junkiebikes

Party People,

I need to get fucked up when I want to write some of this shit for you guys because it’s too fucked up to think about for that long otherwise. Deep down I’m a slow, thoughtful person; I’d be a little Buddha if not for all the shit that leaves me shaky shake like a beetle pierced through on a silver pin.

A flurry of emails from Sterling. Here’s a piece of one:

“Hey TRUE, remember the epiphanies of last summer? Remember all those things you decided? What happened to not getting drunk anymore? To getting yourself onto a schedule? I thought you were going to start by doing 45 minutes of rigorous reading a day. Remember, we were in the garage and you had The Phenomenology of Spirit under your arm, and you were saying, ‘I finally feel old enough for this.’ We went upstairs and listened to Young and Hungry lay down some Tricky vocals over that looped Neptune snippet he was obsessed with—the one that was like the satisfying click of a car door closing. Over and over, images of luxury cars, shiny, shiny, shine-on. I was messing around by the window with the bandanna on my head, being thuggish, rapping in Spanish--and shouting ‘Colors! Colors!’ like Ice T...”

Last summer was a thousand years ago, old girl. All the cells in my body were different then.

Here in Europe I don’t have time to “do rigorous reading” or “concentrate on a text”.

This is the New Age, Sterling, just like you wanted…

A new age in which I wake up and there’s work to do, straight away. I’ve got to wolf down a runny egg and toast and maybe a sip or two of Pernod before stripping naked and ensconcing myself in the bathroom with the scale and the baggies. Then it’s time for the car to pick me up and take me to Oosterpark to sell some {“that’s that shit”}, then I come back via tram, checking on the women in the sunlight with their shopping bags and purses. I push play on a mix and stand in the bathroom door for hours while Jules puts on her makeup, then I have to go around taking my pulse because I think I’m having a heart attack, then I’ve got to stumble around making a t-shirt and getting dirt and tea stains all over it in the process (sorry, whoever that ends up going to!) not to mention the cookie crumbs on the hardwood floor, the one I keep sweeping in a maniacal act of complete futility. Gingerbread cookies and toast with cream cheese—that’s my diet these days. That which escapes the garbage is eventually ground down into a fine layer of dust, like the bits and pieces of skin we shed all over, invisible except to dogs, who can see it through their noses.

Thesedaysthesedays.


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