Kerouac Street - San Francisco |
Inside the gym, sometimes, there is an energy which I cannot
explain. It is oppressive. A stifling heat in an already stifled
exhaust-spewing desert: my mind. Tonight is one of those sometimes. I am
sitting inside the gym, arms pumped from a tedious traverse, watching hordes of
climbers come & go, some climbing sloppily, some not, no matter, I fail to
find the dance, the poetry I usually find in watching anyone struggle, or
climbing fluidly, or just...living. & I begin to think of what climbing
must have been like before my time, or even, back when I started climbing in
the 90's(have I missed out?). Was it always like this? I can't say for sure. I
don't remember. Can't remember. My mind has been trained to forget, & even
in sobriety, it stays that way. In that sense, the damage has been done: I
loose keys which I hold in my hand; forget to lock the door only to return to
the house to realize that I had, in-fact, already locked it. Today, the gym
sends me into a spit-fire depression that swirls & masticates my energy. I
loose myself & walking out to the car wonder if I will find myself yet
again, or be lost in plain sight, but I worry that I won't remember to look. I
can't find peace. I am on edge, & can't say for sure if it is because I was
shut down by The Gateway & am now worrying about my abilities as a climber,
or my determination to complete Project 31 or if it is...something else.
Something ghosting under the nostrils of my spirit, my being. I start the car,
& breathe deeply, trying to smell whatever it may be, but all I can smell
is the tangible odor of confusion. It is choking thick. Pungent & sour. My
body constricts over a craving for Whisky. I sigh heavily, lite a cigarette
& begin my drive home in a starry eyed, pensive daze...
Albert C. is a 19 year old musician, who just so happens
to be a Junky. He is from Las Vegas, Altho he looks as if he should probably be
from Beverly Hills. He has long, raven hair, a cherub face, & the most
perfect teeth I have ever seen. He dresses like a Kurt Cobain applicant, which
surprises me. Never have I met someone of his age that was such a fan of
Cobain. Different generations, different times – to each their own I guess –
but at least, I think to myself, I'm sharing a room w/ someone who has taste
& intelligence wrapped in a neat little drug packaged mess. Albert C. is
funny in the way an annoying pre-teen boy is funny: you can't help but smile at
the antics of someone lacking the maturity of whatever age they are supposed to
be. Again, to each their own. He & I are lucky. We share the only room in
this rehab that has two beds & two beds only, the rest boasting up to 8
& 9 bunks, stacked like dead fish. But that is exactly what we are, Dead
fish.
Lewis - Pre-rehab |
At the moment Albert C. is complaining about something but I can't say
about what for sure, I'm not listening. I met Albert C. up in the withdrawal
cabin where I spent the entire 4 or 5 days sitting out on the porch smoking
cigarette after cigarette, arguing w/ the staff about this or that. Anything I
could think of, really. Their philosophy was off, it really was, so I did them
a favor by pointing it out, but they weren't listening. To each their own. Out
of boredom, when Albert C. would come out & sit on the porch, I would ask him
questions. He was quite open for a junky kid from a shitty town, so I began
supplying him w/ cigarettes so I had someone to smoke w/. But this act of
charity, I assure you, is pure selfishness. I needed something. Someone, lest I
go raving mad. “Are you listening?” Albert C. Asks. I raise my head from off
the pillow, tilt my head in his direction & say, yes, I heard every word
you said. I put my head back deep into my pillow, it is late, & some sleep
I desperately want to get. “And?” He says, sitting up in his own bed. What did
you say again? Sorry, I forget easily, I tell him, my voice muffled by my
pillow...
As I enter the freeway, wanting to get home as quickly as
possible, I am remembering the way my room in rehab smelled that night, Albert
C.'s voice as he asked if I felt as if I've failed at everything in life, how
he thought he had & he wanted to know if he was the only one that felt this
way. I am remembering how he looked when he smiled out of anger because he knew
I had heard him yet told him otherwise & eventually feigned sleep to
exorcise myself of that particular conversation, or how he would say, rather
simply, “you are such an asshole, it's awesome!” It's hard for me to remember ,
but easy for me to relive many different lives, to conjure a feeling felt days,
or weeks, or years ago; I can succumb to memory's laundry list of emotions as
if they are occurring for the very first time. Confusion. Anger. Embarrassment.
Disappointment. These all consume me every day. A fist to the sky consumption that
burns me wildly into a frenzy of displacement...
I pull into my driveway & place the Buddha Beast in park,
& sit there for just a minute. Staring. If I so easily forget that which
spurs my spirit on & up, yet remember that which drags it into the murky
depths, I have lost already.
Lewis - Contemplating the Gateway .12a |
“Being defeated is often a temporary condition. Giving up is
what makes it permanent.” - Marilyn Vos Servant.
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