty feeling, and feel sorry for it, and talk, and communicate, and pretend to listen, and fake interest, and chat about all sorts of useless stuff, and perform all sorts of maneuvers to make her believe I'm not feeling as shitty as I am. And fight the immense desire to light a cigarette in the kitchen like I always do when I'm all by myself. Mornings are ordeal. I'm not talkative in the mornings.
That's why I'll never explain what the hell's going on. She's not tuned in to get it, just as much as I'm not tuned in to talk, in the mornings. Or any other time of day.
Cos nothing's going on. That's the key, nothing. Hell, I've cut, I've quit, I've amputated two things in my life which had been a habit, which I'd become dependent on without my realization. And when I realized them, killing them, I thought, would set me free, and it did, it did! - hell, yeah!! - you see - I'm smiling, I'm laughing my guts out, I'm having fun - I'm damn free as nobody else has ever been. But don't be surprised if you see me smiling at you and everybody else in the room when next minute I'll go crashing and smashing and tearing apart everything I can see and collapsing to the floor in hysteria. Scream. That's what I want to do. Scream and fight.
No, I don't regret anything. When you leave - you leave, that's it. But the effect of it is still wearing off, and though it's been four months since one thing and nearly two since the other, you'd say it's quite enough time for rehabilitation, it's not. Try wearing my moccasins, they're size thirty-six, I hope you'll enjoy it. One rehabilitation period will be followed by another, a rehabilitation from rehabilitation, and so on, up until I finally find something else I could depend on. The actor's life means nothing without the audience. My life has no sense without anything to depend on, a passion that grabs hold of me and spares me from the intimidating and self-destructive state of hanging loose in space. I hate this. Hate this. Hate this. But for now I'm numb. And I guess, I will be, for a while.
Though on the outside it's all confetti, and mango smokes and rum, and wine, and coca-cola, merry masquerade, party-party, me permanently high on music - my funk, my blues, my rock-n-roll - and you know, that last one - it's the only thing that keeps saving me, truly, it helps me not to think, cos under cover there's a crack, there's hysteria and a light sour taste of artificiality... But sometimes, I say, sometimes, I even feel like I'm starting to take some perverse and exquisite pleasure in all that. And I find myself sitting in my corner of the bar wishing desperately to see someone, though I know he's not going to be here tonight, but if he were, he'd tell me, he'd tell me what he always tells me, he'd say, When you're at the bottom, kid, when you're at the bottom, every move you make is up. That's what he'd tell me, but he's not in here tonight.
And then it's Jarmusch Time. With all the coffee and tea and cigarettes and awkward conversations, in my kitchen, her kitchen, his kitchen, their kitchen... someone else's kitchen I've never been before.. And all I have in my head is just lines of my favourite songs, but they're all English songs, and the guy, the one I've just made another coffee for, he doesn't speak English, and that's shit.shit.shit. and my head and my guts are so full of them I could throw up, but I can't spit them out just like that, and that's eating me. And what do you think? You, so young and unspoilt, you think you could rush into my life, like you've just done, and expose your demands, and want something from me, want me, want my time, want more of my time, want my acceptance of you just as you are? - and I would love to, I'd really love to give it, but oh, I'm so sorry. I'm so so fucking terribly sorry. I don't feel anything.
Nothing but a pale shade of pity for all of us.