shameful weekday hangover

I had too much wine last night and not enough jazz. The man played a headless guitar, with tuning pages on the opposite end, strange midi pick ups and pedal, morphed into tones of flutes and marimba, over soft blue note funk back beats. My mind felt lazy eyed in my first batch of classes. (why do I recognize you, have I flirted with you before, disaster?) I brained myself with cheap beer bar hop indelicacy. Tipped bartenders and waitresses with poetic thoughts written on the backs of drink menus. Talked to an actor, whose musical dreams died. I imagine a drumset dissembled, gathering dust in a storage unit. No longer banged. (does he still have that old obsolete key on his keyring? has he ever lived without keys). “Take care, boss,” says a jazz patron, leaving his seat. Complementary beer for the sake of the poem. How great it is to be fueled.

A lot of moaning this morning. It all started with vodka, orange juice, a missed bus, and a drunken corpse surrounded by paramedics outside the jock bar. Sour omen, instead found myself haunting a small club that threw a tea party and writing for the pretty waitresses. How they smiled, uncertain. Serving me cold beer and sidelong glances full of mistrust.

Lecture was a stifled cry of protest. I disassociated with the material to the extent that the words were mere symbols like crop circles, unimaginable fathoms of distance between myself and any semblance of clarity. How odd to analyze myself as I lose focus, irretrievably. Paradise Lost became hieroglyphs. I screwed up on the peer review for Cole’s paper. Sorry Cole.

Struggling with nausea and time. I started walking home to sleep it off and skip oceanography. Couldn’t bring myself to it. I sit in the student union building watching people eat horrible looking food. Mostly I couldn’t muster up the energy to walk all the way back to my place, about a mile down hill. Seemed mundane and grey to go there. Now grain, electrolytes and caffeine, artificial sweetener and grand stomach pain. These observations are distractions against the true nature of this experience.

Indecision back ground. Foreground hangover.

A mind churning with the overabundance of memory, all of those flashes of intellect like lights and music when a door swings open at the club and someone bursts to the sidewalk to vomit. Bartenders, bouncers, townies, restaurant owners, transients, (brainless ID check man watches the food channel), men, women, and a mysterious route home.

Like the jazz musicians, I find myself improvising melodies over a central idea or theme. Here I gained experience to write about as I shake up the details and pour them out across an infinite canvas.

What do I remember?

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