But hardly something new. Actually, It's been like this for some time, some kind of energizing thing surging. And, I get up at 5 on Mondays to teach, so the coming alarm does little to settle mind.
Last Sunday, we talked about the idea of One Sunday, of all that can change from Sunday to Sunday, of all that can come in a single week of this life. Maybe it suits me to step aside every once in a while, find something along the lines of a bigger picture...so the minutes don't just bleed into the hours into the days into the weeks, months, years...so I can see that things are moving, that the branches are sprouting leaves -- perhaps barbed, that could take blood if you let them - but on the other side, a side so soft and welcome, you could rest your head for sleep. At my very best, I find myself to be that sensational yin/yang that can only be seen with a stop, a breath...
Last Sunday, I think it's safe to say I was in a world of shit -- world of shit. Today, tonight...the footing is strong. My legs and mind are rocks, ready to drive and honor and conquer. One Sunday -- all that can come...all that can return.
And wouldn't you know or so soon I must've forgotten -- with strength comes humor, lightness of being. And let me be the first to say welcome fucking back.
...
So I was walking home from Melrose a couple days ago. I had passed Crescent Heights and was eyeing my Kings Road ahead when this Gypsy leapt from the entrance of a store I had never seen - as if it had sprung up overnight. I told her I didn't know there were gypsies in Los Angeles. She seemed offended and of course I felt bad for offending her. Because of this, I accepted her invitation to come inside and browse the store - which she claimed to be hers. For moments, the thought flashed in my mind - telepathy perhaps - my laying in a bathtub full of ice, my partially vital organs lifted and cut from my pale body. But I wasn't telepathic, only paranoid...so naturally, calm found me.
She closed the blinds, the door as I entered, as if to exactly control the light, to control my perception of everything inside that store. While she was doing it, I must admit, I was mesmerized. Astounded. It's only in hindsight that we can begin to find manipulation in the most mundane of actions. After all, she was a saleswoman - and a fucking gypsy. I should have known.
Inside, the store really was incredible. She had a magnificent collection of antique stained glass, hand carved gargoyles, potions, old baseball cards, pinball machines -- even a fucking replica of the game that turned a boy into Tom Hanks in Big. Honestly this place was amazing. And not just amazing, but LA amazing - the kind that'll cut through the most cynical asshole you'll find. It cut right through me -- not that I'm a cynical asshole.
And the Gypsy just sat back and watched me, watched as I wandered. Every now and again I would look up, thinking I might need permission to touch certain objects in the store - objects I thought to be precious beyond comprehension. And they may very well have been. She would simply nod and smile, willing me to do anything my heart desired, almost pleading with her eyes...go on, go on. Enjoy.
I had lost an hour in my wanderings, transported, missing appointments...when I pulled a curtain and moved into a back room. At this, the Gypsy leapt to her feet, either eager to stop or to explain...
There was a young and beautiful girl sitting over a smoldering cauldron. The Gypsy proudly introduced me to her daughter, Jolee, and spoke of her uncanny ability -- that of potion making. Potion making I said. The Gypsy answered potion making as if the response alone was fully sufficient. And Jolee smiled and it made me smile back, just putting eyes on this young girl. Her youth. Her innocence.
I remained that day until they closed and thanked them for their hospitality, welcomed them to the neighborhood and told them I would return the next day - that I would be making purchases! Many purchases! They both nodded, and Jolee promised that upon my return, she would have something special for me, something beyond comprehension. Incredible, she said. I was dazzled. I set off for home, barely able to contain myself. I mean, think about the possibilities -- a store like this? And not just in my town but in my neighborhood? Amazing. Fucking amazing. Fucking amazing!
That night was like falling asleep on Christmas Eve as a child. I couldn't. There was something so magical about this shop - I was in awe of it. Couldn't wait, couldn't wait, couldn't wait to return...
They didn't open until 5:15, she said, and said that they closed before 6, so I cleared my schedule and made sure I was there at exactly 5:15. Jolee was there to peek her head through the glass door. She unhinged the first lock, the second, the third. Three locks? Believe me, at this point, it only fed my excitement, which was already at near fatal levels. Jolee told me that her mother was feeling ill, that I couldn't come inside, but that she had made a promise and that if there was one thing in the world she believed, it was that promises were to always be kept. She told me to reach out my hand and close my eyes. I did. When I felt something fall into my grasp, she whispered, "open them." I looked into my palm, saw this tiny little vial - like a department store perfume sampler. I looked to Jolee but she was already speaking...
"It's my newest potion. My greatest work yet. Mommy doesn't like it, but Mommy doesn't know. Mommy is sick."
"What's it called?"
"Drahma."
