Saturday Morning, after Fire Bloom benefit…)

 

There are some times where there is so much to say, but all I can think about is sleep. This is one.

I smoke the nights last cigarette outside of Bobzillas’ home, one of the few places I feel comfortable parking right now, yet no interweb connection.

 

Exhausted, needing to release the uncommon feeling of stress that has been consuming me for the past few days, I desperately want to end this writing. 4:17 am. I need to sleep. How did it get so late? How does it ever? Ohh – this glorious life.

 

Often hated briefly, consistently adored. I chose dreams over anything else, dreams that fly on fragile wings and uncertain winds.

 

I need to sleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

I used to be that person. I still am – but I had to find it again.

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sunday night.

 

Words. Life. Questions and Beauty.

 

She asks the questions, makes me think. Think past where I usually go, because I am afraid to when I am alone. That’s a dangerous place.

 

“Why? What can we or anyone do to help the child who was raped? What is the point of anything, everything?”

I pause, searching for the answer.

 

“All I know is this, but I know it intimately. As a young boy, I fucking rocked – there was nothing I couldn’t do, and I truly believed that – all I needed was the chance to show you, everyone. A bit more than usual and I always knew that. A bit more than common. Riding in the back of my parents car, I escaped everything and looked out the window, to the right. For some reason I always sat on the right side.

There I was, riding on a motorcycle next to the car, running up the dirt hills that they created to make the overpasses, flying – flying so fucking high – and landing on the downside of the hill of the next overpass full of fearless grace. The crowd roars.

 

Every time, every ride. Flying in the only way I knew how. I had no heroes, only wanted to be one. Always the dreamer…

 

There is magick. We create it. What if a person who faced a trauma comes to one of our show, remembers who they are and follows their drams? Just one fucking person, and a difference has been made in the world. Someone did it for me.

 

Yeah, I teeter on the precipice of how exquisite this life is – and at the same time, wondering if it’s worth it. Every day brings that question. Every day is fuck this, but…

 

I have something to give. I know this. I have something I want to ignore, as well. So fucking sick of being hungry, homeless.

 

But now – now I’m at her house, looking at her sleep. She who is upset at me for not taking care of myself, my leg – but still, I need to eat. I need to work when I can. I go back to emergency room tomorrow.

 

So many questions…

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Mother, did it need to be so high?

 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

 

Wednesday morning, 1:39am

 

I look for something – that feeling I get, the one that makes me write perhaps a little bit better, the one that makes me go a bit deeper and honest, with brighter colors and darker corners, but tonight it is elusive. All I can do is try to claw my way through myself, and find it. Find me. When things get tough I start to build again to make it through. Lie and say that everything is fine. Let’s get this show going. (I’ll make it through, I always do. I always do – but in times like these, I am never absolutely certain…)

 

Four days of terror – running through my mind all of the options until all I could do is sit in my van all night and almost all day, afraid to leave it. My home. Everything seemed impossible and for once, I almost believed it.

Build. Build higher, get shit done. Push the pain and fear and frustration and hate behind the walls and make certain it is sealed well. Get shit done. Sometimes I almost want to say that I don’t believe that it will work out, then need to remind myself that it always has.

 

Sometimes that doesn’t work. All there is is action. Instinct. Push everything away, a wolf trapped in a trap and all there is to do is cut something off. The wolf is found, my home is gone. Either way, we’re both dead. Cut something off. Get caught or get fucking free. If my van gets towed, everything is gone. If I get caught, at least I’ll have a place to stay for a small bit – but either way, everything will be gone. My home. My performance gear and costumes, years of love and work and memories, the way I make people happy, the tools I have to chase down my dreams – gone…

 

A few friends and I got it done. Chewed the trap off instead of the leg – yet strangely, during this time, on my left leg – the same side that was immobilized on Falkor, I somehow got a Staph infection. There were a few very small ones – ones that most would simply discount as ingrown hairs, but then – one larger one on my upper thigh, which I was able to manage, clean, care for and make go away – and then another on my calf. At first, it didn’t seem like anything to worry about – but since there is to little flesh on my calf, walking was excruciating for the first number of steps until my body made it work.

On Thursday afternoon I went to the emergency room, the doctor looked at it, and said that the most important thing was to keep off of it, keep it elevated. If it doesn’t get better, in five days, come back.

 

Friday was the Fire Blooms benefit, standing all night and then hobbling around breathing fire, as promised. Saturday night was the Alcatraz show…

 

Gods, the Alcatraz show…

 

So insanely amazing. If any show was absolutely perfect, this one was. If I ever feel that my words can do it justice, I will write about it – but not now, no. That deserves it’s own entry.

 

On my leg for six hours on hard prison concrete, then to the Drome for the afterparty where I tried to sit as much as I could. I was so incredibly not me – well, I was, but I was me encompassed  in pain, and hoping my leg would be alright.

 

Saying farewells and crawling into Falkor in the dawn light, I fall asleep to the morning birds chirping. “It looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day for the Tea Party.”. I say to myself as I crawl into my van – and it is. I wake up in an oven.

 

Off to
Oakland, to Keri’s house, with the smallest bit of sleep and remnants of the night’s drinking still floating in me. I sleep, she tells me to call her when I wake. I wake, get ready, call, find them. Half of who I am finds Keri and her friends in the Piedmont Cemetery. It was a lovely afternoon, and an exquisite eveining of talking before we just couldn’t anymore, and slept…

 

Most of Monday was spent at her house even though she had left for work – by this time my leg looked like a balloon and I thought it best to give it as much rest as I could. On the way over the bridge I called Boe, and asked if it was cool that I come over. Yeah, no problem. Hells yeah.

 

I slept on his couch, dong my best to take care of my leg. Keeping it high, trying to be comfortable. The morning finds me at the Emergency room as soon as I could get there…

 

The first thing the Doctor (who kinda reminds me of Barry White in his voice) said when he walked into the room is “Oh – that doesn’t look good at all.”

 

Great. Is this the trap? Am I going to lose my leg because I escaped the boot?

 

A procedure. Lay down on the gurney. I’m injected with a local anesthesia. The nurse – Juliet, recommends that I look up at the ceiling.

 

I now have a huge hole in my leg, a bit bigger than a quarter after he cut away all of the dead and dying skin, roughly 2mm deep, packed with gauze.

 

But I still have my leg.

 

I mean fuck – I did a similar procedure to myself just a few years ago, with my own knives and blades and instruments that didn’t come fresh out of a sterile wrapper – Cole can tell you – and it all worked out. Back then, I thought it was just a spider bite though.

 

Gotta tell you – the way it looked, I was sincerely worried about losing it – but Mr. Barry White Doctor got to where – and very likely got quite past thanks to the luxury of anesthetics, and me not having to look as I cut and dug the nastynasty out of my own flesh as I gritted my teeth with the pain as I watched whatever strange gelatinous combination of blood and puss go down the tob drain (silly boy, I know – but I’m prepared for a time where there *isn’t* a Doctor around now – and this time, I don’t have a bathtub.)

 

I still have my leg. I like it where it is and I’m keeping it – and now, it needs to carry me to bed.

 

Well, Boe’s couch.

 

 Good night.

 

 

 

 

 

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