You can hear the sound of the pool balls snapping above the halos of angels smoking and drinking and reciting perfect, spontaneous poetry with dripping cocks and echoing, stalactite vaginas. Inches from my left shoulder, Shawn slaps a table with his hand, laughs, spills some beer and makes a point; he laughs harder now, holding Tony’s shoulder. A dark red haired girl with a large nose and beautiful, braless, hard-nipple breasts looks out the window; she’s fragile and may cry at any moment. Nicole glides, deflects, spins and glows – accidentally looking through souls at secrets; she is unapproachable – and so irresistible. Simon’s red face is laced behind ever present Camel smoke; the smoke breaks into cobwebs when he laughs which is enviably often. The men in the jeans and cowboy hats are Mike Brown, Gringo Greg and Ranger Rick.
The cowboy-jean men are swaggering over and I look elsewhere as they draw a close half circle around me. Mike and Rick are speaking at the same time; the “punch line” is: I look like Jerry Garcia. I minimize the interaction to just 17 words. They move along, Mike singing a John Prine song; Gringo Greg and the Ranger talking about John Prine.
I am silent, standing with Shawn, letting him speak for us two. Nicole coalesces 3 steps away, floats over, and puts her hand on Shawn’s heart; his beard brushes her hand as he turns to look. Her room is number 17.
Nicole puts on the perfect music for the moment. The moment is fabric hung walls, incense and crossed-leg conversation circles. The moment is candles and newness; such new, fresh and vivid colors falling into place like dust falling from my eyes. The moment brands our foreheads with creepy, glowing faery dust; there are circles on our foreheads and Shawn and I are happy to pack the fourth bowl. Nicole, pale-blue and brief star; Franz, youth in flesh and form and curiosity; Shawn, uninterested leader, exceedingly alive and already in love; Me, friction and vibration and cynical resistance. Alongside us and quiet is the dark red haired girl who watches the incense smoke spiral away from the orange glowing source; she is thinking that some transformations can never be undone. We take the $30 dollars and leave around 3 grams of weed.
Simon’s broken ankle is up on the edge of the keg. He smokes and flips through albums in a crate on his right. He can’t resist the Sex Machine, so James Brown echoes next down Phoenix Avenue; the girls love it. Some of the men are drunk enough to dance; Shawn and I smoke and drink and take it all in. Stoned, we notice that we drink in unison; smiling and shaking my head at him, I walk out the front door. I am in the dark, behind the dumpster, 20 yards away. It smells, but it is dark and surrounded on three sides by bushes.
Sometimes pissing feels like an orgasm; I look up at the stars in disbelief.
Shawn had almost died, THAT was the Key.
~~Chapter Break~~
What is this place? Adam’s hat says ‘Nirvana’, but that can’t be right; this place is altogether human and stinks of lust. The bleachy, ball-sweat odors of impending sex. The stale armpits and crusted socks of days or weeks in tented wilderness. The increase and isolation of two booming voices; the stumble-staggered beginnings of a drunken brawl. Fights. Booze. Meth. Coke. Pot. Coffee. Tea. LSD. MDMA. Mushrooms. Gay. Straight. Euro. Asian. Sedona. Camping. Parties. Prayers. Spirits. Fakes. Threesomes. Orgies. Betrayals. Tears. Finality. Drama. Comedy. Friends. Memories. Transformation. Degradation. Accomplishments. Beginnings. Promises. Returns. Disaster. Awareness.
