Blake

It's been a while since I've written. A lot has happened since then. I was robbed by a so-called friend. That was a pretty intense situation, and I'll try to elaborate upon it later. But most recently--June 27--a good friend of mine, Blake, was shot and killed by a deputy sheriff. So this post will mainly be about him.

I was with Blake two days before it happened. He was upset because he thought Eric wouldn't let him talk to Ashley (Ashley has been jumping between the two for a year or so now). I tried to calm him down. He was more-so upset that his parents were being mean to him--especially his dad. For a while he had been experiencing what he thought to be Morgellons disease or a worm infestation. He had wounds all over his body, had pulled out a bunch of hair, and had alleged specimens in tupperware containers that he would always present in a show-in-tell every time I was over there. But the doctors and myself were pretty convinced that it was delusional parasitosis from all the meth and lack of sleep and nutrition. His parents just thought he was just nuts and refused to take him seriously.

I wish I could remember the entire conversation we had last. I just remember he was very apologetic that he hadn't paid me back the money he borrowed since he was going through withdrawals from his pain meds and needed a roxy. He also was stuck on the topic of defending his honor--his pride. I told him he needed to stop worrying about what people thought. He insisted people were trying to usurp his masculinity.

He was very friendly with the kitty, but when his mom came in for a brief moment, they were pretty snippy with each other, though not worrisome at all.

But according to the on-going GBI investigation, Sheila, Blake's mother, called 911 and reported that her son had tried to strangle her. When the officers arrived, Blake had his shotgun in his hand. I always had a bad vibe about that thing--similar to the vibe I got with Randall's killer the first time I met him. Anyway, Blake said that he wasn't going to leave there alive--or something like that--and the officer shot and killed him.

Now a lot of people are blaming Ashley, which is not good for her. Yes, Blake was distraught over Ashley once again leaving him for Eric, but that was old news--it had been going on for over a year. The boy was having paranoid delusions while doing copious amounts of methamphetamine, not sleeping, probably not eating, and battling with organisms trying to invade his body. That combined with a deep-seeded imperative of standing one's ground and being a "man" is what killed him.

You could blame his parents for not getting him help. You could blame the cop for using lethal force. You could blame whoever the fuck was supplying him. You could blame Ashley and Eric. But in the end, the only thing that has much weight is mental illness (the drug abuse is only a symptom).

So, I'm fucking tired as hell of losing the people I love. I just have to find out what I'm going to do now--I want it to make it my life's work to help prevent fucked up shit like this from happening ever again.

Faggot Junkie

That's what I am here. Tonight I hung out with an old friend who almost died in a terrible car wreck. He's taking heroin now for his pain, because he runs out of his fentanyl shortly after getting it filled every month. He shot me up. It felt nice, but now I'm worried that my mom will notice my track marks.

I was considering going to Celebrate Recovery, but they also preach that homosexuality is a sin and addiction that can be cured, and I am not so sure. This place is so backwards and fucked up. No wonder all of my friends (the only people who want to hang out with me and aren't Bible-thumpers) are strung the fuck out. How could you not be?

I have a strong feeling I won't be going back to California. I wish I could, but unless Andrew finds a place--which isn't looking promising--I just don't see how it can happen.

Fuck it. I'll be dead someday soon anyway. I guess it doesn't really matter that much if I stay clean or not. I'd rather be on drugs than be miserable in this place.

Death

I got back from Miami today. It was fun. I really need to brush up on my Spanish, though.

I'm seriously missing Randall right now. It just hit me really hard after I watched a clip from the movie Trick with the song Dream Weaver--reminded me of our high school years.

Death sucks. I could expound, but I won't.

Relapse City

So a couple nights ago I hung out with this really hot guy I met on Grindr at his house in the ghetto in Eastman. I brought the rest of the weed I had from California and shared it with him and his mom. They enjoyed it. Then he asked me if it was okay if he smoked some dope, and I said yes. I told him I just got out of rehab, and he said he didn't want to enable me. But I took a couple rolls of the bowl anyway. Then he took a shower, came back to the room and asked me if it would be okay if he took off his towel. He had an absolutely amazing body. He wanted to suck my dick, but I wouldn't let him. Instead I gave him a massage and a hand job until he started to fall asleep (how that is possible on meth, I do not know). I left at about three a.m. because I couldn't sleep and didn't have my anti-psychotic. No more meth for me.

Since I've been out of my weed, my anxiety and boredom levels have been through the roof. I've inquired about it, but it's still pretty persistent. Earlier today I bought a Red Line and chugged it, which I soon regretted. I felt like jumping out of my skin. So I took a ride to my former drug dealer's house and bought two roxies for $60. I waited in the trailer with his wife and watched Ellen. She offered me yogurt and told me about how she's getting her two remaining teeth pulled soon and getting dentures. Colleen claims that they think it's God's will to get white people hooked on drugs and take their money, but I don't really care. They've always been super nice to me. I just think she's bitter because they won't give her anything anymore since she owes them hundreds of dollars.

