Our poor Chelsea is still sick, and her delirium has led her to ask me to post here. For me, this is like one of those public speaking nightmares or those exam nightmares where you are suddenly thrust onto a stage to give a lecture about something you know nothing about, or you open your exam book and discover you've lost the ability to understand words. In short, I have performance anxiety. CG is my favourite blogger and is always a source of inspiration to me both in terms of thinkiness and kinkiness; I cannot write as well as she but I will do my best as her understudy to entertain you.
I've never actually had dreams like those, oddly enough, but I did once believe that I had literally fucked my brains out. I was 15 and came home from an evening of smoking a great deal of pot and fucking my boyfriend's much older brother, an episode which requires further elaboration at some point. I floated in rather dreamily, but I am not capable of falling asleep when I'm on my own without reading or attempting to read some book. So I picked up something new, something I had stolen earlier in the week. I opened it, and began the struggle to focus and come back from my happy little cloud.
It didn't work.
Things would go along quite well for a little bit, but there seemed to be many words that were completely unfamiliar to me. I became aware of a seeping sense of dislocation, which had nothing to do with any other seepage, and everything to do with the sense that my brains were leaking out of my ears. I would have the sense that I was understanding it, and then my pot-addled brain would inform me that these were not English words. I had some panic. I tried again. Paranoia was often a problem for me when I smoked pot then, so I reminded myself that this was likely to simply be some new flu-like attack of it.
No. No help.
I started to sweat a little.
These were definitely words i did not understand, and in fact the whole book, opening it at random, seemed to be the same. If anything my sudden-onset-dyslexia got worse. With the lightening-like brilliance of any pot-epiphany, I realised that this could only mean one thing. I knew beyond any doubt that one or more of my excesses had irreparably damaged my frontal lobe. "Hey, kid, you'll shoot your eye out!" someone is warned in A Christmas Story--why hadn't I listened? why hadn't I realised that sniffing glue in basements, smoking pot, other miscellaneous abuse of drugs, and most of all, my compulsive masturbation would lead me to this? My brains had been fucked out. What could I do now? Why hadn't I listened? Why O why had I been so dumb?
I suppose this lasted only about 15 minutes in actual time, but naturally it felt like much longer. At last I had the idea to test whether I could read something else; gradually it dawned on me that there was something about this book in particular. I finally became calm enough to look more carefully through the whole book, and discovered to my relief that there was a glossary in the back.
There was me, that is, Alex, and my three droogs...that is Pete, Georgie and Dim, Dim being really Dim, and we sat in the Korova MilkBar making up our rassodocks what to do with the evening...the korova milk bar was a milk-plus mesto. They had no license for selling liquor, but there was no law yet against prodding some of the new veshches which they used to put in the old moloko, so you could peet it with vellocet or synthemesc or drencrom or one or two other veshches which would give you a nice quiet horrorshow fifteen minutes admiring Bog and All His Holy Angels and Saints in your left shoe with lights bursting all over your mozg.
And so then I was smecking away at myself for being such a dim and poogly devotchka, and Clockwork Orange remains one of my favourite books still. (Although I still prefer to read it without the restored final chapter).
And now, for my droog CG in her illness, viddy well devotchka, this moloko is not for you:
I know it's my fault.
Starbucks too. Never drink this--
Ass-milk chai latte.*
Write anything, she said to me, and I would have liked to write about Chelsea Girl, but I can never find the words for anything important. My world outstrips my language. I'll say instead that she is my droog, and I would need to create my own new language and glossary of terms to capture even part of what she means to me, as either writer or friend.
Feel better soon, sugar.
*For Chelsea Girl's own wonderful haikus, please read here.
**Chapter 21, available here.