Purely Experiential

I think a wine buzz is one of the best things in the world. It's halfway between tripping and drunk. The world turns a mellow sepia, emotions get crisper, and I feel more real. When I was younger, people would tell me to stop thinking so much. I'd roll my eyes and think to myself maybe they should start thinking more. But it's easy to mistake profound wisdom for common buffoonery. True recreation is escaping the harsh tethers of logic and causality and existing on a purely experiential plain. Instead of preceding action with thought, just act. It's like meditation, but with pool sticks.

2 AM. Jumping up and down at a crosswalk with an unlit cigarette and a cell phone, screaming "Do you have a light?" has become an undertaking of great importance. I will get this cigarette lit if it takes an entire night of pleading. Of course, I could walk a block away where D is waiting with a lighter, but that would be cheating. No! Worse than cheating, it would be a complete violation of any notion of accomplishment. In the moment, none of these thoughts run through my brain, but I feel them passionately. Suddenly a passing car does a hard break and some stranger leans out and holds a lighter up to my face. You are awesome. Victory at last. I wave my fire-tipped cigarette like a battle flag.

I arrived at D's apartment to find him contemplating a mattress set ablaze before his feet. Stomping out the fire left a charred hole, providing a vision into the skeleton of the creature, sharp metal coils rapped around each other, singed at the edges. We met the neighbors, whom after some initial concern about what we were doing with a partially burned mattress in front of their apartment window, seemed quite cordial.

I decided I was going to sleep on the parkway. Picking a bench in front of the fountain, I sat down and closed my eyes. Thoughts poured into my head and I opened my eyes with the feeling that someone was approaching. No one was there. After a few more minutes of general unease, I pulled myself to my feet. You need to own up to a specific kind of drunkness to feel safe sleeping in the city. Enough to completely drown out all internal safety alarms. I was not there.

I met a man caught in the grips of desperation on the way home. Yet again, quick charity yielded no sense of reward. This man was completely unappreciative.
I hate how generous I am when I'm completely fucking drunk. And fuck you for taking my five dollars.
I collapsed into my bed and felt a warm current of contentment wash over, carrying me off into unconsciousness.

- Seg