At least I have something to get me through until I go to Miami on Thursday. I gave myself a $100 budget for drugs, so no more pills for me. I'm going to get a sack of weed when I get back. I seriously need to get my own place so I can feel comfortable making music again. I'm also considering picking up a new hobby--maybe painting. Tomorrow I'll find out of Andrew is going to jail or not. If he's not, hopefully he will find a place for us back in the desert. That would probably be best for me.

I feel really good right now, even if it's artificially induced. I wish I had some company, though.

9:34

So Kim just told me that I should do what I need to do--that we only have one life. As cliche as that sounds, and as awkward it was to receive that as a voice message over Facebook (she's obviously drunk), I think she's probably right. Unfortunately I have no idea what I need or want to do.

I'm still a little hungover from the night before last. I went to go see Lucy's kid's tiny house, and she ended up dragging me to a party where I got shitfaced and this guy Michael traded his girlfriend for me for the night. I had a crush on him 10 years ago when he was straight, but now he's fat and balding. But I'm getting there, too, so I can't be picky. I felt really dirty the next morning though when I woke up butt ass naked in his bed slightly confused. I couldn't find my underwear anywhere.

It's my mom's birthday today--my dad took her out for steak. I'm sitting here by my lonesome, a little stoned, and wishing my best friend weren't strung out on meth so she could hang out with me. I got on Grindr, but no one looks very interesting. I don't want to hookup at all--I feel the opposite of horny right now--but I wouldn't mind some coffee and conversation. I really miss the back porch of the Kiloby house. I miss a lot of different back porches, actually.

I'm thinking about visiting Kim and Tim in Jacksonville. Maybe Kat and Fern can pick me up on their way to Miami. I'm just getting really claustrophobic here.

I miss my cat.

On a side note, this kid Matt Little apparently died yesterday. He used to come to the farm with Ricky Lester. Nice guy. I wonder how he died.

Fuck the what?

I feel like a fatass. All I do is smoke pot and eat. I weigh almost 150 lbs. I know that doesn't sound like a lot, but coming from 112 it is. It's just so goddamn boring here, and I'm tired of watching Nurse Jackie. Maybe I should start doing meth like everyone else or pretend that I found Jesus.

I really don't feel like going back to rehab. Next Wednesday I'm going on tour to Miami with Fern and Kat's band Eskizofrenia. They want me to do the videoing--something about making a documentary about people in Cochran, too. Maybe that will make things interesting.

I really want to start writing songs again, but I don't really have any privacy here. The walls are too thin, and I feel uncomfortable using profanity or saying what I really want to say when my parents can hear me. I need an egg.

Cousins

I got invited to go floating down the Ocmulgee on Sunday by a guy on Grindr whose mom's first cousin is married to my mom's first cousin. I just discovered this relationship today, although I've been acquaintances with the fella for almost twenty years, as we frequented the same gay club that Randall bartended at in Macon. I asked my friend--the club's former owner--about him, and he said that he and his partner were most likely going to try to fuck me. But I'm hoping I can pull the incest card so I don't have to be impolite.

I just really want to float down the river.

2:22

I was smoking a cigarette outside and noticed the time was 2:22, so I decided to make a wish for whatever reason. I had been thinking about Randall, so I wished that I could communicate with him. As soon as I said that, my lighter flew off the table. It freaked me the fuck out.

I mean, yes he's my best friend and all, but that's still some crazy shit.

I think I still have some mourning to do, even though inquired incessantly about it already.

I also want to visit my cat's grave in the backyard now, but I'm a little creeped out about dead things at the moment. I feel like I'm being very prejudiced, though.

Dear Andrew

I am writing this to you because you are the only one who reads my blog, as far as I know. I decided not to make it public, after all. I'm scared. Anyway, there are only three other people who have access to it, and I don't think they pay attention. Those three are:

Kai - My brilliant homeless pirate friend in Venice Beach who is also the only black guy I know who only smokes non-menthols.

Trey - An eccentric guy from Dublin, GA who I never met, even though we had mutual friends, until I moved to LA. He was living in North Hollywood writing screenplays and gave me a blowjob because he was reading a book about some guy giving blowjobs, even though he's straight.

Ricky Lester - We used to be good friends. I wrote my first song about him and played it for a bunch of British chicks at a little bar across from Deano's in Culver City. They loved it. I think they thought I was famous. This was during the first time I was super fucking crazy--right before the French people stalked me with cameras.

