Act 1 Scene 5 (A Revival)

For hour after hour I bemoan my sensibilities on balconies and rooftops, watching as the day stutters a bit before finally conceding to night. Finally I board up and sigh, drink like I’m aspiring to be chic once again, and scour yellow withered pages for signs of new life. Faulkner would be in a bad place if he had to eat pills at the same rate as I, so I cut him a break at midnight and take off for the street, especially careful to lock and bolt my door due to the fear that pulsates my guts as I count off the dark blocks.

The danger grows inside of me as I scuttle towards the epicenter, dodging the brooding miscreants that pounce upon me, and feeling oddly prescient as I mount my approach. I give change to no one, and shoot ominous glares at the queers congregating on the corner and the gothic crowd that hides beneath their cloaks.

When I arrive, I am overwhelmed. Goopy eyed dipsomaniacs tumble amuck, spinning their women through puddles of abject howling and blowing ring after ring of smoke. My pace heightens as I weave through the menagerie, passing bars full or revelry and reverence and feeling terribly estranged and alone.

The street is stuffed to its gills. Two dreadlocks hurl past me on skateboards, a mime poses for beer on the fringe of an alley, an evangelic bears a cross and passes out leaflets, and a pair of bare legs swing out of a window and attempt to lure me in. But I am not to be distracted, and steadfastly move forward in my pilgrimage to the Gyro stand, where Ali Baba waits for me with a delicious tortilla of lamb.

He is quick, and I am grateful, and once I slam the door to my hideaway and shoo the trauma of the world away I eat heartily and sigh. It is Thursday again, and I feel as if I am a scarecrow enjoying the sweetness of dusk while trying to will the pursuing crows anyway. It is useless, and so is my discretion when it dodges meditation and then lies petulantly on the bed thinking about more loafull ways to get high, so I acquiesce and we team up, remarkably sullen that the proverbial M is nowhere to be found in the denseness of the fog.

On the bed in the hot heat of night, I am strung out again and lonesome in the worst way. I read the New York Times, a biography of a cult hero, and the saga of Emily Grierson again and again.