"Drahma? You mean drama?"
"No! No!! No!!!"
"Okay. I'm sorry. What's it do? How do I use it?"
"What's your name again?"
"Burn. You can call me Burn. People do"
"You're not very smart, are you, Burn?"
"I...don't know. Wait, are you serious? Can you just tell me how it works?"
Then, in what seemed to occur in the same instant, Jolee rolled her eyes, stormed inside, slammed the door, closed the blinds and cut the lights. And I was left standing outside, vial in my hand...
"Wait. Are you serious?"
Nothing. I walked home. I was put off, maybe quite a bit less than I should have been. Truth was, fascination still had Me.i was distracted by this Drahma in my hand, the Drahma this girl had created. It was my fascination, utterly and totally.
I got home and set the vial on my glass table, unsure what my first move would be. I paced and pondered, tried to let my mind explore the entire realm of possibility that was now settling in this vial that stood before me.
Slowly, I approached, decided I would put it through a series of sensory tests. I unscrewed the cap, slowly lifted the vial to my nose, letting its vapors flood over and into me. Immediately, I gagged and choked, dry heaving after a smell that could only, only be described as shit vomit orgy on steroids. It was awful. Just awful, easily the worst thing I had ever smelled in my life. Immediately, I put the cap back on, sat, settled, pondered again...
I tried tasting it...quickly vomited.
I tried rubbing it on my skin...broke out in hives.
I tried snorting it...blacked out.
I tried free-basing it...didn't have the right lighter.
I tried giving it to my neighbor...she tried to kick me in the dick.
I went to bed that night thinking nothing but what the fucks. None of this made any sense. Why the hell was Jolee making this Drahma? And why was she giving it to me? What the hell good could this manufactured Drahma do for anyone? I had to know.
So I returned the next day, 5:15 to be precise. I brought what was left of the Drahma and began knocking on the door. At first, I was delicate, but soon, I needed answers. I wanted to give the Drahma back, more than anything. When I realized this, my knocks grew loud and commanding. That's when she came, the Gypsy woman. She opened the door and peeked her head outside, asked me what I was doing knocking so loud. I reminded her who I was, that I had just been in a couple days prior, that I had a magnificent time, a magical time. I told her that I returned yesterday to see her, but that Jolee wouldn't let me inside. I showed her the vial of Drahma when her eyes flashed...
"Drahma? My word. She promised."
"What? What's my word? What's wrong?"
"The last town -- we ran -- we had to run -- she, Jolee, her gifts -- the curse..."
"I don't understand. Please, just tell me what you're talking about? Why is Jolee making Drahma?"
"No one knows. No one. Only Jolee. You can't come back here. Please. Just leave us alone."
The Gypsy woman closed the door in my face, locked every bolt in that door. I slowly backed away, turned, mind-spinning, trying to let it go, this chance encounter with a gypsy woman and her mysterious daughter on Melrose. When I turned the corner onto Kings Road, a screeching voice brought me to a halt, stopped me in my tracks...
"Burn, Burn! Wait!!!"
It was Jolee. She was running after me, frantic -- something in her hand. When she reached me, I kneeled.
"Burn. I have it! I have more for you. And it's better, stronger."
"What, Jolee, Drahma?"
"Of course, Burn. Isn't that what you came for? Isn't that what you want?"
"...I...I don't know what I came for Jolee, but...I don't want your Drahma."
"Just take it Burn. Take my Drahma. I've been working so hard on it."
"But I took it yesterday. And it's awful, everything about it. I don't know why you're making it-"
"No, no Burn. This is different. This is better. You must take it."
"I don't think I want it, Jolee. Can't you give it to someone else?"
"No. I chose you. I've made all this Drahma just for you! Just add water, Burn. Water."
And with that, she placed it in my hand, kissed my cheek and ran back inside. I put the Drahma in my pocket and walked home, distrusting of this beautiful and sweet little girl. I was ashamed -- ashamed until I got home. A fool for curiosity, I placed the vial beneath my dripping faucet and let the water hit. That instant, a plume of vapor burst from the tiny vial and shot into my eyes. I went blind. My cheeks went numb. My ears failed -- I couldn't hear a thing. All I could feel - a stream of tears pouring off the tip of my chin, as if whatever dam holds crying had broke. It was the single oddest and most frightening experience I had ever been through. I felt my way through the apartment and crawled into bed, remained there until I fell asleep. In the morning, when I woke, everything had gone back to normal. Everything but that fucking smell. And of course it was worse than ever, but at that point, once I could see again, everything was an afterthought.
I took a shower and got dressed, collected what was left of Jolee's Drahma and set out, on foot, to the Gypsy's store on Melrose. When I got there, the windows were boarded...
