RuKsaK

I fell out of the club leaving all the blurred neon behind me, cursing, over and over, at the money, time and brain cells wasted. I watched the concrete swim left and right beneath me and figured I may be walking after all.
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Scarborough is built on seven hills – all farcical comparison with Rome ends there. I needed to navigate two of them on my horribly drunk legs. This included an iron bridge which expands a foot in the heat of summer, and ten feet more for every pint of lager over four consumed. My brain gave my legs all it could and left only enough over to complete the undertaking.

I had to get to Carla’s.

Me and Carla had got it together when I’d been drunk, again, and while my then girlfriend was away for a week. My girlfriend had found out, dumped me very fast, got over me with another guys cock, and that’s fine. That mess had lasted about a week and left me at its end with this mantra transmission from head to dick:
‘beep – get more cunt – beep – get more cunt – beep…’

I found my way to Carla’s house feeling the hedges and walls along a few avenues in a form of drunken Braille. Finding her door on a third attempt I attacked it with a fist for about ten minutes. My brain staggered out this binary:
‘She’s sleeping hard or hiding. Sleeping hard or hiding.’

I kept on murdering the door with my bare hands and wailing out her name in vodka gas howls. A screeching window opened across the street and some appropriate invective was flicked at me. I gave up on the mission and had ten minutes journey to my bed; nine more than the one minute needed to get into Clara’s.

It wasn’t the bargain the bits of my body had made.
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I was walking towards the image of my front door swaying in my inebriated vision. Crossed the quiet road. Then all agreement with mind and body caved in - the negotiated plan had failed. I clear shat myself.

This was no meagre splash, it was violence. My leg-elastic briefs couldn’t hold it. By the door it was chopping down the back of my legs. Before the bathroom, corroding turd-cylinders were rolling from my trousers onto the carpet. I slammed the door shut behind me, flailing, hating my drunkenness. I wrestled off my jeans. Flung them on the floor. Sat on the bowl, slid off on the shit, anchored myself up clamping the toilet. Saw shit now on my t-shirt. It followed the jeans to the floor. Saw my shit had spilled from the jeans onto the carpet. Decided to clean that first. Scooped up the shit with naked hands. Threw it into the bowl, despising it. Body all unclothed now. Flushed. Shower turned on. All this took at least thirty stumbling minutes.

I looked into the mirror and saw myself inverted:
‘I couldn’t stop it. Why couldn't I hold it?’

The shit was all over me. A palm print on my chest, a couple of random smudges on my face, leg hairs now matted and coffee coloured. I’d come through a collision of brain delegations.
‘I couldn’t stop it. What’s happened to my body? Where in my spinal column did the promise get broken? This fucking happened without me - I'm the victim.’

I looked like a b-movie monster, but it remains one of the most lucid moments of my life. I was appallingly removed from myself. I understood something someone had said to me years before. The container had swapped places. The container had become the contained. I thought back to a guy I used to know, MetaBryan, and laughed out loud.
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The madness of MetaBryan is next.

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Delegation collision