So, where to begin. Incidentally, that was a lyric just sung on the Joy Division album I'm currently listening to. I had to end that sentence with a preposition, by the way, because it would've sounded awkward if not. To which I'm currently listening. I don't know.

So I just got back to my parents house. I drove to Dublin to see my friend Cassey because he told me to come, but then he ignored my Facebook messages. So I hung out with Lucy while she worked at Quality Inn. She turned me on to the idea of a tiny house because she just built one for her kid. My parents also mentioned that I could build one in that back yard, but I don't know.

I don't know what I want to do or where I want to go. Or who I want to be, for that matter. So many choices, at least in my mind.

Right now I'm enjoying being stoned and drinking coffee and listening to Joy Division in the back yard. Here, I'll give you a description of my surroundings:

I'm facing the basement entrance--the one that got flooded with poop, originally. There is a bunch of random stuff, including all of my childhood stuffed animals (except for Snuggles). It's all that was salvaged from the deluge of shit.

To my right is the lime-sink I told you about, I think. There's a creek that runs on this side of it. Currently it's filled with trees--very jungle-esque--although before it was filled in with 19th century trash by the college during the War Between the States (TM), I believe it was a sacred body of water to the Creek Indians who had a camp right on this property. A lot of people think the property and our neighbor's house on that side are haunted. It used to be inhabited by Mrs. Martha Ruth Croomes, who was my dad's elementary school teacher. Her daughter stuck her in an old aged home recently--although I think she's dead now--and it's currently being filled with a K-9 cop and his wife.

To the left of where I am sitting is the home belonging to the preacher of the First Baptist Church and his son, with whom I was madly in love a year ago when I was super crazy. One of the last times we were sitting out here smoking and talking, his foot was shaking really fast, and I thought he was trying to give me a sign that I should secretly run down the road really fast and turn into a bird because the world was ending and that was how you became angels.

We cuddled by the creek in the woods by the lime-sink. That was nice, even though mosquitoes were biting the fuck out of us. But at that time I had decided that I shouldn't interfere in other beings' experiences or something, so I let them feed.

Hmm.. I wonder if you're really going to read this.

I miss you, even though your Mercury crosses my Sun.

I feel like I'm in an entirely separate universe from you right now. It's a little sad.

I'm gonna go eat my chicken sandwich and watch Nurse Jackie now.

Shit-spared Books

The sewer flooded into my parents' basement a few weeks ago, and a lot of my childhood shit got ruined and had to be thrown away. Here are a few books that survived in a night stand. I thought the combination was pretty profound and pretty much sums me up:

Tom Wolfe - The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test

Michio Kaku - Hyperspace

Linux+ Guide to Certification

Pat Robertson - Miracles Can be Yours

Conversacion y Repaso (6th Edition)

All Tomorrow's Parties

I'm stoned again. I just got back from hanging out with Fern and Kat and their kids. They invited me to go on tour with them to Miami next week. That should be fun. I'm going to film them. They're in this pretty badass punk band with Spanish lyrics. Even made their own tapes and merch.

So I'm listening to Velvet Underground, obviously. The song that just played reminded me of how much of a douche I am because my friend Jonathan Caouette, who directed a film called All Tomorrow's Parties, asked me to do some work for him for a tribute to Lou Reed he's showing at the Paris Philharmonic--and I totally flaked. And I didn't tell him... I just blocked his e-mail and ignored all his calls. He even had his manager or producer or some shit call me and leave me messages. I am such a dick. I was super crazy then, though. I should pretend like I'm doing the A.A. steps so I can get to the one where I make amends.

I would've loved to have hung out with that group back in the day. I did go to a party once with the remaining Warhol Superstars. I talked to Mary Waronov all night, mostly. It was the birthday party for my friend Robert, who is Holly Woodlawn's (RIP) bff and archivist. There was a super cute journalist there, too, but I forgot his name.

I'm seriously missing my desert family right now. It's been nice spending some time with my kin, though. It's just that almost everyone I know here is strung the fuck out on meth and annoying. But I still love them.

Anyway, both Sunny and Russell--who don't know each other--have told me that I should cover Hank Williams Sr.'s Rambling Man, so I think I'm gonna go do that now.

Peace

Huddle House, again

Well I got back to Georgia last night. I’m currently sitting at the Huddle House in Cochran feeling a little awkward after taking three Neurontin and smoking some pot I smuggled back from California. Every time I come back to this town it feels like I’ve been transported to some other universe slightly different than the one I’m used to. It’s not just the rednecks--there were plenty of them at Stagecoach, but it still felt normal. (Oh yeah, I worked at Coachella and Stagecoach--that was interesting). Like for instance, the waitress just asked me to pay for my coffee shortly after she gave me a cup. That’s never happened before, and I’ve been coming here ordering a cup of coffee for almost twenty years. I haven’t been around enough lately to know who any of the waitresses are, though. Maybe that has something to do with it. I used to know all of them. Hell, they’d give me drugs and free food all day long. Things were a lot different back then. Randall was alive, for one.

