In 1970, I reached the age of sixteen. The ‘Decadent Decade’ was over, but I’d been too young and innocent to be involved in those glorious years. The Sweet & Sour Sixties evolved into the Sedate Seventies. The years of the musical, social, sexual and political Revolution had mothered a decade of re-fried scenes, of enlightenment gone soft; they emulated a decaying corpse of rotting flesh and feasting maggot, a time when the vile ghost of regret haunted the Glory Days of my youth. Not a single shred of decent evidence to account for my existence. My excrement will dissolve into the subatomic universe before another full moon. I do not know, cannot remember, when the tide of disillusionment swept upon me. I was content as a child. I was unencumbered by days and, more importantly, nights, of forlorn despair and hourly gloom. In the early days of my youth, I would be satisfied with life, and would leave no stone unturned in order to refine my peace and tranquillity. Now, as I reach the end of that arduous road, I find minor contentment in knowing my exit is near. My existence has been simple...I live in the house my parents willed to me. I do not know my neighbors. Occasionally, I go to a nightclub, get drunk and throw darts by myself. I read books faithfully and watch an abundance of B-level horror films. I’ve been a member of the YMCA, and for the past two summers, I spent a week at Panama City Beach. My fuck General Electric refrigerator is fully stocked, as are my cupboards, and my bills are paid on time. My savings account shows over fifty thousand dollars, thanks to my parents’ double indemnity life insurance policy. My Ford Falcon is in no need of fancy repairs, and I am in reasonably good health for a thirty-one year old male weighing in at close to three hundred pounds. I do not have a girlfriend and there are no prospects. I have a place to call home and an extremely full stomach. I have never been fishing in my life.
Writing comforts me, when I think of something to write about. I once stroked the cock of ambition, but, now I realize it was just a silly phase ventured. Ambition is nothing but consummated arrogance. I’d made attempts to rise by six in the morning, but, then I’d be dog-tired and so depressed, that by the afternoon all I wanted to do was sleep. I’d stopped smoking pot because I was on a diet and the reefer made me want to eat constantly, but without the weed I’d be paranoid and then would suppress my fear by eating three medium pizzas at one sitting. I’d visited the Huntsville Library, kept the grass mowed and the Falcon washed, but even those trivial matters had caused me deep depression. I tried not to judge others, but would become angry withthose that were nonjudgmental. Presently, I am annoyed with Zooma, but shouldn't be. I am not in the mood to become the presiding robe of jurisprudence and he knows I will keep my feelings to myself. That is precisely why he came here. He doesn't dwell in the pragmatic nature of comparative ideology. He doesn't think about what other people think of him. He is not a Zen Master, but, nor is he an existentialist. What he is, is a lucid loner. But, I am reaching my limit with him. It's not as if we've been 'hangin' out' all these years. Hell, he sent not one postcard in the last nine years. He hasn't uttered a compound sentence since his arrival. Other than that Spanish mumbo jumbo, his conversations have been a hodge-podge of incomprehensible sounds generated from the nicotine-encrusted folds of his throat. I’d bought groceries, cooked for him and literally brought it to him on a silver platter. Not a 'thank you', ‘pass the damn salt', or 'kiss my pimple hardened ass'. Most days, today included, I am melancholic, lonely, and without hope. I know not why. I cannot say what brings me to this dark abyss, this black, cold 'wormhole' of listlessness. This morning, in bed, my cotton sheets cling to my thighs, wet with sweat. A common spider treads across my shoulder, its prickly legs tickle me. I enjoy the feeling, afraid to move for fear it would flee. I am comforted by the insect. -excerpted from the novel 'momentary haze' by bill bice
The delicate threads that held my life together now unfurl in a ceremony of deceit. Defeat.
I have accomplished nothing. Am doing nothing.
I’d believed sex would liberate me, so I masturbated at least twice a day.
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BILL BICE