The building had been condemned or something of the sort. But I knew they were there. I knew they were inside, squatting, figuring their next move. My mind started racing...back to the day I first walked into the store. The magnificence, the fucking magnificence of this place. It made me smile, thinking back...trying my best to see past the cruel and cold barriers that were now stretching across what was once such a welcoming storefront.
I pulled a letter from my jacket pocket, a letter I had prepared before I had left my apartment. I unfolded it and began to read...
"I'm sorry we came to here. I'm so sorry. I don't know what happened. I walked past this shop that first day and I was a fool. And I thought of you guys and me being this great partnership. I thought we would be such great friends. I mean, you had the coolest shit. I totally dug your shit. I know that this was your shop and that I was just a guest in that shop, and that I would always have to deal with whatever you dealt me..."
But then I stopped, suddenly uninspired by the words I had so recently written - words from the heart, soft - because I believed they were words they weren't capable of understanding -- that there was a tenderness in them they couldn't spot - that given a chance, they would walk all over my vulnerability and mistake it for acquired strength. And I didn't want to give that to them. I couldn't. So I ripped up the letter and looked through the only sliver of exposed window that remained. And I swore I saw eyes...
"I know you're in there. You're fucking gypsies, you obviously know the ins and outs of LA's squatting laws - though, I doubt that qualifies in a commercial zone. I don't really know who you are or what you're doing. I really only knew you for one fine day and I guess I'm here now to speak my peace, because...I guess because I care, because I can see through the boards on the front of your building and windows and...gutters? And there's beauty in there, there is. But you have got to stop making Drahma. Can't you see, what it's doing? Can't you see what it'll do? Sure, it's exciting to create and you think creation is a gift worth giving, but when you give it out, all it causes is pain in other people. And you're trading excitement for pain and it isn't right and it isn't fair. Not for you, not for them. You have to see this. I came here to make peace. And...I know that you're in there...I can see cauldron smoke coming out the hole in the roof - which really isn't safe and probably means you're doing exactly what I wish you weren't. But I guess that's neither here nor there anymore, for me. I'm standing here now -- to make this right or to say goodbye or to...and you're just going to leave me here, standing -- while all these assholes walk by, wondering why I'm talking to a building on the corner of Melrose and Kings...and you're going to do me like that? Really? Really? Shame..."
...
I was out at a bar on Friday night. Could have been Wednesday. These two girls came up to me -- happens often because I don't often chase and women sense these things, usually get very forward because I'm forward and they think I'm gaming them when that's really just me and they try to game back but really just end up fighting and failing to keep pace. Disinterest feeds power, and that's why I'm powerful - because unless you find me in rare pursuit, that's exactly and all I am.
It means that when someone tries to pick me up so that I pick them up when I'm out and minding my own shit, they had better at least be an LA 8. Superficiality is fair game on a pick up, no doubt about it. Anything below 8 gets 28 seconds before I scoot off with poor excuse.
So anyway, these girls were alright. The talker was a 7+1 for charisma. Her friend was a low level 8. They were fine...
Now, these conversations all tend to lead to one of the girls asking what kind of guy I am - usually the one who wants me to take her home and show her what's what. On this night, that's what the 8 was after. I could tell she had probably just been through a breakup, something that did her vicious and when I walked in, she thought me to be her cure -- a fresh and sweet faced Adonis (don't be put off, I self-deem this often). She thought I would do her no wrong on this night - and she'd wake up in the morning and feel safe and comfortable and exercised and she'd start to think of the next step - what it might be with this new boy...
And of course I know this - all of this or at least something in the realm of it to be true. And when I weigh things out and decide I don't want a mess, I start in with something that sounds like. "Look, I'm not that good. I would be tonight. Great. Probably the best you've had - but after that..."
And of course she smiles, thinks this is my pick up, only wants it more but by that point, I've had enough...
"No. Look, I have a coldness in me. And I can tell. I look at you and you're something. And I'm sure if we left here and went wherever we went, we'd do some things and certainly have a story to tell. But I know when I see it - my type - and you don't look like you inspire fiction."
Of course, she didn't understand this, maybe thought I was crazy and maybe that was the point. And so she returned to her girlfriend and likely told her I was a fag, because she was mistakenly hurt, because what guy wouldn't take her home.
And I returned to the company I made appointment to meet, and we had another drink or two, and I said my goodbyes. On the way out, I saw her posted up by the door, warmed again by the drinks she must have had - eyes with hopes that my drinks had done the same. I passed her with a smile, soft, all-heart...
"I'm sorry, you couldn't handle me. Don't feel bad, I can barely handle myself."