I could really go for a quarter of a roxy right now. Colleen says everyone’s out, but maybe she just doesn’t want to enable me. I haven’t seen her since I got back. She says she’s been up for two days cleaning--strung out on meth, I’d presume. I’m starting to regret leaving the desert. That was quick. I’ll give it a go a little while longer to see how things feel. I’ve considered getting an apartment at the Massee in Macon. My parents want me to live down the street from them at McVay Heights, but I don’t know if I can handle living in Cochran again. Ashley does pay $35 a month for her place there, although she has a kid (that she never sees). Anyway, I guess I’ll just continue to see where the universe takes me. That’s all you can really do, anyway.

My dad is supposed to be fixing my car tomorrow. After that, I might go down and see Russell in Gainesville. I might stop by Savannah to see Molly and Robert and Jacksonville to see Kim and Timmy, too. I just want to drive and listen to music and not think. That sounds nice. They taught us how to deal with thoughts in rehab, but I like my own techniques better. Life is such a bore when you’re mindful. And yes, I can be mindful of that.ge

Rehab

I'm currently on my longest drug-free stretch since the late 90s--38 days and counting. I'm secretly writing this on someone else's laptop,  since mine was taken away for two weeks since I escaped and ran to LA, smoked half a joint, and foolishly came back to fail a piss test.

Why am I here? I missed my appointment at the methadone clinic and decided it would be fun to go to rehab. I asked online for a gay-friendly rehab, and this is what I got. Unfortunately I'm the only fag here. Goddamnit I need drugs if I'm going to write. 

Stoned in Rehab

The title says it all. Well, technically I'm no longer a client at the rehab because my insurance wouldn't pay--but I still reside at the sober living house--at least until Wednesday. I'll have a couple thousand dollars from working at Coachella and Stagecoach so I'll be able to get a place somewhere. I don't know where, yet. I'm going to LA until I fly back to Georgia on Saturday--just in time for mother's day.

Oh, this is for Dylan, by the way. Friend not lover. Gorgeous, though.

My current lover lives in the sober living house across our backyard fence. He's a gypsy psychic. I'm going to miss him. I'm going to miss a lot of people I've met here. I would describe them all, but I will save that for another page or chapter or blog entry or whatever this is. Labels are so passe. Lawl.

I was listening to Stereloab on my headphones which brought me out of my pot-enduced panic I was having after conversing with so many people who shouldn't know that I'm stoned. I told Andrew, though. He understands. I'm sure a couple others would, too, but whatevs. Maybe one day they'll read it. I love you. I feel like I shouldn't use names, though. Sorry, Andrew.

Time is weird. Time is really fucking weird. Relationships are really fucking weird. Most come and go like the wind, but some hang around, even if you don't see them for forever. Forever is never forever, though. Fiona Apple's cover of Across the Universe is playing now. It's nice.

Nothing's gonna change my world. That's true. My world will always be my world. And yours will be yours. And ours will be ours. Presence is all we have. This is it, kids.

Everyone who is gone is still there. That moment is still there, and it will be there eternally.

Jai guru deva.

Currently I am in the desert surrounded by people who at this very moment are the closest in the universe to me emotionally and geographically, but at other points in spacetime I am having the same experience with different people in the Huddle House in Cochran, The Farm in Glenwood, Aglago in Silverlake, Cassey's dad's house, Yva's in Brooklyn, Kate's in Savannah and Allentown, The Venice Beach Boardwalk, Hostel Earphoria in Chicago, The McMansion in Sandy Springs.... and then my mind goes to hanging out with all my dead friends. I miss them all. Randall went last, so I especially miss him. Plus he was my bestest guy friend ever. :( Poop. But YES, remember to be aware. Remember it's all just an illusion. He's not dead. There's no such thing.

Fucking eh, he really is dead though. So is Sharon. And Joey. And Antone. Billy. Jan. Pat. Justin. Heather. Lindsay. Grandma. Granddaddy. Granny. Granddaddy Pettis. Uncle Tommy, Glen, and Harvey. Holy shit I've been to way too many funerals. It's okay, though. I'll go to mine one day, too.

Je ne sais pas. I need some coffee. Andrew just walked by with a big container of it in his hand. I also want a cigarette. And I should probably eat, but my leftover pizza smells weird because the refrigerator was pretty disgusting.

I'm going to go for a ride, I think.