I hit my head. This was on Monday, Monday night. I went to a Memorial Day barbecue and drank moderately, but didn’t eat much. Plus I had smoked my remaining heroin the night before and put down 2 bottles of wine, again on not much food. I didn’t feel shaky at all but I don’t remember getting home, just waking up on my couch around 7am. The back of my right hand was all scratched up, a nail was hanging off, my back was all scraped, and I had a headache. Now it’s Friday and I still have a headache. There’s some wide patch of swelling on the back of my skull but I can’t see what it is because of my hair. Good. I didn’t lose any hair.
Fortunately there is no observable brain damage. Or maybe there is, maybe this really says “penis boat John F Kennedy banana,” maybe it’s just palm-mashing on the keyboard, maybe I’m dead and death is just an exact continuation of the way you were living. That would be great, by the way, because it’s always a nice day here and chicken is on sale again and the jacarandas are in bloom. I got a couple good books from the library. If this is death, bring it on.
But yeah, my hands and head and back are all fucked up, and this happened the day after I swore I was going to seek more “light.” To live a healthier more productive lifestyle and nurse baby squirrels back to health and eat the type of shit that has spinach and almonds in it and maybe enjoy one glass of pinot grigio before passing out to Downton Abbey. I didn’t get drunk! Still. At some point something hit me like a hammer and I fell over and it erased like three hours. For all I know it could have been an actual hammer. None of my shit was missing. Weirdly, I remember the cat standing in the bottom of the driveway. That’s why I headed home, to let the cat in. I know I took the bus, I know I had to pay for the bus with a five, because that’s all the money I had and it was gone. Did I talk shit to someone on the bus, did they wait till I got off and beat my ass? Don’t people take your credit cards when they do shit like this? Probably I just tripped.
Anyway, good, I fucking deserved it. No more partying, the asshole said, and then a bus mirror clipped him in the skull and he got knocked into a briar patch. That was the world of debauchery telling me “and STAY out!”
I went camping, with Emily, out in Malibu. There was a family of quail by our campsite. A father and mother leading six baby quails around, pecking at seeds. Every time I had to piss I almost stepped on them. There were rabbits everywhere. A pair of does nipping off tree buds. Song sparrows. Parrots for some reason. People let them out of their cages and they do fine, I guess. Their vocal range is remarkable; they sit burbling at each other in complicated tones you know must be some kind of crazy bird vocabulary. It’s also loud as shit and they like to do it at sunrise, so, fuck parrots, but… I had to think of all the times I thought of my own life with the hackish metaphor of the uncaged bird. Every time I made some mistake, every day I wasted, I thought: I’m just like a parrot set free, only to fly back into its cage. But what else does the parrot know?
Turns out it’s a lot. You can set them free and they do fine. Until some drunk Mexican takes a bat to the back of their head, or they fall down a flight of stairs, or something. Some impact that erases their memory, and then things will be fine until some fucked up Oliver Sacks disorder rears its head later. Like, peacocks will give me an erection.